Dancing Towards Eternity

So some of you might know that I aspire to be a poet someday. However, I just haven't shared enough of my poetry with the world, let alone family or friends, to even be considered an aspiring poet. Sometimes I feel if I share my poems, they will break like porcelain because people won't like it or they might become hyper critical of it. I know I shouldn't feel that way because I need people to not like my poetry and to be hyper critical of it. How else am I going to become a better poet!? So, from now on, I am going to post a poem a week and share either a poem in progress, or one I feel is close to complete. Please let me know how you feel about this one. It is inspired by a poem by William Butler Yeats called "The Second Coming" and another poem by Billy Collins called "Dancing Towards Bethlehem". This poem, I feel, is close to being complete. ENJOY!

Dancing Towards Eternity

If the World was to end and there was only minutes to spend,

I would want my last moments spent dancing

with you, my right hand pressed against the curvature of your back,

your body pressed firmly against mine,

feeling every last breath you took as we waltzed to elevator

music played by an orchestra whose reputation means nothing

anymore. And as the mere twenty-three years of our lives crumbled around us

like shattered glass, and the string section slowly sank beneath the sand,

I would look deep into your infinite eyes,

never once blinking, and smile.

In the distance, a lion, scouring the desert,

looking for someone to call his own, a place to call home, 

would wail-fully roar,

And if the World was to end and there was only minutes to spend,

I would be happy spending my last moments dancing

with you, my whole self, pressed firmly against

your whole self, knowing eternity would soon be ours. . .

A Quilter's Work

I have hesitated to speak about my mother, perhaps because I feel inadequate to speak of her. But I feel that I can capture at least a piece of her within my poetry, and maybe, at some point, you, the reader, will one day be able to construct an entire individual out of my words. But I doubt it. There are not enough poetic metaphors or well-structured verses or prose that could build up such an overwhelming multi-faceted human. I am proud to call her my mother, and stand in awe of her everyday. I only wish that I could give her more, not because she has given me everything I would ever need, but because she deserves as much, and that much more.
Tonight, I will be reciting my poetry as a final project for my Poetry Workshop class. Here is a Sonnet I wrote in admiration of my loving mother for that class:

A Quilter’s Work

I love the way she makes her quilts: controlled

and full of care. I’d watch her work for hours

In your sequestered sewing room; her old

and trusted Singer rattled with such power.

Blending batiks of hand-dyed fabrics, knitting

together textiled patterns lacking any

form, she would make a portrait, somehow fitting

a multitude of shapes to form a whole.

And yet, mistakes would weave and thread their way

into the finished product. Laughing she

would say, “artistic choice,” and fold away

the blemished artwork tailored to be skewed.

Sometimes I think she made me like your quilts:

some minor imperfections, but well built.