Swan Lake in the Sky
A poem pondering dreams deferred
What if,
instead of counting falling stars
you counted the stars
still dancing en pointe?
The tiara-ed swans whose time to die
is not yet…
©Jenine Bsharah Baines 2020
This morning, I woke up thinking of dreams I’d never achieve. Sounds bleak and it was, partially. For example, although I’m working on healing it, there’s a wound regarding my inability to get ‘serious’ journals to take my poetry seriously. Maybe I am delusional; maybe my poems suck. Confession: it’s so painful I don’t even bother submitting anymore.
Some dreams I’m at peace with parking backstage until the curtain opens on my next life. Say, my dream of dancing on my toes.
I loved ballet but floor work with my weak ankles was rough; pointe even tougher. “When I come back, I want to dance on my toes,” I’ll say.
Perhaps I COULD dance on my toes in a past life, but I took it for granted. Ditto, re my poetry. Maybe I was Shakespeare and an arrogant SOB about it. (That’s a joke! Even at my most outrageous, likening myself to genius has a hubris about it that leaves me stiff with fear the writing gods will smite me.)
