Go to the Devil and Shake Yourself (poem, re-posted in celebration of the Festival of American Fiddle Tunes, 2009))

After much dancing and playing
trading tunes and partners and gossip
there comes that special time of night
when time loses its grip
and the air cracks apart
and its time to get out the pink punk
sunglasses and dance through the crowd
invisible as a dark elf
and get up speed
whirl and lean and step
and start pinching buns
snatching partners
swinging and
staring folk
straight in the eyes
till they lose their senses
and start doing it too
and then everyone grabs hands
and the floor begins to bounce
pictures jiggle and leap off the walls
clocks and watches smash to the floor
and the fiddles and banjos start
playing themselves
harmonicas and flutes turn somersaults
over the concertinas and pianos
and we are galloping around the hall
around the house and mind the dresser
smash the windows for off we go
and there's no one able or willing
to cut the strings and end the mad reel
and we dance till our toes are worn off
till our feet are gone
till our knees and legs disappear
and then we roll out the door
down to the river
over the waterfall
and to the devil and shake ourselves
all on a Saturday night

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(This is a re-post; originally published in Tidepools 1992 and on Gather, December, 2007. Re-published to honor the spirit of the Festival of American Fiddle Tunes, sponsored by the Centrum Foundation, Fort Worden, Port Townsend, Washington last week.)