Poems about dance

My soles are too thin,
To walk on old ground.
We are moons are we not?
Lost and found,
Obediently still in ponds,
Waiting for the wind to turn.
That moves foolish ships,
With captains at their stern.

Time sings in echoes.
Lost to a moment, lost to a glance,
Left wanting, waiting,
Feigning a lapwings dance.

Don't wait for the sun to show its face
Around a corner,
Turned long ago
All the searches,
Are curtains for the show
For the show
For the show.

And on speck, on landing,
When prey is past
My heart, Our hearts,
Settle, for nothing lasts.

Don't wait for the sun to show its face
Around a corner,
Turned long ago
All the searches,
Are curtains for the show
For the show
For the show.

I saw a dance today
That whirled and jumped and laughed on its feet.
An old folk dance
Kalidescopic roiling upon a cool breath
Of autumn's excitement of being alive
A dance observed by a reflective summer
Gamboling leaves of red, orange, ambers and browns
Phrenetic leaping twirling jumping flipping
And landing with glee

I saw a dance today
Whose steely precision punctured the earth
An operatic ending
Piling blue-ice masses on frost annealed soil
Of winter's excitement on being, of existence
Impervious to life, alive with death
Hard percusive articulation, blunt statement
Tap, tap, beat and pound
Thud and thrum with efficient punctuated finesse

I did a dance today
Tears and sorrow and sonorous wings flailing
Old and intimate
Terminus found rhythm stand still, now done
Of winter no more, and blindness onset, for the morrow
Moves stopped but not so its ripples
Wave celerity, an expanding profound smile
Leg, arm and head pause
While all effects and causes silently, strongly take wing
Take wing
A cacaophonic stirring, but quiet and motionless and brimming with void
Except in spirt where muscle and wings and winds alight anew.
I did a final dance today, spirit born and coda bent.

Gently breezing
By my face
You dance upon
The morning sky,

Intricately,
Patterned lace,
I watch
As it just passes by,

But he is just
So beautiful,
He entrances
Every eye,

A lovely little
Floating wisp
In the form
Of butterfly,

On the air
So clean an crisp,
I wave a hand
But no goodbye

An not a single grieving tear
Not a tear for me to cry,

As I know
I will definitely
See you again
One day.

Ma Cherie © 2017

What are we doing here, together, yet apart.
Is there a "we"?
How I long for you, but do you long for me?
We've been dancing in this ballroom
For what seems an eternity...
The music keeps changing
But the dance stays the same,
My smile is fading, I only feel shame...
My legs are heavy and tired, my mind is shot
I want to silence the music, but it just won't stop
I continue to dance, day after day
The music, on queue, continues to play...
I'm under your spell, I can't get away
*So I dance...

She liked to dance.

The red dress swirled
As she danced.

There were eyes
Watching her move.

I watched her
From my corner;
Drink in hand sipping,
My eyes gorging
On her beauty.

The tango music
Brought her
To a fresh life.

How the feet moved,
Steps as if new found.

The music played,
The beat got her feet.

Others watched
In a silent gaze,
Murmuring words
Came later,
Qualms about how
Her legs showed
As she swirled
The red dress,
Some caught sight
Of underwear.

I said nothing
Just watched her
Dance and swirl.

My kind of woman,
My sort of girl.

Half the globe shrouded in
Darkness.
Not all lie to sleep and join loops
Of dreams.

Some widen their eyes to the backs of
Their minds,
And dance with the shadows
They keep.

Oh sweet Ellie, My Dear, won't you dance?
The floor, how it sings for your feet
To the treble's array, your gown it will sway
The visualist's golden retreat

Time, he has long been awaiting
The Night, he calls for your hand
The powder is stained, for it's silver that's rained
Oh sweet Ellie, we're drowning in sand

The bell, she has made her last call
Oh Night, how he grieves at lost chance
People decay, but Time's here to stay
Oh sweet Ellie, My Dear, won't you dance?

I'm not into an endeavour of helping people; my categorical imperative? it's derived from alexander dumas: as athos said - the best advice? is to not give advice at all.

Solipsism is a kinder word for autism,
Why?
Because autism is an observably
Adamant medical noun,
Call it a condition if you like,
Whereas solipsism is unobserved,
Perhaps even unobservable,
Since in humanistic terms,
Philosophy is a strand of medicine,
Esp. in times of mental / physical
Dichotomies...
Medicine understands autism,
Just as philosophy understands
Solipsism,
Pop culture only has narcissism,
And what history was,
Once upon a time, a chronology,
Which is now, a dam,
A thick custard, honing in & of,
Events, that hardly confiscate
An allowance of time,
Time, the last remaining hoarder of
Artefacts, has been emptied,
The death of history happens
Within the vicinity of *a day...
It's precisely what has been written
That translates into all quirks
Of the un written stalemate of
"expected" history...
Beyond the in vivo / in vitro
Parody... there's a third,
And it's self-evident history,
Namely? history delves on dead matters,
As journalism over-emphasizes
Affairs of the living...
Ergo? in vivo / in vitro / es mort...
Why? the gravestone lives
On, no matter the birth of,
The death of, or an epitaph...
Es mort in vivo continuum...
Philosophy says: solipsism,
Medicine (one tier above biology) says:
Autism.
I still think philosophy is
Medicine in humanistic terms,
As it is kinder in choice of words,
Imagine a doctor telling a parent
That: your child is a solipsist.
The parent: a what?
Doctor: ok ok, an autist,
A gifted retard,
Someone who can be observed,
But can't observe,
Someone without a "self"
Tier of consciousness.
I still prefer using certain philosophical
Terms, primarily because they're
Under-used,
And ought to be,
To concern myself even further,
I find philosophy as a typo of
Medicine,
The appreciative escalation of
Wordiness,
In humanism philosophy
Is a sort of strand of medicine,
Which psychology / psychiatry isn't,
And never will be:
Nonetheless, written in english,
It always remains a pompous effort
To study, practice or regurgitate...
That's english for you,
A very unforgiving, but more
Importantly, a very pompous language,
The bellybutton language bound
To & orientated around greenwich.
But at least we can arrive
At a concentration of defunct thesaurus
Use...
I'm pretty sure that
Autism is not the third removed cousin
Of solipsism, even if the thesaurus
Is invoked...
The former is obviously harsh,
The latter? slightly mystique prone...
As the differentiation suggests:
There's consciousness,
Then there's the unit -
Then there are tier of consciousness
Where the unit becomes aware
Of itself, later morphed if not "lost"
Into automaton modality...
I. e. "lost", due to its effectiveness
And economic propensity;
"the unit": without any, curiosity,
Or side-tracking endeavour -
Which is all the more natural
Whether observed, or within a spectacle
Of scattered of examples: repeated.
Akin to religion, medicine has reached
An obelus crucible (a schism) -
Notably due to the dichotomy of
Physical medicine,
And metaphysical medicine -
I. e. mental health vs. physical health...
That somehow the latter doesn't translate
Into the former,
That the mental illness of depression,
Doesn't translate into the physical illness
Of lethargy...
"laziness"...
I can't see how
There's a "clinical" depression,
Without seeing how there is:
Clinical lethargy;
Maybe i'm wrong in attempting
A dualistic fusion of clinical similitudes,
But sometimes certain confiscations
Of the perfect health, entwine in an
Ultra gemini dance of the siamese.