image from creator.nightcafe.studio.com
poem written for and submitted to “Write a Beautiful Rubaiyat Poem” poetry contest, Constance La France, sponsor, January 16, 2026.
“Ride, ride the carousel; reach for the brass ring—life is a circular thing." (Julie Andrews) The calliope sings through twilight’s hush, a drunken waltz of pipes gone slightly lush. The carousel spins ghosts in gilded light~ each rider swears they’re flying, in their rush. Clowns have shed their greasepaint grins by dawn, their hollow eyes still laughing, though withdrawn. The carnival packs up its aching bones, but the carousel? It's never quite gone. A ribbon lost, a child’s shoe in the hay, the scent of sugar clinging to the fray. Ticket vendors count their silver lies, while horses dream of galloping away. Tents collapse like sighs into the dust, yet something lingers—rusted chains, a trust that when the moon hangs fat and low once more, the music will return. And so it must. If you enjoyed this poem, you may want to read its companion memoir vignette posted on Poetry Soup: poetrysoup.com/short_stories/carousel_of_memories_13583
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