"acrobats" poems
Upon the cardamom hills, mountain goats,
ace acrobats, above the high rocks gaily prance,
I fell in love with the coy mountain mist, silvery dense
transforming each second, her wizardry in display,
her white cloak was spread above green tea gardens.
she sprung down in a hurry to meet me, excited
how soothing is her soft caresses, impassioned kiss
from the does she has learned a lot I can very well gather,
the fear and the flight to keep danger at arm's length,
purple sun, was curiously peeping down from the hills,
mountain mist pulling spicy cardamom scent around her
whispered to me, "Don't tell any one I am here
before cruel sun chases me out of the hills, let me
hide and play with the little ones of mountain goats
in the cardamom valley where he can never reach"
Jul 6, 2014
Jul 6, 2014 at 8:58 AM UTC
The mirrors are now flush with a fog,
the air grows hot from the bodies
that move about the mat like acrobats,
swimming through the guards and grips
of their opponents’ limbs
as I sit back and admire
another training session
at the monster gym.
Sometimes I think, not too often
(but occasionally) and I wonder
where would I be if I had not been here-
for the last two and half years of my life?
What kind of person would I be
had I not met all these different personalities
who have wandered in and out those doors
both day and night?
For some this place is an escape
but for me it’s become a way of life.
Dec 19, 2016
Dec 19, 2016 at 5:53 PM UTC
me? these days?
i have to bribe bonsai tigers
to fall asleep by giving them
excess treats,
drink myself to a limit
and then take insomnia tablets,
glance at the stars
and gag up a bolshevik black hole,
think about russian
newly-wed millionaires
spending so mcuh the taxes go up,
testifying: well when the full circus
with elephants and missing acrobats
comes... and there's no french revolution
versace... we're in bigger crap
we thought we were...
so i took to peddling, keeping heart
rate with feeling rather than
a heart-rate keeper on the wrist known
as apple / iWank...
you'll never believe the amount
of creativity that comes from Onan...
it's like that story of onan and samson
like it's that story of cain and abel...
you'd have to be a mozart to find a creative
continuum in women rather than
beethoven in the hive of being deaf...
say rich and thus say spend...
say poor and thus say like a primate
with two flint stones... what the hell is this?!
japanese crow reduced their beak for
nut crushing purposes into a car tire.
FIRE! FIRE! PROMETHEUS!
so came the world favouring thought
from prometheus' liver
when in diaper-shelter postman pat delivery
by a stork... but each of us that got the slit
of liver never claimed origins in the apple
adam ******* out when eve forgot
that satan's singularity was expressed in
a pluralism: eat this apple, depilate,
and you and adam will be like the gods...
but then the metrosexual emerged
with shaved legs and a shaved chest...
down the drain that dream went:
as long as you eat the apple and know
you have hairy legs... i'm sure whatever you
say he will be ordained with pleasure to perform...
eve - i need a hammer
adam - here babe
eve - i need a nail
adam - here babe
eve - i need five planks of wood, four legs one like an abdomen
adam - here babe
eve - mash it up
adam - hey babe, what's that?
eve - a ****** table, tapestry for porcelain!
adam - woah! that's great!
eve to god - this adam is a ****** robot!
satan to eve - well... get ready for ******
Dec 17, 2015
Dec 17, 2015 at 8:48 PM UTC
Once there was a carnival.
It was exuberant and joyful,
With elephants and lions befriending the penguins and sea otters,
And little fairy-like acrobats leaping and zooming across tightropes,
As if they were walking on solid ground.
There was a faint smell of funnel cake and cotton candy and popcorn,
And the sound of people chatting animatedly about,
"Wasn't that act precious" or "oh, darling, look at that penguin! Isn't he cute?"
And then I got a little older.
And the carnival was still joyful, but something had changed.
The carnival had this joyful facade but it was hiding a darker exterior.
The elephants and lions were growing old, and the ringmaster,
Displeased with their best efforts,
Had started to hurt them.
The fairy-like acrobats had gotten injured over the years,
And wobbled a little bit here and there, with hints of hesitation
Perspiring on their foreheads.
The funnel cake and cotton candy and popcorn smell lingered still,
But it was almost as if people had grown tired of the taste,
And in the heat of the summer day,
The food had started to grow stale.
And then I got old.
The carnival had closed now.
Overgrown with weeds,
Stalls and tents covered in graffiti and muck,
It was now a gathering spot for children to make believe,
That they were the fairy acrobats who had once been so agile and captivating,
Or the animals that had struck terror and awe into toddler's hearts.
The carnival was gone,
but the children would run home to their grandmas and grandpas,
and they would tell them the story of how the lion was this close to biting off their nose,
and how one time the acrobat honestly did a front flip from a horse on to a bear onto a lion, and they were honest to God telling the absolute truth no matter what their spouse would say in the room next door.
The carnival was gone, but the stories would go on in a bittersweet never ending circle of intrigue and mystery and magic.
Mar 27, 2017
Mar 27, 2017 at 1:22 AM UTC
Spalshes of blue
Bursts of pink
Dapplings of red
The smell of the ocean
The taste of ice cream
A song that makes me smile
I'm singing
I'm dancing
I'm falling
I'm running
I'm swimming
Its the Renaissance
Tumbleweeds blow by
It's Christmas
It's July
I'm happy
I'm content
I'm scared
I'm laughing
Then he's there
Holding me
Devouring me
Setting me on fire with his passionate kiss
Sometimes he's an actor
Sometimes he's a fireman or a soldier
Other times he's a knight, a lawyer, an architect or race car driver
And, he's always mine
He's tall
He's short
He's fit
He's stout
Tonight he has no face
But I remember his smile
I know his voice
We go surfing
It's bright out
The sun is warm
I'm on horseback
I'm driving a fast car
My friends are laughing
They are dancing
They are acrobats
We are at a party
We ice skate
We fight
There's an explosion
It's bright.......bright.......bright
My eyes have opened
I am awake.....or am I?
Everything here is smeared in hues of gray and blotches of black
I laugh and it doesn't sound real
I don't dance
I don't sing
I don't swim
And he's not here
I can barely capture his voice
I vaguely remember his smile
There is no great adventure
There is no great love
Is this real?
Or is this plain version of life the dream?
I am nothing here
I am no one here
I look at the clock longing to go home
Longing for my life
Longing to wake up from this terrible dream filled with gray
I want to return to my splashes of blue
His smile
And the warmth of a new adventure
I long for life
Oct 7, 2012
Oct 7, 2012 at 9:08 PM UTC
oh, san juans, your riches beckon
your wealth, your beauty calls
your waveless, salty waters blue
my heart since childhood draws
your waters lap at darkened rock
'round islands, bays and inlets fill
with returning salmon teeming
your breaking waters thrill
your tide, oh ever river changing
charges muddy oyster flats
your thriving pods of orca leap
o'er spray in mid-air acrobats
from seabed swift, cold and deep
the lushness of your green hills rise
your sun falls fleet like shooting star
your sparkling waters mesmerize
sailing craft from ’neath horizon
angels spread their wings of color
skirt your shoals and ply your straits
find safety anchored in your harbors
oh, san juans, your wonder waits
your treasure and your magic calls
your waveless, crystal waters blue
my heart since youth still draws
calls me to return each year
to dip my paddle deep
when life averts the journey there
in dreams you beckon while i sleep
Oct 14, 2013
Oct 14, 2013 at 2:22 AM UTC
Mungojerrie and Rumpelteazer were a very notorious couple
of cats.
As knockabout clown, quick-change comedians, tight-rope
walkers and acrobats
They had extensive reputation. They made their home in
Victoria Grove—
That was merely their centre of operation, for they were
incurably given to rove.
They were very well know in Cornwall Gardens, in Launceston
Place and in Kensington Square—
They had really a little more reputation than a couple of
cats can very well bear.
If the area window was found ajar
And the basement looked like a field of war,
If a tile or two came loose on the roof,
Which presently ceased to be waterproof,
If the drawers were pulled out from the bedroom chests,
And you couldn’t find one of your winter vests,
Or after supper one of the girls
Suddenly missed her Woolworth pearls:
Then the family would say: “It’s that horrible cat!
It was Mungojerrie—or Rumpelteazer!”— And most of the time
they left it at that.
Mungojerrie and Rumpelteazer had a very unusual gift of the
gab.
They were highly efficient cat-burglars as well, and
remarkably smart at smash-and-grab.
They made their home in Victoria Grove. They had no regular
occupation.
They were plausible fellows, and liked to engage a friendly
policeman in conversation.
When the family assembled for Sunday dinner,
With their minds made up that they wouldn’t get thinner
On Argentine joint, potatoes and greens,
And the cook would appear from behind the scenes
And say in a voice that was broken with sorrow:
“I’m afraid you must wait and have dinner tomorrow!
For the joint has gone from the oven-like that!”
Then the family would say: “It’s that horrible cat!
It was Mungojerrie—or Rumpelteazer!”— And most of the time
they left it at that.
Mungojerrie and Rumpelteazer had a wonderful way of working
together.
And some of the time you would say it was luck, and some of
the time you would say it was weather.
They would go through the house like a hurricane, and no sober
person could take his oath
Was it Mungojerrie—or Rumpelteazer? or could you have sworn
that it mightn’t be both?
And when you heard a dining-room smash
Or up from the pantry there came a loud crash
Or down from the library came a loud ping
From a vase which was commonly said to be Ming—
Then the family would say: “Now which was which cat?
It was Mungojerrie! AND Rumpelteazer!”— And there’s nothing
at all to be done about that!
2.8k
This Morning
I woke this morning to a beautiful dawn, the dew wet grass shining in the already bright sun
The Lady has blessed me once more
My tumblers run and dart, spin and frolic my private acrobats
Soft sweet calls and ankle swarms and my large cattle dog gently but with insistence herding me into the kitchen and my duties,
My Eastern altar is glowing with the suns rising
and wrapped 'round with the grasses and flowers of summer
Incense rises and the candle flickers as I ask for Her protection for these... my wandering one's today
The kettle's boiled and the day's tea is made and blessed and seven dishes filled and emptied.
The sun fully risen now and the house stirs family sounds as heavy steps wander above and radio plays softly
Round me now still piles of soft satin slick fur breathing soft and deep
noses all counted and accounted for
bellies rubbed and ears all tickled
7 foreheads softly touched and charmed
and all are safe and sound this day in our Lady's care.
I wander the garden now caressing those blooms that require some extra essence,
All that's needed is water and sun and love
through each touch comes life and will and care and thus the wheel turns and the garden thrives
Lilac, Lily and Rose and Ivy abounds and the garden thrives
I walk now from the front to the back door carefully sweeping
my chants softly sung
and the smudge bundle of sage and roses lit and smoking
salt scattered and swept and once more my small realm is safe
My Lady guard this house and all who dwell and those who would stay
I trust my most valued Companions are in your keeping
My Family My life are in your keeping.
I celebrate my life withing your Circle and my Joy within your keeping
All of this and things unspoken Joy and Light and Love
My Lady, Bless me.
Solita -2007
Apr 16, 2010
Apr 16, 2010 at 8:09 PM UTC
In every moon there is a man
And in every man there is a heart inside of which lives a woman
Who doesn't clean
Who doesn't cook
Who doesn't serve him
Only lives within the walls of his heart
And within every woman living in a man's heart
There is a desire to be free
It is not odd to imagine her leaving
Merely odd to see her go
Riding on the back of an elephant
In high heels
With a bottle of Chateau de Michelle
And weilding the sword of a swallowing minstrel
Drunkenly yelling songs of a time in which she never lived
And that will never leave a man
Whether the next woman comes in riding a golden chariot pulled by blazing reindeer
Or mounted on a shark wearing a cocktail dress
And while he laments her going
She regrets her ever having left
So she turns around
Looks into the vast nothing behind her
Trampled under the weight of the elephant
Cut down by her drunken fit of rage
Burned and eaten by the coming and going of others
And she sees
That beyond the husk of the home she once knew
Lay merely arteries and valves
And no soft place to lay her head
So she dismounts her companion
Lays down her sword
Crashes the bottle upon the rocks
Tears the heels from her shoes
And limps into the desert
Looking for that which she had already found
While he lie
Filling the emptiness of his ravaged heart
With the tender touch of fleeting acrobats
Dec 7, 2012
Dec 7, 2012 at 4:56 AM UTC
i never pegged you for someone
swept up by razzle dazzle,
infatuated with muscle men,
acrobats, and stars.
your view on animal rights,
seemingly discarded,
for an elephant's tricks,
the lion tamer's whip,
the tent apparently blocking out
harsh judging light.
i viewed you as critical,
skeptical of spectacle,
squinting unsure,
behind those black wayfarers,
the image constructed in my mind,
supported by that vintage dress,
the style of your hair,
the music you listened to
on the car ride over,
how can you be satisfied
with this carnival fare?
frivolous displays favoured
over subtle gestures,
superficial appearances favoured
over chemistry,
hollow showman dialogue
echoing over loudspeakers
favoured over a conversation,
perhaps i'm a hypocrite,
your attributes simply skewed,
by my being swept up in the
razzle dazzle spectacle
of you.
(i'll be in the hall of mirrors)
Oct 13, 2011
Oct 13, 2011 at 1:38 AM UTC
The pace isn't the same,
I don't know how to do the dance.
It doesn't feel right.
The two of us connected,
like Twizzlers...
waiting to be pulled apart.
Melded together if by accident,
but ill fitting all the same.
I don't like this hold...
counting the seconds until it's over.
I miss his imprint.
I miss his acrobats.
I miss the shape of our twisted bodies,
a smattering of arms and legs like Krishna.
I want to petrify it,
keep it always how it was.
For my records, of course....
just to compare.
The science is behind it.
My own personal form of chemistry.
Jan 5, 2014
Jan 5, 2014 at 10:27 PM UTC
as lonely as the autumn wind
sighing, full of leaves,
china skies of powder-blue,
the day is filled with golden light,
the round sun hanging lower
its soft edges acrobats of cloud.
Oct 24, 2015
Oct 24, 2015 at 11:32 AM UTC
BULL FIGHTING
(WITH A CLASSICAL TOUCH)
* By Raj Nandy*
(I)
The Minoan Civilization of ancient Greece,
Was well centered in the Aegean island of Crete;
And around 1600 BC this civilization had peaked!
Seeing their frescoes, and paintings on potteries
and vase,
Scholars concluded that ‘bull-jumping’ was
perfected as a gallant art!
Those jumpers grabbed the bull’s horns, -
And receiving momentum from its violent
head-jerk,
Vaulted over its back in a somersault,
To land on both feet to break their fall!
I was spell bound by Minoans courage and agility,
Their acrobatic feats performed with such
dexterity!
Those bulls were not killed and no blood was shed,
Some acrobats might have been injured instead!
What a shame for our bull fighters of date!
(II)
Today bull fighting has become a popular sport,
Where the bull gets slaughtered amidst loud applaud!
I recall those Roman amphitheaters that remained
jam-packed,
When the Gladiators performed their fatal acts!
But even those Gladiators had a chance to survive,
Our cornered bull has no place to hide!
Friends, to see blood is an age old thrill,
But none would like to see their own blood spilled!
(III)
Our Matador today is like a popular Rock Star,
While the bull becomes a martyr in the pit by far!
The bull’s mighty horns are sharp and strong,
Can lift up a man like a rag doll!
But when the Picador lances the bull’s ****
The bull never gets a fair deal and jumps!
Next the Matador waves his ‘muleta’- a red cape,
The bull makes a final charge but cannot escape!
I wonder if the bull sees red!?
The Matador then amidst much pomp and applaud,
Spikes the neck severing the bull’s spinal cord!
He is greeted by flowers and cheers of ‘Ole’! ‘Ole’!
Let us learn from those Ancient Minoans, -
That's all I have got to say!
- by Raj Nandy
Oct 12, 2014
Oct 12, 2014 at 9:28 AM UTC
Dear Mister Splee, I have a story for thee.
A man of humble attire, went fo’ a walk on a dull wire.
Skilled he kept balance, with nothing but a lance.
With a great long stride, he made it to the other side.
Back he went from one side to the other,
he grabbed nineteen polar bears and a ladder.
He carried them across just for fun.
Amazingly it was all at once not one by one.
The whole audience,awed with just a glance,
While monkeys surrounded and began to dance.
He dropped the ladder down, until it reached ground.
And the monkeys climbed up, pouring tea in a cup.
The polar bears climbed down with elegant ease.
I swear one of them sneezed.
But skilled he kept them balance, with nothing but a lance.
The acrobats were on the trapeze, they looked humbly appeased.
Thirty elephants all whiny and giddy.
Climbed the ladder all silly nilly.
Rhinos and Tigers performed ballet.
I hope you might get to see their performance someday.
The monkeys now on tightrope now hung,
By their tails they now flung.
The humble man on tightrope did sat,
collecting the teacups into his hat.
The elephants dove from the top,
into a pool, splish, splish, splop! splop!
O how I wish fo’ you to see the Tigers dancing.
O how I wish fo’ you to see the Rhinos prancing.
A lion or two just fo’ show,
Jump through hoops caught on fire
And a smile caught my eye from the man on the wire
He jump off, down the ladder.
He walked up to me, with glee
and told me to “tell this to Mister Splee:
Come visit me O’ Mister Splee
This circus was designed just for ye”
I told Mister Splee
And a tear rolled down his cheek
Sadder than he could be
He said: “That circus has long since been dead.”
Nov 2, 2012
Nov 2, 2012 at 10:44 AM UTC
i must be some sort of permanently exhausted pigeon;
claws clinging to the telephone wire
drearily blinking my way through
the morning meeting of the aerial acrobatic society.
i am a seagull swarmed
amongst the chirpy conjecture
of these early birds;
and my soul caws an honesty,
a wail, a howl, the truth.
i am a tainted swan
grittily paddling myself through the marsh
we call this world,
a lone observer of the acrobats,
the stickiness of my feet keeping me
flightless.
and you are a swallow;
redbull wings migrate you to warmer climates.
you hear the seagulls
but listen to the pigeons.
you notice the swan
but her murky shallows are too icy
for your liking.
and you are a chicken;
blind beyond your own free-range vicinity.
you catch the pigeons as jet planes,
and the seagull's whisper is alien.
you don't know miss swan.
Nov 24, 2016
Nov 24, 2016 at 8:02 AM UTC
The fleeing clouds have cleansed the tawny earthen meadows
Migrating sun doth steal away waning light of summer’s glee
High atop fir boughs bow in wind whispered homage
To the sapience the coloured leaves hath gleaned
The sweet scent of auburn brindled pinecone clusters
Ooze of glistening pitchy resinous fruit
Sticky figured squirrels chatter while they gather,
Stashing a survival cache of acorns and spinner seeds,
For another moment in sleepy winter tide dreams
A swirling eddy of spiraling leaves whirl beneath the tall timber
Fluttering gracefully with a gravity only falling leaves embolden
Enchanting like the evanescent timbre poignant piano notes decay
Writhing silent as summer Jasmine’s fragrant final bloom
Dandelion wishes soaring higher to kiss the fleeting winged skies
Lazily adrift up and over Cascade Mountain Crest
Fuzzy treetop flyers ascending far beyond darting dragonflies below
The sliver of golden harvest moon’s blossom aglow ,…
While wishing upon a shooting star's paling gleams
Serendipity sown about whimsically in the blustery wind
For to sow the will of untamed heart’s desires
A festive troop of Chickadees clinging like tiny acrobats
Foraging on ripened ginger hued fir-cone seeds
Wings to the sky wave goodbye to the deciduous cadence
Softly wafting with a pungent Lavender potion scented breeze
There is a secret place where memories go to hide deeply alive
Amongst the wild wood and impending leafless trees,
The only place on earth I've ever understood a sense of belonging
Where Autumn coloured leaves whisper in the gentle breeze ,…
“I would do it all over again”
Come September ,..when the leaves come falling down
© ... September 15th, 2016
Sep 28, 2017
Sep 28, 2017 at 10:47 AM UTC
The Circus gongs excite the Throngs in nighttime Never Land –
They swarm to see the destiny of Freaks at their command,
While Acrobats step pitapat above the shifting sands
And Lady Fat sits down to chat and oozes charm unplanned.
The Dwarfs in suits, so small and cute when marching with the Band,
Ask crimson Clowns with frozen frowns, to hold a mutant hand,
While Tamers’ whips with withered tips, throughout the winter land,
Lure Cats entranced through hoops enhanced with flames of fires fanned.
White Elephants in big-top tents boast black-tusk contraband
To regiments of Sycophants who overflow the stands,
But No One sees anomalies, and No One understands.
At night’s demise, the dither dies, the lonesome Crowd disbands,
Down dead-end streets the Horde retreats, their tattered rags in strands,
And Janes and Joes reweave their woes, for thoughts of change are banned.
To play a part in Three-Ring Art, I thought I’d try my hand –
I mastered skills, I felt the thrills, I breathed and seethed firsthand –
But destiny denied to me to taste a lifetime spanned
With tightrope walks and trapeze chalks ... excepting second-hand...
For alcohol provoked a fall, as if a reprimand,
And now, a heap, I sometimes keep the ticket office manned...
Mar 14, 2013
Mar 14, 2013 at 10:57 AM UTC
budgie soft feathered
yellow green plume
when with him together
goes fog of gloom.
dance he prances joyous
with enchanting grace
when his feathers brush
it's only happiness.
his sweetly gaily spin
crazy acrobats
sparks a light within
moves hands in claps.
on fingers loves to roost
his nails softly *****
gives my spirit boost
cloud disperses quick.
snuggles up to me
heart he easy wins
my dolly jolly budgie
I fondly call him Prince.
May 4, 2015
May 4, 2015 at 12:13 PM UTC
We ache so much,
Our hearts look like paper snowflakes,
Worn as badges on our sleeves,
They scream—
We are still beating.
You've got a laugh like a helium balloon filled with too much air;
I've got a smile made out of paper mâché.
We walk a tightrope just to meet in the middle.
We're not acrobats,
But we want to believe that
Falling together is better than standing on solid ground alone.
You promised you'd hold me until the lights went out,
But sweetheart, it's been dark for so long,
We've created our own spark,
From the warmth of our breath
And the steady rise and fall of our chests as one.
We may break each other's hearts,
But we stay and pick up the pieces,
And though we have cracks,
We'll fill them with gold—
I swear, they'll write about us one day,
Long after we've forgotten
The wind rattling the glass,
The kettle boiling over.
Sep 15, 2015
Sep 15, 2015 at 10:59 PM UTC
The horses and dancers, the acrobats too.
The ringmaster and all the beasts in the zoo.
At the end of the show, received huge adulation.
With thunderous cheers and a standing ovation.
But the funny men with baggy pants and large shoes
Got a different reaction, thrown fruit and loud boo’s.
Well their smiles turned to rage and confused irritation
As they stood there and suffered the crowds indignation.
They ripped off their noses and popped their balloons,
No more will with they play for these mindless buffoons.
So they piled into their car and it’s needless to say,
As they drove off, the clowns were quite angry that day
Jan 31, 2021
Jan 31, 2021 at 3:27 PM UTC
To the wicked widow that ***** the life out of her mate
To the tiny little fellow that crawls through my window and greets me with a goodnight kiss
To the brown girl with long legs that's sitting in my driveway
To the acrobats and the practical jokers
To the boy I saw at midnight looking for food in my kitchen
To the beautiful yellow girl who I used to see hovering over my swing set when I was a child
To the fast runners, the trappers, and the waiters
To the dangerous, and the harmless
To all the tricksters in the world
*I ******* hate you.*
Jun 1, 2015
Jun 1, 2015 at 3:53 PM UTC
I'd like to live within you, the objective world working in tandem with the human imagination, the intersectionality is humor, sparking lust and color and ****** violent and **** salty and stimulating.
you're excessive bounty of lies, that which when worked into a fabric create an obscure fact, manipulate the memory and all the sudden the image is juxtaposed with the perception, then they lay on top of one another, creating a illusion so powerful that fact flies out the window, to claim evidence is foolish, for the scenarios flip within themselves as actors change disguises, as acrobats practice their summersaults, as discs spin in the video game set
to wish for a reality so vast, that an open field connecting the ocean to the city is but a comparison grounded by gravity, whereas your portals know no bounds, you give the people a voice and yet the voice is anonymous, therefore the individual becomes collective, therefore the money blends as the ideas blend as kisses blend at a masquerade, fueled by the promise of donation and champagne
Terror, hate, giving way to curiosity
Feb 22, 2017
Feb 22, 2017 at 8:46 PM UTC
I remember when the circus first came to town,
The village people eagerly came to see from all around.
Every wild animal on wheels was caged in tow, followed by colorful clad characters on foot sure to give a spectacular show.
I remember when I first entered beneath the great big tent and caught the grand act of the peculiar pink elephant.
Get Your Peanuts, Popcorn, and Hot Dogs Here! The Concessionaire yells in a hearty cheer.
The taste of cotton candy, the sounds, smells and the sights,
Above me a man balances on a tight rope from a view of an incredible height.
For the kids, clowns twist and shaped balloons in all odd kind of forms,
And stuffed themselves in a tiny car with a toot, toot of a funny sounding horn.
The feathered ladies on horseback perform daring acrobatic stunts, as in place the horses prance and dance in a parade of extraordinary pomp.
All eyes are on the lion tamer in his tails and fancy top hat twirling a chair and cracking a whip at the growl of the big man eating cat.
Tigers jumped through flaming hoops, as human cannonballs towards the sky their bodies shoot.
Little doggies do flips for their treats as acrobats fly through the air performing death defying feats,
Or what could be more delightful to see than a bear riding a unicycle or perhaps even three?
Finally, comes the grand finale, then soon it is time to go home, the tents have been folded the rides have been loaded the performers and the animals have all gone.
On their parents strong shoulder kids are carried off in their sleep with sweet dreams of, fun rides and toy prizes, and candy apple treats.
Ferris wheels and merry go rounds, the bearded fat lady weighing a hundred pounds.
I remember a girl on a wire, the boy that spits fire a man with his head in the jaws of a tiger.
Reminiscing of the time when the circus first came to town
And the village people eagerly came to see from all around.
Aug 5, 2013
Aug 5, 2013 at 8:26 AM UTC
they forgot... i said: i feel sedated... i don’t feel drunk, i feel sedated... but there’s you with a horse’s head telling me otherwise... high on ketamine.
as expected,
the local highstreet is changing,
a new shop opened, a café,
serving all day breakfast,
and it donned the union jack proudly on a pole,
made me think about marching to war for a bit,
but then i walked past the local estate agent,
and, guess what,
it actually allowed the travelling circus’ posters to hang
on its windows next to unaffordable housing...
(usually these posters are reserved for dilapidated buildings,
you know how people, when it comes to gypsies with make-up
acrobats and elephants)
well... unaffordable... unless you’re a sheikh or
a rich scamming nigerian;
now that’s lucky for a giggle... a union jack above
the café door and circus posters in the estate agents... ha;
it’s like i’m watching the third partition of poland,
although here it’s not the habsburgs prussians and the romanovs
but the jazz singer blackface clowns, the regular clowns... and the mimes.
Oct 19, 2015
Oct 19, 2015 at 9:54 AM UTC