Long Circus tent Poems
Long Circus tent Poems. Below are the most popular long Circus tent by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Circus tent poems by poem length and keyword.
Indirect interference into interesting iconographic inked inner initiative is not a carefully stepping clam, a carved tree cake nor a dune of a moon. Taking no bistro out for a walk or a cafeteria for a swimming lesson. For galas are won by astronomical gesturing garages who can do a high speed sprint in a pool. And high jumping competitions are competitively won by a zero rated steak sandwich with extra relish and cheese. Well that helps with the balance. Wow. Even eggs, explosive electric eels, erotic earwigs, economic ecliptic eccentric elves, and a fortified frog are capable of racing a tidal wave. Perfect. Pass. Perfect position. A country manor is not maneuvering on a dry day. Dry days deliberate drying dresses. And dance of the nine millimetre worm can be most admired in a pie of a circus tent. Whirling around carrying eighteen batons, a baseball, a silver jacket encrusted with rhino slices, snake shoes, and a tiny earring glowing. Lights that are lit at that moment will ensure a beacon built. And beacons are not big bakers they are brilliant bringers and bombarding battlers. So not a duty seen before in a table spire leg of a nineteen century church with a nice arrangement of flowers and candles. Watch how it moves around in the dining room. Arlington National Bank meeting Arlington castle in a tank ranking above all the little poor people. Nineteen fifty one and three quarters through the year but now overseas known as an overweight quarterback. General-purpose general genes. And the light from a single bin can foresee an evening gown in a long moveable mirror. Mirrors message movements making music movies. Instantaneously it is. How rather remarkable don't you think? And now take a little pixie and have a little dance in a bathroom. Great. Especially when carrying ten loaves of bread, seeded buns, apple cakes and the mucus from a very fat slug is said to be gold in a full moon. So kiss a grass snake and lean on a temple. Forty forms frolicking. Going boing. Wow. Marvellously enchanting is an armpit aroma? Hahaha the glass is staring at nothing today. Hahaha disrupted drainages hahaha left wing right tail light hood bonnet boom. Boot shaped milkshake on a intersection. Xxxxxxx millionaire monsters. Chat cheat. Xxxxx psycholinguistics z Z Z Z Z bang bang bing bongo. ***
Form:
When I was seventeen, they say,
That I was quite a punk,
Living in Las Vegas,
With a lady who was drunk.
Working as a valet,
For a place of ill renown,
When I got a bigger break,
Working as a clown.
Underneath the big top,
I could be myself because,
Nobody recognized me,
For the kind of man I was.
One day, subsequently,
When the crowd was having fun,
Laughing at my clown suit,
And my make-up neatly done.
I stepped outside the circus tent,
For just a quickie break,
When suddenly a UFO,
Appeared for heaven’s sake.
A silver flying saucer landed,
Next to where I stood,
But when the hatch door opened,
Well, I knew it wasn’t good.
A beam of light encased me,
And it drew me to the ship,
I tried my best to get away,
And break the saucer's grip.
Despite my whole resistance,
I was pulled into the hatch,
Resigned to my existence,
In a game of set and match.
Surprisingly, no aliens,
Were anywhere in sight,
And yet, I heard a disco dance,
Resounding in the night.
I followed where the frenzied crowd,
Was dancing to the beat,
But when they saw me as a clown,
They thought I had big feet.
Immediately, I noticed,
That the dancers were female,
As beautiful as sunrise,
Or an evening fairy tale.
They seemed to come on strong to me,
Although I was a clown,
But no one stayed too long with me,
Or came from my hometown.
How difficult the dancing goes,
With great big floppy shoes,
But when the music ended,
I offered to recuse.
These ladies danced me down,
When I never ate my lunch,
And offered me a lullaby,
With Cream of Broccoli punch.
I woke up on a tropical island,
And what a sight to see,
The daughter of a headhunter,
Was slobbering on me.
I loved my island paradise,
The sand, the surf, the sea,
But I had problems, to be sure,
With hospitality.
Next time that you eat broccoli,
Will you pause and let it be?
I'm stranded on this island,
With a native chasing me.
Multiply a horseradish with a jar of mustard and gain what exactly? A pickled onion? A beetroot? It's simply quite fascinating the divination of an oven glove. Materialistic bacon joints in a suit can often jump very high in the air. Above the clouds of course. Naturally. Interesting isn't it? The equilibrium of a soup spoon cannot live in a right angled triangle but a circus tent in a kitchen can be very very entertaining indeed. As the lights from a cup spin in robotic circular rhythms it is then time to prance down a hallway holding a small number of items. And here they are. Twenty-five fish bowls, an arena in a casserole dish, and a lint cloth. But of course one must adorn oneself with a scent of the finest secretion. A nice aroma. Pleasant isn't it? Great. Apple calling knock knock bing bong. And a grinning backward flipping pig says hello to giant birds, horns in a field and a forest, paws with bananas and an igloo based penguin sends smoke signals to seals so don't dance anti clockwise in that dress or you may fall over the tables. A floor brings gratitude to a leaf. And a seed is watered gently to ensure even growth. And now. And then. And often. It is to be ascertained that a curtain pole dancing to electro guitar is very fashionable. Stylish even. Buttons baking breaded boiled baps. Pickled papayas playing polo. Aliens athletically aesthetically aromatically arriving. And a jar of milk sings to the orange juice on the breakfast table. Peruse news then? Pleasing pink whale in a frilly dress and waving to the Coriolanus in a corset. Haha and animalistic anarchy and not only for the sake of the entertainment. But a great holiday in the house. And now sleep. Z z z z z then wake up. Good. A rake in a cottage is akin to a spade in a tea cup. *** multifunctional and multidimensional si go multiply. Pratagonistical Z
Form:
The Alex Joneses among us
As we are coming up to Christmas, which is a feast
for the advertisers, and it is impossible turning
or switching on the radio or TV without getting an earful of sentimental songs flung at morning tired
adults before the first cup of coffee
PS. There was a time when one could write: a cup of coffee and a cigarette, we are glad tobacco is no longer
in our mind and body. Here someone is clearing throats
but find it best not to comment
A right-wing Christian and conspiracy theorist has been
allowed into Tweeter, X, and this has made the official
Press into a knot of outrage.
Elon Musk has done us a service by letting his Twitter be
a place for the burning questions to be aired.
Yes, at the same place where the perfectly awful
vulgarian and bigoted interviewer, Piers Morgan, spews
his opinions, for many who see him as a spokesperson
for despicable lies and shallow thinking
He is tolerated and has many fans among those who do
not reflect upon his utterings.
As for Alex Jones, a famous radio host, who has a theory of so many things and many of his views involve Jews, a group of people who hold American Politicians in a fateful grip of corruption and the weaponizing of
the Holocaust and in its holy name, special privileges
In Europe, Alex Jones is not well known I think he is
seen as an outspoken Billy Graham, a man I once saw
in the late fifties, preaching under a circus tent to
thousands of applauding Norwegians, many of whom thought he looked like Wild West Cowboy.
The good thing about an outlet like Twitter it gives
those with views contrary to the officials have a place
to air their opinions, without being branded a ban
Her spouse wise or unwise, who can tell. Does he dream in midnight hues? Oh why doesn’t he wake up, or at least spit out that last sleeping pill. He might choke on it. The still of the night rattled by the movement of the boundary, like a lion’s hungry stomach. The moon roars creating goosebumps, pricks upon tender white skin. She barely breathes. Did anyone leave snacks inside this circus tent… Please...please...please. Helplessly she lies as the khaki quavers, heart frantic. She’s never thought herself mad, but like in a Poe story, the tell-tale… She imagines the lion with reflective eyes, baring full gums, toying with her...this is no cuddly kitten. Would her full-sandman spouse wake up, wonder where she’d gone, as the kindly sunlight blinded him to the truth. The truth is she would kill him, if only he’d open his eyes. Could she forgive him… At long last, darts race toward the roaming moon...she imagines that ghastly animal tumbling underneath the skirt, landing at her feet, swirling dust, an incomplete thought as the ferocious tongue lolligags onto her bag. Her husband smiles and turns over satisfied as he kisses his dream wife, moaning with pleasure; danger the last thing on his mind, as the hunters drag away the predator whose smell lingers in the morning coffee, the cigarette’s ash, the wife’s nostrils. And all the community can do the next morning is make fun of the snoring gun, the gray-haired spoon, and midnight adventure.
the pile of gumdrops
sparkle like dew for kitty
here kitty...kitty
11/2/2020
Mimes at my Funeral
When my time is done and I am finally laid to rest
I don’t want to be recalled as one who lived life depressed
So as I wrote my will, I chose to leave some instructions
That laughing gas be inhaled by all those at the function
No mournful eulogies will a pastor have to invent
For my funeral will be held under a circus tent
When dozens of clowns emerge from the tiny Volkswagen
Reams of my silly limericks Bozo will be dragin’
And as they’re read aloud, family and friends who knew me best
Will say, “She had a sense of humor, this we can attest.”
Mimes will mimic me trying to write the world’s best novel
As my corpse hangs from the trapeze, surely they will marvel
Laughter will ensue as they shoot me from the cannon
Flying high in my demise across the great Grand Canyon
All the children will smile and there’ll be no tears allowed
So no one will ever remember me as a “dark cloud”
There are people who seem to take life way too seriously
When I meet my Maker, don’t view this as a tragedy
Dad called me his “happy girl,” so let me go out that way
I want to leave them laughing as I reach my judgment day
I chose this poem because it captures the way Aunt Carolyn lives her life. Always the prankster, she adds laughter to all family gatherings. And those “silly limericks” are favorites among family members. We tend to take death too seriously. We can’t do anything about it, so why not live it up here and in the hereafter. I’ll let you know if we find her in the Grand Canyon.
It's already hard enough to say anything accurately
without further obfuscating and camouflaging the soul.
The faces in the funeral pews are impassive, impatient
and the dead woman cares not what's said, isn't even present.
The poet gets innumerable do-overs, it's one of man's wonders,
revises his vision of his mother and plays her piano, posthumously.
Why not say it simply? Hers was a comity and a tragedy.
As are ours. And perform the history that surrounds us.
Are caskets boats? The ship of death rides Charon's waves
or perhaps on that solitary day you happily kayak to the huckleberries.
Is the deeper sadness incomplete achievement or never to have tried?
Any attempt to decide this question for others is to badly behave.
The pablum of Christianity, esp. the Catholics, re the after life
must be rejected. It's necessary. To be replaced by community,
perfection of the human project, nature's intelligent partner.
Dusty, sadly habitable houses along the funeral route, shapeless
people crossing themselves when ambulances or hearses pass.
I wanted to describe the sweetness of her life, how she was part
of the problem and part of the solution. How love and evolution
are passed like loaves from person to person down the generations.
Find the humor in the cholera. When my father died
he waved like a surfer riding a wave or a clown riding
an elephant out the circus tent. Mom follows the same law.
The many ways a spear can pierce a warrior's jawbone or armor.
Of cotton candy and candy apple’s crunch
I remember the circus tent and dusk
The smells of donkeys and elephant dung
And heady smells of smoke that hung
In the air almost suspended
Up in the air trapezists flew
Catch and grab as we sat with gasp
Trumpets blared and clowns blew hooters
At the man that was shot from a cannon
The man with the red jacket boomed and joked
As bored fathers sat and smoked
Our eyes were wide with wonder
At the horses run and elephant’s thunder
The thrill and glee of young blood pumping
Through our young veins as dogs were jumping
And the smells and tastes and colours merged
Into memories and dreams and golden moments
As we sit and reminisce, wondering why the past was bliss
Whilst the now was dry and dusty, crusty with rigid thoughts
What we lost was more than the circus
What we lost was our sense of wonder
As the age trampled us with its relentless thunder
As we stuck our head’s in life’s lion’s mouth
Our sense of fun just slipped away
Like the circus tent was packed away
And the site is empty now, silent and cold
Even the elephant dung is dried and old
But all is not lost, all is not gone, ride after the circus, find the tent
Find the wonder in candy canes bent
Find the life and the love and the smells
Find the children with their gasps and their yells
As they live on in wonder, jumping to cannon shot’s thunder
Shouting at clowns and clapping for dogs
In awe and wonder
Daniel Human
21 September 2014
Updraft lifts limbs, leaves scurry like mice exposed
Mother Nature shakes shorebreak, incline imposed
Gnaws at sand buried tree toes gnarled, spit polished
Hourglass chamber sugar dwindle, dunes demolished
Churning chant casts a melancholy spell, people powerless
Moan of manic Manager’s anger depicts dreary dourness
Man on the Moon cheese puff cheeks chew mushy monsoon
Rain runs through town, to be trapped by typhoon
Form of parading peacock, pigment stripped, fan feathers vibrate
Look - at - Me Leuca’s lazy turns spur first hurl of weather irate
Fancy fowl foxtrot gathers gusts in her skirt skitter spin
White witch whips wind, water waltz whirls, wild chagrin
Hummingbird hurricane hovers over ocean, dizzily dragged to occult
Sect stretches elastic strap string - tied to tornado’s tumult
Brash as a bastard coconut afloat on Baltic Sea, bashes calm ground
Leuca retracts tail regal, regrettably her force flung coast bound
Cranky current circus tent cyclone, lions leap out of hoops
Lost roof iron roams rogue across roads while Princess Leuca loops
Serene above storm, she surveys scatter, stricken war worn love lorn
Tree tremors drip torrid toll, feet attach fresh turf, in readiness reborn
12th March
Thankfully only a tropical low
hit coast of Oz
suddenly from somewhere, a street urchin
an untamed bird of the wider sky
dropped down into the circus tent.
before him unfurled, scenes eerie, awesome!
soaring lions and tigers, gibbering baboons,
caravans of camels, animal tamers and acrobats,
artists balancing on poles,
swinging from bars to trapeziums,
pliant girls with plastic limbs and pouting breasts,
walking on tightropes.
a strange world with beasts and men!
his face painted white.
in motley dress, he was arrayed,
and a tall tapering cap placed
on his forcibly tonsured head.
he hardly knew what it all meant.
he heard the bells ringing
and it was time for the show.
he was told; he would henceforth be a clown
and should make people laugh.
* * * *
a thousand sunsets passed him by.
he forgot the familiar alleys of the streets.
lost sight of the endless pathways of the sky.
lost in a world,
so populous- so empty.
he buried him, in the hidden caverns of himself,
nursing a hundred bruises
inflicted by Time’s sharp razors.
a stranger to himself.
at times, tears long held back,
would trickle down, moistening his pillow
as he lay listening to the inner ravings of his heart.
often, he was reminded-
‘you should make others laugh’
he did make people laugh
while a fountain of tears still lay frozen,
in the slivers of his broken heart.