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Something about form.  That’s all I have in my journal tonight.  Ok, brain. Um. Good job. What?

It’s Wednesday, and exactly there weeks since I began my 2014 poem challenge.  I guess I am proud of that. I’m kind of all Richard Sherman about that, and this challenge is my Michael Crabtree. Word. I am a poem thug. And Richard Sherman and I will reclaim the word thug and redefine it to mean someone who believes in their own greatness and gets a little amped up after a big play. Or poem. Whatever. It’ s a late night, again, filled with all sorts of teen angst at work. You can probably tell by my scattershot brain skips.

Yesterday I started thinking about form, and wanted to try to use some. Blank verse is great, but if I’m really practicing, I should be practicing all forms of poetry. Kind of like a dancer who needs to study jazz and hip-hop and modern and break to become a virtuoso.  And let’s admit, we all know my goal is nothing short of virtuosity.

But, I’m not really very good at form.  Too much counting, and you know how I feel about math.  Then I got to thinking about waltzing, probably because of the one, two, three, two, two, three 3/4 time.   Not this kind of waltz:

But an Isadora Duncan grand, sweeping, joyous kind like this:

I need to start writing this waltz right now, because SLEEP.   I told myself I’d stop writing about how tired I am, but we are just going to go ahead participate in the intimacy of creative space and I’m going to say I AM SO TIRED AND BEING A GROWNUP STINKS.

here’s a poem.

The Inevitable Waltz

Some are tangled in sheets and flannel and others in lace, Some sleep in the mood, and many lips gap slightly as eyelids bouree,

in dreaming. Some sigh small groans as action and awareness arrive together which is both a release, and a small dying.

The dancers are the lucky ones, the ones who cat-stretch back into their bodies, who step barefoot deliberately onto cold floors, who skip over the dog instead of nudge,

who know their steps are pointless if they are not quick, and in time.  The dancers use their arms to hold the moments of the day,

reaching into all planes, even the untapped space above the tops of their heads. The lucky ones, knowing that surefooted care, knowing that spinning is the easiest way to become a smaller target,

knowing that without the dance, we are only skeletons walking.

On the worst days let us be like the dancers, scooping the air to us and sweeping the ground with our strong calves, thrusting our chests to the sky. Let us be like the dancers who step

one two three two two three three two three four two three

so bravely and without ever thoughts of faltering, who know that movement comes from ease, not thought,

Who Age never grinds down with its growing old pains, but just shrinks the movements,

until the last smallest step is an eyelash flutter and the crooked, upward twitch of an ancient lip as they,

triumphantly,

throw down the red scarf at the end of the inevitable waltz.

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Happy Wednesday! How are you, poemfolk? I would love to hear from you. 

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