—Poems by Carol Louise Moon, Placerville, CA
—Dance Shoe Collection Photos by John L. Westling
A PAIR OF TWO
Moss Green and two shades of pink
past which two white bunnies wandered
clutching silver purses one on each
open arm, strolling hand-in-hand,
whistling two lovely tunes
on the second day of May.
On breezy spring days my twin and I
would crouch near the garden gate.
I loved Short Bunny with sequined purple vest;
she adored Tall One with periwinkle shawl.
“Let us join them.” Falling in line behind,
we dance into sparkling sunbeams.
(first pub. in Updrafts, 2007)
ANOTHER DANCIFUL DAY
Whirling Dervish of a child you are
(scolded larged-aproned jovial mama)
and I’ll not have fuzzy mole holes
dug into my Persian carpets.
Out with you, Deeona.
Green grass beckons you—you
merry, whistling, Leaping Gypsy,
as the tinkling bells I now hear.
What! Mud-green pixie footprints
on newly-waxed, crystal hallway—
a mirror image of Pan sprinkling
grass clippings through the meadow.
Marching to Pretoria is a clever way
to step into your brother’s pajamas.
Be assured this homespun dance recital
is over at bedtime, with lights out.
Now begins the moray eel “dance of
darkness” muses Deeona cautiously,
black eyes peeping out
beneath coral blankets.
THEY DANCE
You know they dance, the dogs.
I’ve seen them, the way they step...
lightly. Grace of a tennis player,
quick, then stopping for the turn,
head proud... the glance.
Curve of spine. Their eyes gleam—
not just in moonlight—but that
knowing, that knowing...
about the dance. It’s theirs.
They wonder, too, if we dance,
or are we just self-absorbed and
confused... confused in which way
to go to side-step a dog, because
we don’t want to dance with a dog...
not even in moonlight,
if we are asked.
DANCING WITH THE CYCLOPS
You’re scaring me with those
size 18 purple leather shoes,
swinging your rustic elbows
to the beat of the juke box,
to the crunch sounds
of French fries,
all the while
a slobber drool
as you telescope your
one eye past me
to bottles of red syrup
at the soda fountain.
EMPTY JEANS
Often I hear country western music in my dreams. “All My Exes Live in Texas” I get straight from George. Just now, I am awakened by a man in long-legged denim, asking if I wanna dance. “Right here? Right now?”
No, Silly, after you do up all my denims. Then, if there’s time, we’ll go dancing at Wilson’s Bar tonight.
Let me dream about the man of my dreams. Baby, while you start the blue laundry load, I’ll take a nap. I wanna dream once again that you are swing dancing in denim—boots tapping the dance hall floor.
I’m lulled by music now, and feel the beat of your boots. Or, is that the bounce of an uneven spin cycle reverberating through the floor of our trailer? Let me just dream about a blue denim, hot-dancing man. You’ll find the jean stretchers just over the washer, Dear.
_____________________
Today’s LittleNip:
They dined on mince, and slices of quince,
Which they ate with a runcible spoon;
And hand in hand, on the edge of the sand,
They danced by the light of the moon,
The moon,
The moon,
They danced by the light of the moon.
—from "The Owl and the Pussy-Cat" by Edward Lear
____________________
Many thanks to Carol Louise Moon and John Westling for today’s fine team-up of poems and photos! Definitely danciful!
Ladies of the Knight read tonight at Sac. Poetry Center, 6pm, hosted by Bob Stanley. Scroll down to the blue column (under the green column at the right) for info about this and other upcoming poetry events in our area—and note that more may be added at the last minute.
—Medusa (Celebrate Poetry!—and Dance!)
Country-Westerning Out in the Country
—Anonymous Photo
Photos in this column can be enlarged by
clicking on them once, then clicking on the x
in the top right corner to come back to Medusa.
