Tori, Here’s a poem I wrote for Moss Piglet’s next theme of “Dance.” Also, another poem I can include in my book.
Dancing with Dad
He touches the delicate needle
to the edge of the spinning 78.
Music of Vienna fills the room
Dad pulls me close,
I stand on top of his feet,
his size fourteens are my lead.
He waltzes five-year-old me
in circles, one, two, three,
one two three.
My small palm held by his hand,
Dad’s arm around my waist.
Learning to dance, I reel
in his aura of Old Spice and whiskers
as we glide around the room
two feet on top of two feet.
Here’s a version with tension: I’m not sure I like it. Feels “off” to me. What do you think?
Dancing with Dad
Mom and Dad danced
at the charity ball every December
and occasionally in the living room for fun.
His arm held her around the waist,
their hands pressed together,
raised to the rhythm,
eyes intent on each other
two-stepping across the room.
Tonight, Dad touches the needle
to the edge of the spinning 78.
Music of Vienna fills the room
Dad pulls me close,
to stand on top of his feet,
his size fourteens are my lead.
He waltzes five-year-old me
in circles – one, two, three,
one two three –
my small palms in his hands.
I feel a lift, a soaring,
like a baby bird learning to fly.
I remember his aura
of Old Spice and whiskers
as we glide around the room,
two feet on top of two feet,
Mother in the kitchen,
the pressure cooker hissing.
3rd version (sent to MP 05/22/24)
Dancing with Dad
He touches the needle
to the edge of the spinning 78.
Music of Vienna fills the room
Dad pulls me close,
I stand on top of his feet,
his size fourteens are my lead.
He waltzes five-year-old me
in circles – one, two, three,
one two three –
I feel a lift, a soaring,
like a baby bird’s first flight
in his aura of Old Spice and whiskers.
We float around the room,
two feet on top of two feet.