“ The Dancer ” – be the devil upstairs –

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“ The Dancer ”

            – be the devil upstairs –

I’d know the music

Just by listening,

To the patter

On the floor above,

And the pulse

That cajoles her feet,

As she capers

To a mystifying beat,

Like it matters

To the dancer,

In whose rhythm

With melodic flair,

She so adorns

Be the devil upstairs,

To mirror,

The center of a storm

Frenzied to a level,

That shan’t be mistaken

As the dancer who conforms…

 

She’s the devil I can tell

Tho follow I with ease,

For her dance casts a spell

Which leads me to believe,

I’m destined to her hell    

If she decides to leave,

Yet just so I can listen

To the rhythmic patters,

Bent by that devil upstairs

Be the dancer who so matters!

 

                                                   inspired in Vence, Fr.

                                               written in Sweetsburg PQ.

                                                         April 21, 2003

 

   

“ The Devil ” – is upstairs –

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                                                         painting by Jerome Bosch

” The Devil ”

            – is upstairs –

I hear the patter

Of a prancer,

Held the devil

Playing dancer,

On the floor

Upstairs,

Comes from hell

Just to frolic,

In a manner

Casts a spell,

Her intention

Guised to prance,

Impishly carefree

Issues to imbue,

Like a banshee

Taunting you,

Of such rhythm

Be of voodoo,

Off the wall,

That conforms

To an eerie storm,

On the floor upstairs

She infernally performs!

 

                                     © Jean-Jacques Fournier  

                                         wrote in Vence, Fr.        

                                           April 21, 2003  

 

        

“ Dancers ” ~ inside and out ~

It seems to start,
With hint of impulse
Inside the heart,
Where links ones soul
To body’s rhythm,
When legs cajole steps
To tug at your mind,
Harmonizing in time
How bodies move
With music’s define,
And dancer groove
In and out to infuse,
Ones body and mind!

“ The Devil ” ~ is upstairs ~

I hear the patter

Of a prancer,

Held the devil

Playing dancer,

On the floor

Upstairs,

Came from hell

Just to frolic,

In a manner

Casts a spell,

Her intention

Guised to prance

Impishly carefree,

Issues to imbue

In a rhythm

Off the wall,

That conforms

To a voodoo

In an eerie storm,

She infernally performs

On the floor upstairs!

 

“ An Angel ” ~ without wings ~

There are angels

Not of seraphim

Nor a cherubim,

An angel that be

Decidedly a she

Of secular whim, 

Angelic to the eye

Will candidly  imply,

She’s not immune to sin…

 

An angel just the same

Without need of wings,

In a curvaceous frame

Made of earthly things,

A siren yet so graceful

Gliding in the rhythm  

Of a tantalizing state,         

Where angels the like

Shan’t likely populate,

In a world of seraphim!