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Tag: dancing

Another Marionette: light verse

Published on June 12, 2025

Please tell me: just who pulls your strings?
I’d really like to know.
I see you making pirouettes
and flitting to and fro,
much like a butterfly, who lights
on flowers here and there,
and samples each one with delight
not getting anywhere.

Myself? I am a puppet too,
I dance a merry jig,
although I found out years ago
my role is not that big.
I’m just a nameless extra;
call me Dancer 24.
Someone will play me in a week.
Another’s come before.

What music shall we choose for it,
if we may choose at all?
My preference is for comedy,
or something that they call
an incidental piece of work
best suited for the stage
between epic and throw-away,
mere notes upon a page.

So tell me: when you learned to dance,
who taught you how to fall,
before your clumsy feet learned how
to leap, parade, and crawl?
Whose shadow did you hide beneath
while trying to perform
the act you’ve now perfected,
taking the whole world by storm?

Me? I found books and magazines,
all filled with words and stuff
that in time helped me realize
we’re all just useless fluff
designed to be distractions
from another’s main event:
a small piece of the puzzle.
That’s become quite evident.

But still we must keep dancing,
at the far end of the strings
that out of sight, maintain control
and keep us at our thing:
pretending that we are the show
that people pay to see,
instead of dumb mute puppets
who imagine we are free.

12 Jun 2025

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It’s Only Dancing

Published on January 22, 2006

I don’t even know your name;
it’s not important you know mine.
But since you’re sitting there alone,
I’d like a minute of your time.

It may seem forward, I’ll admit;
I’ll understand if you refuse.
But you look like you might agree,
so what have I got to lose?

It’s only dancing, it won’t do any harm;
two minutes and thirty three seconds pretending in each other arms.
It’s no long term commitment to true love and romancing;
just a spin on the floor for a song, nothing more.
It’s only dancing.

I don’t know the latest moves,
but I’ve heard this old song before;
and every time it starts to play,
they seem to fill up the dance floor.

I may not be your type at all;
I’ll understand if you say no.
But something in your eyes tonight
tells me you might just have a go.

It’s only dancing, doesn’t need to lead somewhere;
two minutes thirty three seconds pretending the world isn’t there.
It’s no prelude to forever, or the start of romancing;
just some turns on the floor for a while, nothing more.
It’s only dancing.

I don’t want to lead you on;
I’m not expecting any action.
But we both came in here alone,
probably could use the distraction.

It may seem an odd request;
I’ll understand if you decline.
But as long as we’re both here,
we might as well have a good time.

It’s only dancing, it’s not anything wrong;
two minutes and thirty three seconds together enjoying this song.
It’s no ever after, no foolish romancing;
just a spin on the floor for a spell, nothing more.
It’s only dancing.

22 JAN 2006

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Ginger Freed from Wall Singing

Published on June 13, 2005

Won’t you me the dance
out of reaching your space
into nothing close where longing
breeds its sorrow armor

(amour)?

Drum talks your babel tonguing
instinct-burnt incessancy;
naturalized immortalifications
reduced to venial chancery
in the cold light of reminder.

My number forgets itself
when not recalled;
soon, its once my tender memory
archived upon three days hence.

My legs are not broken,
won’t you me the dance?

When music’s beatless ardor
swells into itself, then poetic
gran plies split themselves

and we have only the panic
of this moment.

1994

Another one from the Memphis years.

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A Tavern in Spring

Published on February 25, 2003

Where have the dancing ladies gone,
those fair and merry maids,
that once so sweetly filled the air?
Too soon, their laughter fades.

(It must be spring that bids them go
and seek for other haunts;
once winter’s grip has loosened on them,
they have other wants)

And so, the tavern echoes now
with silent, mirthless men
who sit and sip their bitter brews
and think of shady glens.

(It must be spring, but if it be,
this place should feel it, too,
Instead of fading with the night
like stars are wont to do)

The bard is set to sing anew,
but needs attentive ears;
for when the place is bright and gay,
then inspiration nears.

(It must be spring, the waking world,
that brings on such a need
for dancing, song and tender smiles –
Pan plays upon this reed)

Oh, ladies, come ye back again
and share your warmth and grace;
and I’ll endeavor by and by
to liven up this place.

2000

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