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This is about the time of the year that I start to feeling all spinny on my toes, and it is because of Tchaikovsky and The Nutcracker. Goodness, what a ballet. Is there any greater holiday story? I don’t think so, on stage or screen. Is there any performance better than this?

I’m going to poem the Nutcracker and then go to bed to fight off this sinus crap:

At The Ballet

Wait, wait, and wait for the curtain to rise. Hark see the tulle, the sweet glitttering tulle, witness here and go on the hearing, the parlor scene, all Victorian and jumpy in the big dresses lined with lace.  Hark hear the next tired doll all limber and bouncing, hear the tired toys just waiting backstage, to dance. Step lightly to find the core and spin around the spinning rags and dolls, step oh so lightly and hear the orchestra and deep small oboes. King rat, where do you wait now? Do you wait upon the trumpets? Do you wait upon the musket?  Or do you wait upon the insistence of the Snow Queen? What is the next dance? What do you pretty snowflakes believe? What to you pique to, where do you turn in the dancing sky? Where is the orchestra, where is the timpani, where are darlings who lift you up on the stage? Don’t you remember the sweeping arms and the turnout? Remember the spin and grace? Just so, it always had to be just so. Here goes Spanish. Que?  The Arabians with those gauze’s, who spun with such quick silk and grace, and the fastest toes onstage. Recall the quick flight of that pretty China dance, and get used to the instruments, all reedy and ribbons.  Sometime quick and pretty the dream will turn about, and it will spin and spin and spin.

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Happy Friday, poem peeps. I wrote a Nutcracker poem. I’m okay with that. I used to dance. Watch this:

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