Serenaded by the demented chuckling of a twisted sprite
the lovely Rosalita dances through the moonlit night
draped in gowns of Chandran and Dior, 
she tiptoes, flowing softly out the door

Lightly twirling round the sulking willow, 
beneath candyfloss clouds that softly billow,
like velvet curtains hung in wisps
held by a thousand purple paperclips

She dances still -- sweet Rosalita dances,
as stars like glassy marbles light the inky blackness,
and even as the clock strikes twelve and trundles down
she pirouettes with dewdrops as her earthly crown.

Then as the morning comes and night shades wane, 
and crickets greet the dawn with sad refrain
she bends and sways like the willow’s limb
lifting fingers to beckon dawns rising rim.

Good morning Stanley, she whispers soft and low
while the tendrils of her long hair flows
across his face like thin trails of kisses
as his eyesight fades and he reminisces.

And she dances still -- sweet Rosalita dances,
under the morning apple blooms she prances
then fades like dewdrops among the sprites
with the final remnants of the lingering night.

        july 2003

 

Included in:



 Poetry Pages: A Collection of Voices From Around The World 
 Volume II