Cemetery Stomp

A Magpie Tale

An elegant skeleton
made her debut on
the eve of the All Hallows Ball.

Her tarsals a-tapping,
and phalanges a-flapping,
she woke to the wild rhythm's call.

With no hair to style
and a permanent smile
she found she missed naught that she lacked.

Ignoring the warning,
"You'll need that, come morning!"
she danced on her stone 'til it cracked.

Thus her portal broke down;
she remained above ground
while others returned to their rest.

No peace could she find,
left alone, left behind.
She thought moving on would be best.

She found a position
with a student physician.
At least it was someplace to hang

around with her ear
toward the graveyard to hear
when the ghostly band struck up again.

Princess Shoes

A Magpie Tale

She felt like a princess that night,

Cinderella, dressed in airy white,

fitting in, for once, with festive fools,

in borrowed jewels that sparkled

like the sapphires of her eyes.

She thought she could have danced the evening long

In flawless shoes that seemed, at first,

to fit her slender feet,

daintily displaying tiny toes.

Unpolished, but blessed with a child-like grace

she kept up with society's circling pace,
the joy of dancing filling all her thoughts.

Now, surfeited with sambas and foxtrots,
her feet feel flat,
confined.

Stepping out for air,
she finds her shoes stuck fast
in someone's snare.
She freezes, faced with selecting her fate--
If a prince should find and save her, could she stay?
Become a princess, richly shod each day?

Though fatigued, her feet don't hesitate,
swiftly slipping out to homeward flee,
to heal her heels,
set toes and arches free...
and retrace shadows of the swirling steps
on the safe, familiar floor.

Walkingsticky

A tip of the hat to Magpie Tales and Lewis Carroll

'Twas silly, but his tapping toes
Did nimbly jive with rhythmic air.
Was there a chance?  Could he, too, dance
Like dashing Fred Astaire?


"Beware the walking stick, my son!
The polished shaft, the silver top!
Eschew top hat and monocle,
Lest you become a fop!"

But though his father looked askance,
The youth pursued his classy dream.
He spun and danced, and soon advanced
To join the ballroom team.


As lost in Terpsichorean thought,
With props in hand, back home he walked,
A Bigger Jock crashed through the wood,
And all the path he blocked.


Grunting with malicious sneer,
The Jock said, "Football makes a man!
If you just dance, you must be queer.
Come, fight me, if you can!"


Swiveling to face the lout,
He said, "You ought to change your tune.
Your sweat leaves ladies passing out.
My leading makes them swoon."


ONE, two, three, ONE, two, three, in his brain,
He chasséd to avoid the charge,
And downed the Jock with well-thrust cane,
Although the foe was large.


'Twas chilly, but his tapping toes
Stayed warm the homeward journey through.
The lad was glad, when need arose,
He'd taken fencing, too!