Howdy folks! With some minor editing of line breaks and punctuation, here it is….our Red Wolf community poem. Isn’t it just gorgeous? We give you, “The Dance”.
THE DANCE by the Red Wolf Poems Community What’s that sound? Like a piccolo. Does anybody know? It’s heaven’s refrain bouncing off ethereal eaves. Summer rain patters on chestnut leaves as soul does weep at what this world does cruelly show. We wear masks, move deftly through plastic crowds un-noted. Polymer minds are willfully deaf, implausibly blind. Listen, listen to the piccolo’s call. See, see each rounded, sweet note. Better the sound of the piccolo than the call of the peacock -- must art make noise? Trills snagged in the clouds, carried and there to tote, notes ride rain drops back to Earth. Silvery ping with thunder for bass as the albino peacock looks for color in those reflective crystal drops of life. Crystal curtain beads, white peacock blues, and the piccolo blends with the peacock’s call backed by monsoon drumbeats on concrete veins; one would think the death of the day would be enough, yet the waters flow through an ancient channel, challenging the rocks of time, using time’s own acid to etch stone. Tracks bleed. We are drunk in time. And truths, we like them black-and-white: a zebra crossing, skunks lifting their tails tall. Instead, we clench cinereal clouds in our fists. Color: we sink briefly in rainbows. Where are the pots filled with gold? Or a pirates chest filled with silver pieces of eight? Who will lift my veil? Are there no charmings? I want to dance, to be the dance so you’ll not know the dancer from the dance. Piccolo music slithers, weaves through vertebrae, plays Kundalini. Prince or thief...woven mystic; who am I? Silver piccolo, etched with a peacock feather. Ocellus, look and see, fan your lashes, lavish love on me sing your flutey siren song of come hither, whether, come dance with me as the leaves dance on the branches of the chestnut tree. Beneath the sheen of chestnut leaves in silvered moonlight glow I dance into the piccolo as the shining darkened skin of Soul encases the tender, precious nut of Self. Hold notes like gumdrops on my tongue, hope to never swallow the bitter rind of gossiped words that paint false pictures of true loves’ spirit. They cling to my teeth, stick inside my jaw -- a plaque of jelly-bellied unused words, unsung, unheard, each word a world that seeks a voice within my lungs. Release these birds. They carry current breath. Render the unknowable in misty mountains and fly through hallowed heart where heaven breathes the dust of earthy dreams.
To see individual contributors to this poem, go check out the original prompt.
Guys, it’s been a blast. I’ll be around, albeit more in the background. Best wishes to all you poets, artists, misfits, freaks, truthspeakers, windtalkers, spiritwalkers, and fine human beings.