I might write poetry
- ~I Will Get Very Lonely~
In the short time I have spent on this Earth
I have drifted to the darkest depths of the human mind
drank from the fiery streams of Hell
opened boxes out of curiosity
and then closed them when I realized I was mistaken
but not before their contents had escaped
and perpetrated my mind
filling it with knowledge
I did not yet know
that I did not want to know.
I have played patty-cake with Satan’s children
cuddled with despair
asked for more
longed for less
but claimed to be fearless
I have been filled with ambiguity
and I have liked it
I have squandered time
and asked for more of it
I have been merciless
and begged for forgiveness
I am hypocritical
I am impatient
I know very little
and I pretend otherwise
I am an entirely flawed person
run by flaws
composed of flaws
And in the end,
after all my time spent drifting in and out of Hell
I will be gone
but you can still talk to me
because I will get very lonely
- ~Out of Place, Or Out of Touch?~
Walking down 72nd street
just as the day before
something unfamiliar catches my eye
it fits in
but is strangely out of place
but it doesn’t belong on the sidewalk
with the pungent litter
or the pigeons fighting for scraps
A smudged face peers out from under a worn out men’s overcoat
there are so many holes that it’s impossible to tell where the sleeves are
I don’t know
whether I’m more shocked by the youthfulness of the face
or the pretty delicate features
dusted with the dirt and grime of the city
Her haystack hair hangs in clumps
but the loveliness of the architecture of her cheekbones manages to still stand out
the soft glimmer
in her not yet adult eyes
stirs something inside me
something deeper than sympathy
After hiding her face
from all those who passed by
why did she look up at me?
And what was the emotion in her eyes?
Was it too well masked
by the walls she built up
from whatever tragedy she went through
that led her to this street corner?
Or have I been lucky enough
to never know
to never be able to identify with her feeling?
Am I so deprived of that
that I can not recognize it
in the eyes of a young girl
begging for the help of strangers
with a cardboard sign
on an icy January day?
- ~Snow Queen~
Beautiful angel soars above
Queen of Grace, Princess of Love
So light on her feet, she’s weightless as air
Envisage the travails it took to get there
A mouse bravely escapes from underground
Triumphantly unnoticed, slipping by without a sound
A small face peaks into her majesty’s royal seclusion
Hoping for a chance to relish in her hero’s allusion
In what was thought to be private delight
A darkening soul is brought into the light
The Queen haunches over her shiny white thrown
Face pale and hands icy as stone
Her frigid shadow cast upon the tiled floor
So fragile, her strength is not there anymore
She dances from her weakness it’s too close to reality
Just a mouse as a witness to her sweet moment of mortality
- ~To Build Castles In The Air~
When I was young I dreamed I’d fly
away from here
to clouds in the sky
I dreamed I’d soar among the birds
singing their songs
I’d know all the words
Nothing more than a little girl
waiting for this big world to unfurl
Now I’ve grown up much too tall
To be called cute, I’m no longer small
I don’t know why I can not fly
But to walk on ground
well I’d rather die
- ~Some Sort Of Wonderful; Behind the Velvet Curtain~
waft out of the cracked door of a corner studio
down a dimly lit narrow stairwell
and out of a barely-there doorway.
wrapped in holey wool warmups
practice pirouettes to someone’s Ipod on shuffle.
If you squint your eyes a bit
they could be carbon copies of the same
It’s like looking through a kaleidoscope
not knowing where one lean body ends
and the other one begins
to be a part of that mesh of spinning bodies
is like being a part of magic
An excited, but nervous energy
is palpable in the air.
More girls waltz in
with their makeup bags and hairspray.
but frozen in concentration
as they greet their friends.
Ballerinas with shiny hair pulled back tightly
like cellophane into slick buns
huddle in front of the mirrors.
The mirrors which they spend their lives in front of
cry in front of
triumph in front of
that show every tiny flaw
and rarely an impossible step done correctly
Yet the ballerinas go back to them anyway
how else would they survive?
not being able to see all of their imperfections
what kind of life would that be?
So they huddle in front of the mirrors
Fighting for the one that stretches their already impossibly long bodies the most
next to the light which accentuates the shadows between their ribs
A small energy bar is passed between two of them.
Like pills at a sketchy nightclub.
Everyone stops to stare.
The cars zooming down Broadway stand still
The clanking of the heat turning on silences
Someone’s bobby pin escapes out of their bun and falls to the floor.
There’s an ear shattering clatter of it bouncing before finally settling upon the cold wood
The girl or ballerina turns away and pats her stomach
full after her huge feast.
As the clock above the piano ticks away time
zero calorie Red Bulls are chugged
asparagus legs spill out into splits across the floor
costumes are checked
and then checked again
and the nervous noise dies down
into a drone
It’s now just a hum
the crackle of ankles rotating
the groan of new pointe shoes against wood
the sniffles of a cold; a casualty of late night rehearsals
like the pattering of rain on the roof
the steam from a tea kettle
crickets chirping on a misty summer evening
I am going to be sick.
I won’t be able to perform because I will be in the bathroom vomiting
Look into yourself
and then further
see what you want to be
and go be it
Ten girls and boys lie on the slip-no-more floor,
The lights in Studio One are off.
except for the bit of light that has escaped from taxi cars and store windows and found its way to the third floor of a seemingly ancient building.
“Take a deep breath.
Think about everything you’ve worked for,
breathe in all the time you’ve spent, all the corrections you’ve gotten, your steps, and your choreography.”
Vicky is finishing the jazz warmup class with some final encouragement before the show,
passing on words of wisdom from her own countless performances.
“Know that you know what you’re doing, you’ve done it hundreds of times before.
Stay focused, don’t lose the focus.
Take a minute and find yourself,
clear your mind and feel every inch of your body,
Know exactly what it takes to move every part without doing so.
Your mind rules your body.
Now I’m going to turn on the lights,
you are not going to open your eyes.
On the count of three open them,
Okay, good class everyone,
keep your focus,
don’t let it go.
“HALF HOUR TO PLACES”
Everyone starts to frantically run
as they call back
“thank you 30!”
My response gets stuck in the back of my throat
watching these people dash around
to where? I have no idea
but it feels as if I ought to be running too
and I get swept up in the dance of preparation
tights and leotards flying,
sweaty bunches of hair being pulled in different directions.
Two interns for every dancer,
left foot in shoe,
right foot in shoe.
Someone get me water!
Out the door, and into the hallway outside the theater.
Wait for the cue.
Catch your breath.
Applause, and the theater’s lights flood into the hallway.
As the door opens, beaming dancers rush out.
Lights out, go time!
Left, right, left right,
the familiar music starts, and my mind clears.
The velvet curtains part
I am home.
Exhaustion coats my entire body,
churns in my brain,
and waltzes into my limbs.
What day is it?
When did I last eat?
I don’t remember.
I’m lying on the cold floor of the gigantic dressing room.
I can feel the thump of the drums from the finale piece rippling through the floor,
It courses through my aching body.
My heart finds the beat
and naturally catches up to the rhythm.
boys in tights try to sneak past the interns guarding the girls dressing room door,
plastic bottles crinkle as their contents are drained
costumes are thrown into overflowing bags.
People are bustling all around me.
Yet as usual
I am stuck observing
And the last dance comes to an end.
The roar of proud parents, pleased teachers, and impressed casting directors and choreographers makes me grin.
The dancers float into the dressing room;
higher than the top story of this building
Some poor girl’s eyes water
salty drops threaten to overflow
from some flaw she’s self construed in her own performance
Pity those who expect perfection which does not exist
Comfort them in their break of stoic roboticness
Appreciate their sweet moment of mortality
before they return to the land of unbeing
When we leave this humid room and find our families in the crowd of beaming faces they will say
“Good job! Congratulations!”
Most of them will be proud,
maybe a few unfortunate stage moms will not be.
But we have each other
and we know what we’ve accomplished.
We are one body moving in perfect rhythm on stage
Right before the door swings open,
and in pours the flowers and the kisses and the tangled hugs,
a group of young dancers toast themselves and each other.
And the stars in the sky are washed out by the neon of the city
And the city lights are washed out by the glow of some young hearts
living their dream.
- ~A Leak~
Is it wrong for me
to be sometimes jealous
of those who have less?
Is it possible
that in one way
they may have more?
Is it wrong for me
to long to know
the pains of life
that I don’t feel?
to wonder about
to dream of
As a child,
was I mistaken
to play pretend as an orphan or one of those Boxcar kids?
Do not get me wrong
I am blessed and grateful beyond words
But, is it really all that wrong
for me to wish
a little leakage
into this bubble
I call my world