THE DANCE OF LOVE


THE DANCE OF LOVE

 

Silky and smooth,

Her skin is carved from alabaster,

Very soft to the touch.

As they dance he is very much aware

Of her gown clinging to every inch.

The pressure of his hands guides her,

Taking her on a journey across the universe.

She responds to his touch,

Gliding and sailing over the marble floor,

Becoming more and more

A part of him.

Slight dips and spins become movements of love,

Her heated body melting into his.

She wears nothing between the outer fabric and her skin,

And he struggles to keep focused.

A few quick steps and he lifts her into the air,

Triumphantly, aware of eyes watching admiringly.

He lowers her, and she touches ground gracefully.

She whispers into his ear and they disappear into the night,

Dashing the hopes of those who were watching.

But at the same time encouraging them to dream,

To dream and love and create their own fantasy.

 

June 15, 2017

 

 

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MISSING PIECES


MISSING PIECES

In a basket on my desk there are twelve coins of various values,

A few handwritten notes jotted down when things began going wrong,

Seven unclaimed keys, one left behind after a few drinks too many,

Three keys meant to open padlocks of long deserted farmhouses,

And two keys from a car missing somewhere on the back roads.

The stately clock in the hall ticks steadily along,

Unaware that the weather has changed and a cold storm approaches.

It’s raining outside and my arms are empty.

But I know my destiny is calling and I must answer,

The rain will turn into snow and cover my tracks.

Tonight she’s with someone and I wait impatiently,

My rage contained and hidden behind a smile and a promise.

I know which farmhouse they’ve been visiting,

And I know by now they have had too much to drink.

The missing car is lost forever, just like my love for her.

If we could have kept our love unblemished,

We could have grown closer instead of apart.

If she had been faithful and remained committed,

Those keys would have rusted away without being used.

It’s snowing now and I know I’ll miss her warm embrace.

The blanket of white is so appealing,

All the ugliness will be covered until spring.

All that I’ll keep are the coins to remember,

Erasing the pain from my broken heart,

Each coin represents a lover. Why did they all go wrong?

By Dan Roberson

Three Snake Skins


English: Santa Claus with a little girl Espera...
English: Santa Claus with a little girl Esperanto: Patro Kristnasko kaj malgranda knabino Suomi: Joulupukki ja pieni tyttö (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

 

Three Snake Skins

 

I counted my presents under the tree

 

I had been generous but only to me

 

It was Christmas Eve and the night was deep

 

My eyelids grew heavy and I fell asleep.

 

 

 

In a dream I couldn’t believe my eyes

 

The world was in for a surprise

 

Christmas would be different this year

 

The sleigh wouldn’t be pulled by deer.

 

 

 

I needed to be good for goodness sakes

 

For Santa’s sleigh was pulled by snakes

 

Diamondbacks, boas, asps, and kings,

 

Flying through the air without any wings.

 

 

 

Down the rooftop they’d slide until they flopped

 

Slithering and wiggling, down the chimney they dropped!

 

One snake per child who had ever been bad,

 

Two snakes for mom and three for dear dad.

 

 

 

The snakes gathered to map out a plan

 

Something bizarre, something evil and grand.

 

People with possessions who didn’t share

 

Were bitten by serpents that didn’t care.

 

 

 

There was a list and it was checked twice

 

To determine who had been naughty or nice.

 

There weren’t many households left alone

 

For greed had turned many hearts to stone.

 

 

 

I awoke from my dream all drenched and wet

 

I had many memories I wished to forget

 

The beggar on the corner I couldn’t look in the eye

 

The family in my neighborhood I simply passed by.

 

 

 

There were incidents my conscience couldn’t ignore

 

This dream had touched me clear to the core

 

I vowed to give clothes and food to those in need

 

And to be more generous in word and deed.

 

 

 

Under my Christmas tree there were no presents to myself

 

But I cleared a space for gifts to others on a shelf

 

This year I was greedy but I’ll be prepared next year

 

Santa will be generous and my conscience will be clear.

 

 

 

I heard bells jingle as the sleigh took flight

 

And I knew that this would be a normal night

 

Eight tiny reindeer were pulling the sleigh

 

And Rudolph was in front leading the way.

 

 

 

I know this was just one of many dreams

 

You might think I made it worse than it seems

 

But I’ve changed my heart and I’m starting again

 

For under my bed I found three snake skins.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Melt My Heart of Stone


When my daughter was only three,

She was as independent as can be,

On the playground she could hear me calling,

“Wait for me!  I don’t want you falling.”

But she would race toward the slide,

Even at that tender age she had pride,

“Me do it!” she would stubbornly insist,

She refused my help and would resist,

Hardheaded and independent, (just like her father).

So why should I try to help?  Why even bother?

As the years passed by, I didn’t get any wiser,

I didn’t save love and I didn’t become a miser,

I didn’t seek truth from wise men near and far,

I relied on myself to follow a distant star,

“Me do it!” I shouted to the heavens above,

“Why do I need help to learn the ways of love?”

Fair maidens passed often in the depths of night,

But their hearts were broken, sad was their plight,

I was too independent so I remained alone,

Hard-headed but sad, my heart turned to stone,

Who could open her heart and give me a chance?

Who could love enough to spark new romance?

I learned to accept help from any source I can,

I became less difficult; I became a calmer man,

With years of experience I became smarter too,

I decided not to rely on me; I wanted to depend on you,

Working and playing together as a team,

We could turn my world into a better dream,

Man was not meant to be alone,

“Help me please; melt my heart of stone!”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Without Her…..


 

Soothing Artifact
Soothing Artifact (Photo credit: ifindkarma)

 

She’s in my dreams,

 

Filling me with anticipation,

 

Delighting me with her smile,

 

Soothing me with her warmth,

 

 

 

I will not forget her,

 

Waiting in my memory,

 

Returning night after night,

 

Speaking words of wisdom and love,

 

 

 

I’m not complete without her,

 

Sharing our experiences,

 

Wrapping our future together,

 

Pledging our vows to each other,

 

 

 

She is already missed,

 

Lying there still and quiet,

 

Smiling at my tears,

 

Staring up at nothing at all.

 

 

 

 

 

Why I Write


"browned" gets a mention in the press!
“browned” gets a mention in the press! (Photo credit: mr brown)

“Uncle Dan, what did you want to be when you grew up?” My nephew’s words tore into me, reminding me of people who had stood in my way urging me to do sane sensible things. “Go out into the world and get a real job!” “Do something useful.” “Working for a living is honorable.” Not one of my friends or relatives told me to follow my heart or pursue my dreams. In fact, one of them scoffed when I said, “I want to write poetry and short stories. I want to describe the world.” “There’s no money in writing,” he said. “It’s a waste of time,” said another. “Who has time to read?” My nephew looked at me curiously. He was still waiting for an answer. What could I tell him? I began as I believed I should, honest and straight forward. “I always wanted to be a writer and I waited until now to begin.” In the early evening Cicadas were saturating the air with a steady din and it continued even after the stars began poking through the black velvet sky. I’d listen and try to imagine a far away planet where strange creatures buzzed about giant cities. As the animal kingdom came to life small animals in desperate flight raced to stay ahead of their pursuers. The chasers were relentless. A scream, then silence. Another hunter had made a kill. The actions were out of sight and sudden, but I could imagine even the smallest details. My thoughts would drift back to space where my other world existed. My imagination was rife with possibilities. Were larger animals chasing smaller prey just like the ones I knew about, or did the smaller animals control the larger ones? My dreams were filled with stars and planets and my travels were swift. After hours of dreams, I would wake early in the morning. I would bounce out of bed, get dressed, and go outside ready to be immersed in new adventures. But sometimes my dreams didn’t stop on time. “Danny, wake up! You’re wasting time. There are animals to feed and chores to do.” My brother’s voice stirred me to action. A few minutes later the cows were contented again, eating oats and hay. The pigs were fed and after scattering corn for the chickens I went inside and cleaned up for school. I could hardly wait to tell my friends about the sounds of night and my imaginary planets. As part of our seventh grade English class Miss Brown often let us decide what we wanted to write about. Then she looked directly at me. “Nothing about planets and stars or stories about aliens or animals. Write about things you do during the day.” I wanted to protest but I knew Miss Brown would stand her ground. Many times she had told me, “Write about the things you know, not the things you imagine. Start over, Danny, and this time please follow directions.” After many attempts at describing real things, Miss Brown and I finally agreed upon a compromise. If I wrote and satisfied her requirements, I could write sci-fi and fantasy stories. In order to get my needs met I had to write more. Although my production increased, the quality of my writing didn’t. “Your writing isn’t good enough,” Miss Brown told me. “Don’t quit your day job.” At conference time she told my parents I daydreamed too much. “I don’t think he can be good enough to become a successful writer. Guide him towards the trades. That’s where the money is.” Throughout high school my teachers reminded me, “Very few authors became famous. Many of them suffered through bouts of depression. Some died young and others died poor. You have some potential but get a job that pays a steady income.” In college writing was on a collision course with literature. One professor ranted, “Read every story seven times and squeeze it for meaning. Otherwise you’ll never learn how to write.” Because of him and other like minded souls I decided that newspaper writing was the way to achieve success. But times were hard and over the next ten years several newspapers folded or consolidated for financial reasons. Jobs were hard to find and harder to keep. “Get out of the newspaper business,” a crusty old reporter barked. “Writing doesn’t pay very much but it steals your soul.” By then I had become an English teacher, although I still freelanced for small magazines. I continued to produce articles just for my vanity. I was not the only educator who dabbled with poetry or stories. Education was packed with aspiring writers with distinguished backgrounds. “You’re nothing special,” I was told. “Other writers are ten times better than you.” I joined writing groups but even there the news was grim. “If you submit your stories or novels to publishers, expect to get rejection slips. Even the famous authors were rejected enough to paper the walls of their houses.” Years passed and technology changed. Now older and wiser, I decided to write for fun and to entertain. If someone actually liked what I wrote, it would be good for my self-esteem. I became a blogger. There were a few followers but mostly I wrote for myself. I wrote stories and poetry but I didn’t really know how to entertain. I didn’t know how to add music and color. All I had was words. As I look back I still have not achieved my goals nor have I satisfied my soul. I still write because I want someone to understand that life is more than video games and TV. Perhaps I also write because I want to learn more before I die. As I write, my understanding becomes deeper and sharper but I think I’d have to be immortal in order to become a good writer. I still have so much to learn and so much to describe. Life is real. Life is earnest. Life is too short. I looked at my nephew. “I’m still growing up,” I said. “I’ve only changed on the outside.”

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