ThirdMC

 

Dancer (with poems by Marilyn Duncan, Martha Ward, Sarah Webb and Beverly Voss)

Pulse 

The pulsing sounds of color

reverberate 

in kaleidoscopic bits 

that scatter in 

pieces of beat, 

strands of band, 

shards of bard, 

high vibes, 

low tones, 

that burst onto 

the scene in shouting 

shades of boom, 

a syncopated wheel 

of reeling shapes, 

radiant madcap whirls— 

a world unto itself, 

a sounding board 

for a vibrant 

dervish 

that dances 

and dreams

in living color. 

—Marilyn Duncan 

ODD Monday Prompt Poem 

9-7-20

+++++

I kicked up a storm of leaves

indigo, black, orange—green.

The wind whirled and swirled

clothing me in their disarray, until

I was literally swept away on

a gust and a Go! that gustled me

here in to this rather cramped

glass globe.

It can’t be a snowball, the colors

aren’t right. I pray no more shake

ups—until I can get my head on

tight. How will I appease the god

of leaves, gain freedom, or is this

just a real wacky dream? Images

of me lined on black flying squares.

Jeez, I’m neither here nor all there.

I am down in the dumps these Covid

nights, I toss and turn, as REMs

flicker faster, and give me a fright.

Perhaps it’s that egg salad I ate or was

it potato, tossing my tummy at my mind’s

gate? What’s to become of all these pieces

of me? O, sweet Morning, break open

this dream! Release me to whatever

the “real world” seems. 

—Martha Ward

Kim’s ODD Prompt 9.7.20

+++++

Dancer

At the center a figure 

dances. Around him the 

bubble of the world spins.

Fragments float and fall,

reflections and objects:

gate, lightbulb, plant and bird.

A foot raises, a mouth gapes.

Cornets and lines of crops

moon launches and petroglyphs.

Dancing the world into being, dancing 

the end.  Continuous beginning 

out of continuous decay.

Exhausting, exhilarating, 

exhausting, creating order

out of a chaos of sticks and gravel.

Juggler, the man keeps the world 

in the air, will not let it crash

will not let it sling into chaos.

The mind tires, the body falters.

Who can keep a world alive,

keep a world from breaking?

What man can do it?

Dancers stumble and lose hold.

Their mouths go slack.

Turn then to the one inside the man 

who speaks from the dancer

through a hidden ordering

who shapes his dance

—Sarah Webb, 9/7/20

+++++

The boy faces west. Or south.

Or left. Kicking about in his

unconscious orb. His friends

cavort around him while

leaf fragments of September

source sun prisms, jewel

pigments for a bluegreenred

home. Music is in him. Dance

surrounds him. Sound escapes

into the ether. Now the boy

gallops through his egg-shaped

world. Do his friends run with

him? Are they imaginary mates

or figments of his own story, his

own magical mind? Here…a

toast, Skole, Cin-Cin, Bottoms

Up….to all the dancing boys.

May they never grow into the

men who lose their song, their

dance and their vibrant, 

secret sphere.

—Beverly Voss

09-07-20

Moth poems

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