“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their hollow eyes still laughing, though withdrawn.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
He swallowed vanity whole,
spit up rhododendrons,
gasped at greasepaint fingerprints—
his own—
finally saw himself:
Clown.
The laughter rings, a hollow sound,
Across the painted, cheerful ground.
A mask he wears, a painted smile,
Hiding the tears for a little while.
Beneath the greasepaint, shadows creep,
Where buried sorrows lie so deep.
A heart that aches, a spirit torn,
A silent grief, since early morn.
The spotlight shines, a cruel display,
For joy he feigns, though hope's astray.
He stumbles through the practiced dance,
A fragile soul, caught in a trance.
The crowd below, they cheer and clap,
Oblivious to the silent trap.
They see the jester, light and free,
But not the pain he hides from thee.
Each hurried bow, each clumsy fall,
Conceals a memory that enthralls
His weary mind, a haunting scene,
Of what has been, and might have been.
The music swells, a vibrant beat,
Contrasting with his inner defeat.
He juggles tears he cannot shed,
A living ghost among the dead.
So watch him close, as colors blend,
And see the story without end.
The tears of a clown, a bitter rain,
Washing away the joy and gain.
Stalking a dream
trailing a memory
A scent came in focus
wafting desire
Seized by the moment
alluding a time warp
Tracking its shadow
ambush on fire
Covered in greasepaint
fear is approaching
Hearing its footsteps
the jungle embarked
Crosshair detention
target redemption
Locked and reloaded
—one shot in the dark
(Dreamsleep: September, 2023)
platypus features
greasepaint pallor weirdo clown
red nose big honker
outlandish shoes flail around
crazy hairdo balding crown
eyes evoke pathos
whitewashed face a haunting frown
empty seats again
last show in his frilly gown
tattered circus closing down
TATTERS Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Mystic Rose Rose
Howmanysyllables 5/7/5/7/7 x 2
No news is good news; the known saying goes
Whether stated in prose, or its meted in rhyme
That's the outlook it seems the eu's designed
Whether covid or conflict, they play the same way
There's no voice of dissention, allowed; it's all bad
Yet they're in control of its outflow, and in general
That's sad' Maybe RT was biased? to a certain extent'
Yet people did watch, and so adjudge; on its bents
I could always turn it off though; and often I did'
I didn't need a big brother, with volumes of kid'
So they believe the known saying then..)
(No news is good news) yet straighten their ties
Slap on greasepaint; and polish their shoes'
Then feed out, even more jollop
To you'se; thats no lies'
Ironic that the break
Begat her break
Mousy brown
In the chorus line
Third row from the back
Throwing envious glances
At the leading lady
All glory and accolades
Pirouettes and solos
Applause unbounded
Why not me?
That fateful night
A careless stumble
Unsafe props
An unfortunate angle
Forcing a fracture
And exit stage left
An empty spotlight
Top billing wanting
The opportunity to step up
To transform and sparkle
And take centre stage
Though under the greasepaint
Her guilt barely disguised
Not pat superstition
But sincerely said
The meteoric rise triggered
By her prophetic wish
To break a leg
Wet tears of defeat
behind greasepaint and fool’s cap,
my alter ego.
Then Wele Khakaba turned and spoke thus
True beauty is everlasting; temporary beauty is dust and is for a time
Thy judgment of beauty is an error
For thy yardsticks are looks, appearances, effects and proportions
Thy verdict of beauty is a mistake and booboo
For thy scale is shapeliness, loveliness of build and belle tournure
Thy conclusion is warped and misrepresented
For thy measure is physical charm, curvaceousness and sexiness
It is earthly delicateness, cuteness and earnestly cunningness
All earthly beauty is human makeups and cosmetics,
They are lip rouge, nail polish, greasepaint, clown white and mascara
True beauty is eternal
True beauty is what Wele Khakaba creates
I create for glory and for beauty that transcends
I do garnish the creation with preciousness
I create and do crown it with royalty
To show the peoples and the princes the essence of beauty
All my creations are fair to look on
Murumwa, one thing thou should have asked of me
That will thou seek after
That ye may dwell in the house of perfect elegance and delight
All the days of thy life
To behold the beauty of the Creator of creators
And to inquire in his sanctuary
Laughter
is not laughter
at all
but beneath
the greasepaint
an upside down
smile.
With skip, screech and flourish
The belfry-housed bats
Flew wildly and garish
Far madder than rats.
Greasepaint teardrops a-flying
In twilight's ascension,
Heart breaking and dying,
Robbed blind of attention.
Coins spun in chance
Flay the crazy, cracked actor,
Maniacal trance
This duality factor.
Submerged below laughter
And painted-on grin
Lies a strip mine hereafter
Of heartache chagrin.
And the payload thus hollowed,
Black manganese ore,
Bullet-bitten and swallowed
And fired at the floor.
These eyes so forlorn
Freezing cackles with doubt,
For no light is in-drawn
And no light is shone out.
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