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Tracie Skarbo was motivated to write by her father, who was her biggest supporter. “He was always behind me, rallying me on with my writing. I would always see him with a book in hand. He gave me a great appreciation for the written word, and the power and responsibility that writers have to shape those who read their words. He also taught me to respect nature and to value the beauty within it; my reflections on my environment are just an extension of this.” Skarbo was raised on Vancouver Island and is working on her next two books.

Sunday, October 10, 2010

Tiny Dancers

Raindrops slip and fall from the clouds embrace
Rejection stings their hearts as they reach back with crystal spires; a one armed stretch towards the lovers that thwarted them
Their bottoms round with friction, become voluptuous glittering tear gems
Facets reflecting disbelief of the cloud’s murderous treason

Wind rushes forward to try to save them
He is hopelessly in love with the tiny dancers
He tries to scoop them into his invisibility, but he lacks arms
He possesses fingers but they are splayed; providing no use
Helplessly he watches his beloved, witnessing their annihilation

He wails to the clouds, promising revenge
Stirring them into a frenzy
They laugh and mock his impotent ways; for they are only a veil and there is nothing concrete that his rage can wear away
He is left with puddles and broken wet kisses

He calls to the sun and speaks to her of her beauty, telling her how he wishes he could dance for her amusement, if only he could get rid of the boastful clouds and their ire some ways
She winks at him, firing her solar flares into a skirt-less dance, she becomes a wrathful goddess; the passion filled heat consumes the troublesome moisture

Over time, she won’t let humidity rise; drying out wind and the soil he dances upon
Soon all is brown, dead, and dirty; wind becomes tired of her demanding affections
Fire runs amok in the valley and mountains, sending smoke signals to the goddess; he is quick to capture her wandering eye
Wind relieved, wishes for nothing more then the slightest cool dampening dew to moisten his lips and voice

Fire does his best to quench the suns taste for flattery
But no matter how hard he tries, his flames never reach high enough to caress her face
She becomes bitter and tormented; soon she can no longer stand to see wind and fire so free to dance upon the earth while she can only watch with stillness from above
She draws the clouds under her once more, banishing them from her vision

Soon the tiny dancers are free to fall once more…


  1. This is simply put..lovely...

    "He is left with puddles and broken wet kisses

    What a great line.. I see you have been energized in your writing. It shows.
    Anothere insightful piece. :-)

  2. Gorgeous! I get the impression it is showing how life operates on many levels at the same time.

  3. Tracie--In response to your fine poem with its images of water in descent mode, let me offer by contrast this one of my own, which in part toys with similar images. I had this linked on my blog, but don't think that I'd posted it on OS:


    In Yeatsian gyration we descend—
    But, no—that’s far too grand—
    Lead-footed we stagger and lunge
    after baubles of flesh, or stone
    and we fall off the edge of things:

    Gravity snares the cloud-born rain
    cracks its spine at 90-degrees
    and without mercy irons it flat—

    To stream is to slave—
    “I’m a survivor”: the zombie’s delusion:

    Satan rules the temporal—
    the 8-hour day, the pilgrimage—
    Eisenhower’s autobahn—
    the floor of the rolling sea—
    the arrow’s flight, the apostolic succession:

    Twixt Point A & Point B
    a purgatorial wasteland—
    Teleology is tyranny—
    Aspiration targets ten-thousand hells—
    The crux of Robert Johnson’s crossroads:

    Where one is is freedom—
    To ascend from a point is to attempt an escape—
    To become is to rise—
    Fog is infernal—

    Grace is evaporation.

  4. Wow, there's some synchronicity going on there. Two very similar and mighty fine poems, Rob and Tracie!

  5. Written with out prior knowledge of themselves... very interesting indeed! Thanks for coming by Fiona!