how I escaped

can you glide across marble
with my big feet tripping you
will you dance across scuffed inlay
while soaking in a swing band
if you know me at all
you’ll know why horn sections and maroon socks are perfect
will you sneer if an errant hair strand sticks to my shiny mouth
my lips are glossed ’cause I’m trying to look pretty
as you twirl me left
I can’t twirl right–that’s the side I always drop things on
will you know I never lived above an Italian deli but wanted to
or worked as a librarian
or sketched ponies in a hot air balloon
or need my bed sheets striped, otherwise I put them on the wrong way
will you know I dream all the time
too much all the time

something I was supposed to be held back a grade for
teacher voices never entering an ear
and out the other, only opera wishes and flying unicorns
will you judge me for drinking hot cocoa after red wine

will you know how I escaped
the someone once called me

and that I don’t ever want her to catch me again
all I need in this life
all I want anymore

is to dance all night as the swing band plays
with someone who doesn’t mind getting their feet stepped on

swing dancer

swing dancer

originally published last year, now edited and changed up a bit, finally in a verse place it belongs
art also previously published, gosh, I gotta get cranking in all directions

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that I cannot do

Tell me how
you make it look so easy
They follow you like puppy dogs
that, I cannot do
I’m the one in the corner
watching all the tails wag
If we were in Rome
they’d be your dancing harem
I’d be off in the market
flattening papyrus
or washing sand from between my ink-covered toes
head wrapForlorn
drawn today while subbing

The Coroner Bar

Maybe one day
you and I will meet at the Coroner Bar

it’s that cute little place
plopped between Dead End and Sky Street
the awning is blue and white
but it’s the famous bright light entrance
you can’t miss
once inside
your worries, your heartache, your pain
vanish

That Coroner Bar
is a magical establishment
the barstools squeak like angel harps
the dance floor is forever filled with folks
who swing lighter than air
I’m planning on throwin’ back a few
anisette to warm the soul
served in those gorgeous amber tumblers

After that
I won’t ever care about leaving
I’ll hear the music
drink up the laughter
claim a barstool
and spin to my heart’s delight

Amen

Winged

Winged

art previously published – it was between this angel or an angel who looks a tad devilish 😉

A Deeper Shade

a polished grand piano
melts into the elegant crowd
the shimmering floor a moonwhite expanse
not a sliver of space 
for chandelier light to slip through
you and I

 one prismatic shadow
undulating
like candle flame

our flesh facades morphing
into a singular contour

filled with a deeper shade
while
we dance a rainbow
across the marble ocean

swing dancer

swing dancer

 

this gal swung on another post a while back
quickie sketch…

the right moment for a lefty

can you glide atop marble
with big feet tripping you
can you dance across scuffed inlay
while soaking in the swing band
if you know me at all
you’ll know why music and maroon socks are perfect
will you sneer if an errant hair strand sticks to my shiny mouth
my lips are glossed ’cause I’m trying to look pretty
as you swing me left
I can’t swing right – that’s the side I always drop things on
will you know I never lived above an Italian deli but wanted to
or worked as a librarian
or sketched on a zeppelin
or like my bedsheets striped otherwise I put them on the wrong way
will you know I dream all the time
something I was supposed to be held back a grade for
will you know how I escaped
and that I don’t ever want to be caught
I just want to dance to swing band music
with someone who doesn’t mind laughing with me
dancerquickie sketch today

Never Lost a Bar Fight

Dear Friends,
Going out the other night and observing some ‘dancerinas’ made me think back to a time when my demeanor wasn’t what it is today (I pray today it can be classified as somewhat thoughtful). My obnoxious 1980’s dance days may have brought me close a time or two to an honest to goodness brawl. Back then, whenever my inner-dancerina was in peril, out came my secret weapon – my younger sister. Dolores always kept one eye on me. She understood my need for attention and put up with my shenanigans. She had this wonderful way of gently coaxing me off Jersey Shore dance floors by wrapping her fist around my hair and pulling hard. She accepted my tendency toward ‘over’ expression. She knew it was a ruse. At twenty, I was under the delusion – staring eyes were imaginary compliments.  Though my sister is a whole year younger, she was, is and will always be, much smarter than I. So though I may have lost a few hairs on my head in the 1980’s, I never lost a bar fight thanks to my little sister.

The Dance

The Dance

 

Thank you. May you dream of dancing to your heart’s content and your feet never tire…

Dancing Bird spun onto paper August 25, 2014. I believe I’m being unduly influenced by my neighbor’s chickens.

Super Heroes Shouldn’t Own Cows

The year is 1968 and I’m the strongest kid in kindergarten. Today my title will be put to the test. My class will be making buttermilk then enjoying the results. Crisp, blue and white boxes of saltine crackers are stacked atop a nearby classroom table. My teacher, Ms. T informs the class, “Saltines are absolutely perfect with sweet buttermilk.”

Thirty-one little mouths are salivating for this delectable, creamy treat, but first comes the challenge of making the stuff. Ms. T pours milk and what she calls ‘buttermilk magic’ into the big jar until its almost bursting. She places, then twists the gold lid with the long crank handle on the buttermilk jar. She gives the giant jar a thorough shake to ensure nothing leaks.

Ms. T regards us thirty-one, drooling tikes sitting pretzel-legged on the classroom carpet, “Okay children, time to line up for churning. Now remember, as I explained this morning, the buttermilk will get thicker and thicker as it is mixed, so I’d like the girls to lineup first then the boys. I’ll pass the jar to each of you. You will turn the crank a few times then I’ll pass the jar on to the next student in line.”

From the carpet, my hot little hand shoots up like a cheese knife slicing soft gouda. “Ehem, excuse me Ms. T, I’d like to line up with the boys.”

“No.”

“Ms. T, I’d like to line up with the boys.”

“No.”

“Ms. T–” I was just going to tell my teacher how strong I really am, when she grabs my little arm. She proceeds to line up the girls first, then the boys, then places me at the absolute end of the line. I’d be the last to turn the crank. It was my proudest moment.

My knees are whacking into each other and my feet are tap dancing on the tile. The jar of golden buttermilk is making its way down the line. The biggest boys near the end of the line are straining.Their faces are shades darker, several are breaking a sweat. Me, I’m not worried at all. I just want to have at that jar. The husky boy in front of me managed four turns of the crank then quit. Ms. T takes the jar from his exhausted paws.

I grab the jar from Ms. T, tucking it into my side, like a running back securing the pigskin as if his life depended on it. This is the moment of truth for the strongest kindergartener. I start imagining myself a superhero with a plaid cape and red PF Flyers. I firmly grasp the wooden handle, take a deep breath and force the handle clockwise. It goes slowly and it’s difficult to move. I go for a second turn which is equally as trying but I push into a third rotation. I’m biting my lower lip except I don’t notice. I’m going for a fourth. My grip hand is sweating and the other hand holding the jar is too. There is a small slip, then a drop, then CRASH…

I learned three very important lessons on that ominous kindergarten day: The first is never give small children large glass jars. The second is without sweet, creamy buttermilk, saltine crackers are very dry. And finally, superheroes should never own cows.
Hiding Bull