I have woven poetry inspired by prolific writers such as St. Thomas Aquinas and St. Catherine of Siena into Dance of the Dandelion. The final poem on this page is found at the opening of Dance from Deep Within.
Sweet Draughts of Mommy Love
I watch within the golden rays,
beneath the cloudless, azure sky
a white-gold haloed apparition
reflecting iridescent beams,
flitting tender, carving motion,
spinning between earth and sacred
praise is now become Aurora
expanding. Up bright, petal-soft,
beneath a pale, pink floral sheath
a slim, porcelain body sings
like the sun: her arms and legs now
radiating essence, flowing
in kinesthetic child’s delight.
Alight in the Dance
My soul waits on the wind. Sweep down from on high,
from mountain peaks descend and through me—flow—
and I will watch the leaves enthralled in dance.
Inspired by your breath they’ll lightly swirl
through motions, smooth and soft, yet full of life,
enchanted by a spirit so divine.
Oh wind, lend me now your spirit so divine.
Alight me with your dance to soar on high.
Come pour in me your vast consuming life
and let my body now begin to flow
in your hands, on your breath, begin to swirl
and move. Delight, my soul, in the dance.
Like flames that glow and flicker I will dance
within a warming light that feels divine.
Those undulant, soft tongues, I’ve seen them swirl
as they are fanned, within the wind grow high,
and in the coals I’ve watched the molten flow
‘til I’m entranced by such intense and fiery life.
Oh fire, burn me now and fill me with your life
that so intensely moves into the dance.
Melt me until my body pours and flows
in rhythms at once earthy and divine,
and then my soul will fan and flame so high
that I’ll be lost within your rhythmic swirl.
Like rivers strong and coursing we will swirl:
those rivers that give power and bring life,
then vaporize and floating up so high
begin again—the clouds—the raindrop dance
to wash my upturned face. A gift divine,
so cool, so sweet, those rivulets will flow.
Oh rain, come now and wash me with your flow.
And under soothing showers, I will swirl,
and I will stretch my arms to your divine
touch upon my turned-up palms, feeling life,
feeling you, in a wild and watery dance.
What a rush. What transcendence. What a high!
So spirit, come and flow and grant me life
that sends my body swirling in the dance
filled with your divine presence from on high.
After Isadora
The modern dancer stretches and tenses,
bends and contorts, writhes on the floor all
in search of that fulcrum of human physicality.
That singularity in her abdomen she will strengthen
and hone to tighten her craft, to control each
turn, jump, and post-modern pose in a delicate
tango with gravity. It is the place of perfect
balance, the human conductor by which spirit
to flesh is conveyed. It must flow through and out
fingertips and toes. They are not held safe
in ballet’s constraining outwards shapes,
arms and hands curved into beautiful
nineteenth century artifacts.
For the modern dance, an electrical current
must fill the body, charging each cell,
creating power and immediacy.
The center of a man is higher up, in his chest,
beneath his ribs, nearer the heart to keep
his scales from tipping; but our dancer is reaching
deep in the bowl between her hips,
the halfway point of her entire being,
for that core, the stability, the consummation
of internal struggle, resulting in the dance.
