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DANCE WITH ME

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When the moon dances in the flirting sky

With the stars giggling and cheering their mother on

And the wind making love with the leaves 

In the clear view of all shapes of eyes without a care

And the fireflies light in love and happiness

I shrink into a little ball, hiding in the dark sky and 

Missing those arms on your shoulders which accompanies you to my detriment.

 

When the cock crows

And announces your approaching steps

And the dogs bark in love and welcome

The happiness that sleeps in me wakes

For I always peep on the toes of darkness

Discretely wishing you close to be my vehicle,

 Eyes and mountain to help me see farther into the passions of the skin

 

Now you are here

In tired clothes and old shoes

Possessed by deep sleep as your nose roars like the hyena

What do you expect when the yearnings drop carelessly

And the lion in you sleeps without a thought and will wake only to hit the road?

Care must be taken for these eyes on my head

Have started looking for solutions to satisfy the heart, the body is no firewood.

   Amoafowaa Sefa Cecilia (c) 2014.

 

By amoafowaa

Just a simple Ghanaian trying to find the best in our society. I may be fun, I may be interesting, I may be funny, I may even be foolish or intelligent, but it is all based on the mood in which you find yourself. I believe our minds make us who we are. Know that, pain, no matter its 'unbearability', is transient. Unburden or delight yourself for a while in my writings please. And all corrections, advice and opinions are welcome. Know that you are the king, queen or royal on this blog. :)

4 replies on “DANCE WITH ME”

COME DANCING
in response to the dancing paintings of Australian artist John Brack

Your popsicle pink ladies
swan-necked and arching back
orgasmic in organza

beehived and lacquered
every hair securely held
against the centrifugal force of motion

your luscious mauve women
vogue elegant, wasp-waisted
sensual sylphs out stretching
reaching out to touch and caress
the tenderness of ballroom air

Led by bryllcreemed sleek men
firm-handed, elongated, dark men
Cuban-heeled in shining patent leather

They follow, gliding with experience
their pointed sharp stilettos barely whisper
sliding across the polished parquet floors

in their sequined satins and hand stitched silks
frothed and full
with tiered and layered tulle

that rustle and swish
with the sway and the kiss
of every swirl and moment

each twirl, each turn
each tiny chance
to catch the eyes of judges
watching in the wings.

©M.L. Emmett
You must look at the ridiculous dancing paintings of ballroom dancers
kindest regards Maggie (Poems for Poodles (W) site)

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Oh how I love to be awaken to a smell of baked poetry. My mourning has turned to dancing. Stitched accurately. I love I love .

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