Noble and Sentimental

Eight-thirty.  It’s dark in the room 

at my daughter’s house. Just across 

a blackened lawn the Quaker church 

glows—eight double windows 

blazing bright.  Twelve people pair 

as partners face-to-face, one hand 

on a shoulder, another at a waist, 

two clasped firm, held up high. 

Six couples move, flow over the floor, 

ONE two-three, ONE two-three, 

gliding out of sight, back in view,

out of sight. No music permeates 

the night, silence separates them 

from me. But dresses whirl, couples 

twirl, shoes barely brush the floor.  

I can hear my last waltz so long

ago—Strauss, maybe Ravel.  Lord, 

let me dance this fleeting life.

© Martha E. Snell, 2019

A couple dancing
Photo by Alvin Mahmudov
Originally posted on Unsplash;
from Wikimedia Commons

Saturday Night in Batesville

You must arrive early at the old country store, 

parking lot’s small. Find a seat, a bite to eat, 

glass of wine, check the time then look around 

for Bobby Midnight and his band. Tables are full, 

people standing, yak-yaking crowds the space,

baby peers from pack on back, one mama runs 

to fetch her child, senior fans refill their drinks, 

and friends hail friends with rowdy hugs.  

One, then two, all six show up, beat up cases 

held in hand, hats buoyant on thin-haired heads. 

They shuffle on stage, open up bags, pull out 

possibilities: three guitars quiver, trumpet and sax 

glitter, stacked set of drums sits. These man-boys 

lean in to get the tuning right. The crowd booms 

then quiets as if testing for song.  Oh, there’s going 

to be some music on this warm spring night.

Funky tunes fly, fill the room, seep out windows 

step out doors.  Dancing couples, women clusters, 

dad with a daughter all pack the floor of that 

overhauled space. One man and a woman are fluid 

in leather bottomed shoes, possessed.  They swoon, 

sweat, press for more Billy Joel’s rock and roll. 

The local birdman holds a gallon pickle jar, 

trolls the room crying: gratuities for the band.  

Riding home, the man and woman still are dancing

in the moonlight.  And there it is -- bright bulging 

white shines their faces, lights up hay fields, 

rolls over foothills, crowns the Blue Ridge. 

© Marti Snell, 2017

Dance at a Country Inn
by Rafael Benjumea
Carmen Thyssen Museum, Malaga, Spain
from Wikimedia Commons

Simile and Metaphor

On the dance floor,

holding you at arm’s length,

Simile, with one finger,

will twirl you like the last leaf

spinning in Autumn wind.

When the song ends,

he is content with a quick hug, 

a tiny peck on the cheek.

Metaphor, on the other hand,

holds you tightly enough

to take your breath,

gives you the deepest French kiss.

It all happens so fast

that before you can say “stop!”

you find yourself in an unfamiliar bed,

pregnant with images

ready to be born.

© Jean Sampson, 2014

A couple dancing tango
Photo by Jorge Lascar
from Wikimedia commons

After Show Aches

The cold chokes my throat igniting immunity with energy warmer than an oven of convection.

Vibrations still rattle rocked ribs, repeating rhythms, pulsing through fingertips; I am alert with agreeable adrenaline observations.

Playing stuck songs backwards and forwards, mandala hemispheres chatter with excited interpretations.

Laying my head upon thumping shoulders I shimmy in chilly acceleration.

Driving back to padded cage with pulsing hips still crying out for ambulation,

I mentally marvel at composition that continues to expose a mass to an accumulation of acculturation.

Still skipping I step into a wet jungle heat, rinsing sweat and feeling the saturation

of sweet streaming rivulets; oxygenation creating the perfect negative ionic sedation.

Stretching, sleepy articulations crack, pop, and snapple, as muscles create compositions out of yogi positions;

releasing restricted tensions, limbs curve in evolutionary arches of emancipating elevation.

Excited for ethereal fantasies, equilibrium turns exhausted orientation into disorganization.

Restful slumber permits the reclamation of youthful rejuvenation,

as peaceful dreams dance wildly to harmonious beats of ecstatic revelation.

© Sarah Bordeau-Rigertink, 2013

Dancing Moghul women. From Auguste Racinet's Le Costume Historique, originally published in France between 1876 and 1888.
from Wikimedia Images; in the public domain