Short Clown Around Poems

Many write poetry with the hope that their work will be profound.
I write poetry mostly to occasionally clown around....

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we do this
 the sand fix
we walk up and down
and clown around
run and hoof
and talk an balk
the 
BARE FOOT BEACH WALK...

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we when on town
began to clown around
ran is to a cop
told us to stop
we refuse and got bop
than under a lock
well w you seel
to talk our way out this
we fail
so we had to make
BAIL...

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Picture a man's hooha on a billboard downtown
Ladies would be late, spill coffee on their gowns
With their mouths all agape
Their makeup in bad shape
Those ad boys sure know how to clown around...

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What, I cannot say,
A feeling something's wonkey.
Like mucking muddy sand at the bottom of the ocean,
Beneath acrobatic, trapeze artist monkeys.
What can be said,
About the snorkeling tigers?
Or the underwater chainsaw juggler,
Breathing fire?
There's a soggy clown around somewhere,
Spitting spades and hearts, and clovers.
It's a three-ringed circus sideshow - 
It too, will soon be over....

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I fly through the smoky air 
then I poke a big brown bear 
I balance on a tight rope 
and I slide down a steep slope 

I eat a ball of fire 
and I do things to admire 
I clown around and juggle 
but with sharp knives I struggle 

the things around me do break 
but only when I’m awake! 
my audience stops to stare 
at the straight jacket I wear 

bars in my window number 
I count till pills bring slumber...

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Body dreamer
Of a mirror image
Distorted-
Even the flat ones
Clown around
Food turns more than
The stomach
Upside down
No one else
Sees
The way we blow up
Like balloons
And twist ourselves
Into stranger things
Worse for wear-
Body dreamer
Of a mirror image
Contorted
I’m sure there’s a pill
To make me feel
Like I’m on stilts
High above the crowd
Where the air is cleaner
The view is sweeter
And maybe I can see myself
A little clearer
Than in the mirror...

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You are our parents' only son,
three sisters grew
and gave you guff;
you stood alone on constant guard,
in teasing vein and comic mien.

I am the sibling next in line—
the cagey one—
a boomerang who fed it back,
if you began to clown around
and play the fool.

We are astute and wiser still
than number three;
her stiff chagrin,
her will to win,
enhanced your fun.

But sometimes love allays the fume,
as baby four
supplied the balm,
restored accord,
inside our home....

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