Dance Poem

I was looking back at earlier posts and I forgot I used to put poetry on here. I’m going to try it again. I’m not sure about the quality of this one but it took up some time while I was at the dance convention, and that was nice.

By Regina Garvie

I do not dance.
Once I danced, when I was young
Tutu and leotard and tights and special shoes
Shoes for tapping, shoes for toes
But then the dance studio closed in my little town
And no more dance
Until high school and college
Sometimes a ridiculous thing called A dance
With awkwardness and embarrassment and stiff swaying
My daughters dance. My niece dances.
I’ve been watching them dance for twenty-five years
Recitals, conventions, competitions
Tap, ballet, jazz, contemporary, hip-hop, lyrical, more
I do not like dance recitals or conventions or competitions.
Don’t get me wrong
Watching my loved ones dance is a lovely thing
But recitals and conventions and competitions include
A lot of other people dancing
And I could
The other moms CARE. The other moms
Pay to watch conventions
Get excited about competitions
Look forward to recital
But I only look forward to seeing my daughter dance
And for recital being done and the brief breath between seasons
And then
It starts again
Tap and ballet and jazz and the rest
Money shelled out
So. Much. Money.
I sit in the lobby of the convention and type
I squirrel away in the back of the auditorium
And put in my headphones and write at competitions
While all the other teams dance
And all the other moms watch
But I love watching my daughter
And my older daughter when she was up there
And my niece when she was up there
And oh, how they LOVE to dance.
And so I keep going, and paying, and waiting
For the one I love to be on the stage
Then I watch.
Then I care.
My heart is full.
And then the song ends



By Regina Garvie

I am not being heard
They look at me
And they hear the words
But the meaning is lost
They don’t really listen
They don’t really understand
And they don’t care anyway
And it feels like they don’t care because
What I’m feeling doesn’t matter anyway
After all, feelings can’t be counted on
We have to have faith
Not feelings
Even though I’m not even sure how to separate the two
Perhaps it’s a secret
That you need a Y chromosome for
(And I wanted to write penis
But I’m trying to not be offensive)
They say that I’m divisive but I don’t want to be
I just want to be heard
If you really want to know what’s going on inside of me
And listen
Because I’m saying it
But no one hears
no one listens


Writer dreaming

Writer Dreaming
By Regina Garvie

A published author
That elusive title that slips through my fingers
Like salt spilling on the floor
So alive and full of flavor
And almost mine
But not
Tonight I saw my agent speak
She read her book, she was applauded
I felt no sorrow, only gladness
At her, her success, her happiness
But now, quiet, alone, I remember
The pain this week when all my author friends
Talked and laughed
About the festival they were speaking at
The event they were all a part of
And I felt left out
Like a junior high me by myself in a crowd
Surrounded, but alone
They didn’t mean to do it
I know that
But it still was a stark reminder
Of what they are
And what I’m not
I want what they have
I want what my agent has
I want what my agent’s other clients have
My words – my worlds on paper
Hard cover. Dust jacket.
Spine cracking as I pull it open and
The scent of my dreams
My name on the cover
My dedication in the front
My thanks in the back
My life on every page
And my turn at last!
My friends at my signing
At my reading
At my launch party
Reading my words
And telling me that they like them.
That they like them.
Because liking my words, my dreams, my worlds
Would be everything.
But not yet.
Not yet.
And so I wait.
And I write.
And sometimes I cry
But sometimes I don’t.
Keep writing, Regina.
Keep hoping
Keep praying
Keep waiting.
Keep writing.
Keep writing.
Keep writing.


His first day

His first day
By Regina Garvie

Sitting next to me in the car
Mud spattered jeans and stained tennis shoes
(How is he big enough to sit in the front?)
He’s taller than me. Bigger than me.
(How was he ever inside of me?)
Eyes sparkling as he chatters about his first day
A day at work, on the farm – at the pumpkin patch
A day catching pumpkins, feeding animals, helping children
Little children just like the one he was yesterday
Or maybe it was the day before
And suddenly he’s almost a man
With dirt under his fingernails as he scrolls through his phone
Then he jams it in his pocket and whips back to me
To tell me something else that happened this day
This first day
A day of adventure – of outdoor work and laughter and haybales
For a boy that’s almost a man
He doesn’t always want to share with his mama
And sometimes I think I don’t have enough time
But today he talks
And today I listen
And he bursts out a beautiful bray of laughter
And I laugh with him
He’s already counting out wages in his mind
These are the moments I want to remember
Moments with my son, my sweet baby ginormous son
I’m glad I went to pick him up
I’m glad I didn’t send his big sister
I’m glad I didn’t say I was too busy
I’m glad that I get to spend this time with my son
On this first day.