"carney" poems
How do you swindle the light?
This would be the greatest grift.
An ongoing experimental conn
where we all remember,
who the mark(s) is,
pretending, just in case,
behind the curtain,
sleight of hand,
behind the back,
if there is no wizard in the back seat,
just in case...you'll tell the kids:
'it was all for them.' So they could sleep.
Childhoods are just safe houses for hope.
In play roles come easy,
in assortments, and unpackages, separate;
but everyone knows the rules,
their part, they remember
that fairness is sacred to play.
Some games get played
and some gamers’ play is accidental.
The game like the carnival is vacuous,
inhaling all into its eye,
exhaling into its calm, swindles like a carney,
jettisoning all into the extinction of gratification.
The mystery lies in the conspiracy.
System can beat game, house, odds,
conn the conn and you can go home a winner.
The Universe is a big casino, you see.
And all you have to do is get up from the table,
cash in your chips, and figure out where your car is.
The house always wins, you’ll say.
But therein lies the reason we play.
Which you're sure to figure out in the lot,
cramped delineations garner thought,
you'll realize that therein lies nowhere.
The conspiracy lies in the abyss,
A place where villagers lose their cattle,
Costumed & uniformed, singing gray prayers.
Crop circles are diasporic clusters of hope.
Where science fiction invented the cold war,
Between ghosts created by radio waves.
A mass hallucination produced by trauma?
Dellusion v. Illusion
Nurturist v. Naturist v. Projection,
As long as it’s a weapon!
Destination unknown-
But just in case, let’s create something that can destroy us all.
Oct 4, 2012
Oct 4, 2012 at 1:27 AM UTC
the drama in a ****** of crows
the clueless jive of the chickadee
the serious expression of the phoebe
hide and seek flickers
overly dramatic plovers
sleek kestrels, scanning the meadow
gulls always headed somewhere
the mystery of owls
robins, Art Carney-like
nuthatches that waddle through the air
an advertisement of goldfinches
vile, surly winged jays
waxwings, safe within their clique
ospreys, fat on minnows
snapshot herons always posing
patient vultures, ever on call
the perfect beasts to rule this world
they reveal personalities
to this lifetime observer
Feb 24, 2013
Feb 24, 2013 at 10:07 AM UTC
Eleanor P. Carney sat with her legs folded,
Casually reading a catalogue
As she waited. Her mind drifted
Effortlessly away from Joe until:
"Come this way" said a voice dimmed,
In light of the current situation.
The click of Ellie's t-strap heels
Turned the heads of many
Beauty parlor goers, as she
Was lead to a back door.
A *** of boiling water hosted
Sharp things for slaughter.
"Now, I have to ask,
On account of virtue,
Do you really want to do this?"
The beauty practitioner who
Practiced more than beauty, stood in
The corner, tying an apron
around her thin waist.
Eleanor P. Carney shook her head,
And sat down on the
Cold counter knowing that
She would not regret this.
Ruth L. ****** struggled everyday
To find new ways to disgust herself,
But the lack Ms.Carney's
Shame and guilt would
Do just fine for today.
Feb 17, 2013
Feb 17, 2013 at 5:57 PM UTC
Poet daubed the corporal on the wings of carney
Wanderer dilettante soul lusted au wild routes
Counted each the millimiles covered
Upside , unstrained , Unflaggingly.
Yon the valleys , epitome meadows and Hillsides
Beated around the alcoves amok
Ridges passed the marooned trails
Agape the flinged self flew spirited madrigals
Slowly rooted the tints into wilderness
True entity got superimposed to sylvan instincts
The obsolute shadow rigged the shooner
By dimension lengthier the time but shorter by grace
Grazed through and some toxic airs exhaled then pulled
Blinked all the roof to rugs
Remembrance of concrete boxes and intimate sidekicks
Cheap conflict wins to hit the ring
If body wins wanderlust looses thereby path ends
Simultaneous call by consciousness and objection by eternal shadow
Only the body grazed the maps with pointers
Though insatiably leveed
Kept retention the coursing shadow
Yet remained damp , savaged the sylvan traits
Life was near but the abstainer failed
Wilderness abysm rejected the unfortunate physique
There appeared
Scorched canopies along wilted flora
Container flogged the shadow to a stultifying death
Physique deceived self the core truth
Existence thereafter without knowing the chance with eterna
Several followed the imperishable conflict trail
Roll of honour diminished by fourth dimension
Marked victories of featherbrains over pappus chambers
Only few sticked upto xanthic flowers
Raise up , were the victories thristled down?
Many knocked and still keep on knocking incarnations
Fine array of fossilized saturnine inhibitions
Callous attritions over altruism of succinct shadows
Flip sorties pariance spurts
"The stanchion to revet my sky" voiced the shadow
Aug 2, 2016
Aug 2, 2016 at 2:09 AM UTC
I live in the land of concrete and flowers
of broken dreams that dazzle on gower
the end of america
The edge of the pacific
where the mad fEver rush
rolls the last minute carney hopes
in the sea swallowed by
Foam, gasp, foam, spread, foam, butter legs, sand ***** scabs, toxic waste, castles, meltdowns, stock crashes, dance parties, heroes, well -theives disguised as them, cardboard castles o **** n drugs n poverty,
some promise that one in several million will b truly rich beautiful and free enough to complain about meaning
Hello my ***** luv
That throws me up
After its feasted my youth into apathy
Hello oligarchy
Homeland
Birth place of so many things I lust after
Broken concrete flowers peak through
Some neon sunrise
A prop to be used
a marketing strategy of humanity
living the dead end dream
Jul 1, 2011
Jul 1, 2011 at 6:59 AM UTC
Joesph L. Clark then decided to stand up, because
The gravel was hurting his knee.
"Well, why not?" He pondered,
Aloud. That was a mistake.
"Because Joe,
You can't make a living off of
Poetry and whiskey."
Her voice was sharp
Like knives, as strong as
A meat pounder.
Joe short of liked that,
Though.
"And besides, there are other men
Here in this town that can hold my
Hand tighter than you ever will."
To that, Mr.Clark's jaw tightened,
His hands around themselves did so as well,
And with a tilt of his head he muttered
These words out of his bearded face:
"I'm no option baby,
I'm all or nothing."
And walked away knowing that
At least he had the dignitiy to be
A man at times.
Ms. Eleanor P. Carney's
T-strap heels struggled against
The grain of the dirt road, as she ran after him.
Tight hand holding made her palms sweaty, anyways.
Feb 11, 2013
Feb 11, 2013 at 11:21 PM UTC
Poet daubed the corporal on the wings of carney
Wanderer dilettante soul lusted wild routes
Counted each the millimiles covered
Upside , unstrained , Unflaggingly.
Yon the valleys , epitome meadows and Hillsides
Beated around the alcoves amok
Ridges passed the marooned trails
Agape the flinged self flew spirited madrigals
Slowly rooted the tints into wilderness
True entity got superimposed to sylvan instincts
The obsolute shadow rigged the shooner
By dimension lengthier the time but shorter by grace
Grazed through and some toxic airs exhaled then pulled
Blinked all the roof to rugs
Remembrance of concrete boxes and intimate sidekicks
Cheap conflict wins to hit the ring
If body wins, wanderlust looses thereby path ends
Simultaneous call by consciousness and objection by eternal shadow
Only the body grazed the maps with pointers
Though insatiably leveed
Kept retention the coursing shadow
Yet remained damp , savaged the sylvan traits
Life was near but the abstainer failed
Wilderness abysm rejected the unfortunate physique
There appeared
Scorched canopies along wilted flora
Container flogged the shadow to a stultifying death
Physique deceived self the core truth
Existence thereafter without knowing the chance with eterna
Several followed the imperishable conflict trail
Roll of honour diminished by fourth dimension
Marked victories of featherbrains over pappus chambers
Only few sticked upto xanthic flowers
Raise up , were the victories thristled down?
Many knocked and still keep on knocking incarnations
Fine array of fossilized saturnine inhibitions
Callous attritions over altruism of succinct shadow
Flip sorties pariance spurts
"The stanchion to revet my sky" voiced the shadow
Aug 19, 2016
Aug 19, 2016 at 3:31 AM UTC
It’s thunderstorm country around here.
They roam the boiling, hot, southern skies
on legs of lightning, like dark, angry trolls.
My Chinese roommate is impressed with them
because as menacing and mountainous and electrical
as they seem, through the trees whip and the rain
lashes - like special effects - no real damage is done.
Love is like that, a circus briefly coming to town,
that scintillates, palpitates, irritates or validates
- a carney-call with the urgency of a sale.
“Run away and join the show,” it whispers.
Love is both less than it seems and more than it is.
Jul 15, 2022
Jul 15, 2022 at 12:34 PM UTC
The preacher lifts his old hand,
“This is where we are meant to be!” and,
The geese croon overhead as the day turns around,
“Here in the country! A mighty place to be for men so small!” said he,
The preacher, or the carney, the very angry canary,
“Here is where the wind blows and whistles across the fields,
Making waves and currents that show early eidolons in the rye,
And here is where the willow trees make curtains
For mid-afternoon ********** with a sultry sweat on the brow!”
The preacher clenches his pink fist,
“Here is where holy work is done,
And God is surely watching!
Here is where the lilacs create a musk that staggers,
And leaves the devil in bewilderment!
The son of God is in your boot,
He is in the locked gun cabinet,
Which you threw away the key!”
A woman drops to her knees,
And I ask why, in which she replies,
“Of course! Of course! I love him! I hate myself!”
Ay, slow and easy,
Her lips took the scenic route.
God!
The ugly and plain,
With pouches and paunches,
**** a dime a dozen,
Come here to settle in the humid heat,
Of a thousand fields spread eagle across,
The American hot bed.
Yes’a, I thinks,
The boonies,
Is where I should be,
When God comes around.
The preacher points his fat finger,
“Leave the city for the gluttons!
Leave it for the sinners! Leave it for the lazy!
Leave it for the intellects of bygones,
And aggravated souls who are not just,
Content with what God has given us!
Leave it for the hounds! We have only to hear,
The gospel of sweet nature like honey dew,
Or golden sopping molasses!”
The sun came in through the stained windows,
Shooting colors across the pale flat faces,
Of the god-fearing townspeople.
May 10, 2015
May 10, 2015 at 2:34 AM UTC
CLOUDWATCHER
( for David Olaf Carney )
A cloud
gets the ****
Becomes a camel.
Another **** sees it
transform into a dromedary.
Now a kidney!
Then as on a whim
becomes a Picasso
or some such
thing.
Sometime there's
shape and sense.
Sometimes none.
We make up names
for the one's with none.
Here for instance
stolen
from an old religious tract
THE CLOUD OF UNKNOWING.
And here, from the same
"...the cloud of forgetting."
This one
we dub in Ancient Egyptian
"HPRR!"
"rising from....coming into being
itself.:
And this one" "HPR!"
"...to become...to change."
And while our minds run on
the Egyptian thing
why here is Nepthys
Goddess of the Death
that is not
Eternal.
Here Horus
Lord of things to come.
This here cloud
we give the moniker
THE AGENBITE OF INWIT
before it becomes
an Inuit.
Now an anvil and a hammer
in a Black Country summer
"Gie-in’ sum ‘ommer!"
we command it
commanding the skies.
Now here again
a nothing.
Clouds bring forth
not the gentle rain
that falleth from Heaven
but...thought
whatever the mind
imagine.
And here
why here
is a cloud
that is just
a cloud.
Sep 18, 2017
Sep 18, 2017 at 7:12 PM UTC
Take a carney ride
at high noon,
or at midnight sky
under the moon.
The moonlight says,
the night is a good deal,
and the night says,
the moon knows
that we are here
to pack a wallop.
But the stars ignore
the moon's stolen light
knowing that they
will soon be dust,
while they spend
wistfully useless hours
wondering if
the only reason time exists is
so everything
doesn't happen at once,
then, all at once,
they are able
to leave well enough alone.
© copyright 2012
Jun 16, 2012
Jun 16, 2012 at 9:49 AM UTC
Take a Carney ride
at high noon,
or at midnight sky
under the moon.
The moonlight says
that night is a good deal
And the night said: the moon knows
that we are here to pack a wallop.
But the stars ignore the moon's stolen light,
knowing that they will all turn too soon turn to dust.
The stars spend
wonderfully wistful hours
wondering if the only reason that time exists
is so everything doesn't happen at once.
Then, all at once, they are able to leave well enough alone.
Feb 8, 2016
Feb 8, 2016 at 12:19 AM UTC
You've gone and done it now
You blew it
I'm ******* crazy
I'll have you know
It's something I wear like a badge
This circus tent
You walked into
Well you've ****** them off
See,
The term "fuckin' carney"
Is offensive
You're cruel
You're crass
But I'll do you one better
I'm the ******* ringleader
Of these "fuckin' carneys"
We're no better than you
But wait, don't move
There's more in store
We've got a special exhibit to share
She eats flaming swords and slits throats
With her words
He charms snakes like Karma
Now Karma the snake is a real *****
You might go as far as to say
She's a real pain in the ***
And the twins on the tight rope
Murdered their father
On the way to west Italy
But if you think that's bad
You haven't met me
I'm the craziest *****
I'm the leader
The ringmaster
I'm also the most sane
But darling that elephant **** you
Just stepped in smells like perfume
When I stand next to you
Because you came
In here
Nose in the air
Dressed in your suit and tie
You came to a circus
Expected an opera
Then mentally ****** with my family
I will rip off
Each of your individual nails
And embed them in your throat
Then pluck your eyelashes
One by one
Telling you to make a wish
I'll send you on your merry scared way
Because I protect them first
Word to the Wise
Hunny, you don't **** with us crazies
'Cause honestly we're the worst
Jul 30, 2016
Jul 30, 2016 at 1:12 AM UTC
The words that were never said
Could have brought so much joy,
if I hadn't forgotten how to say them
and I feel like I'm on a roller coaster
that scares you and you can't get off
no matter how much you yell at the carney
realization sets in that I'm wasting away,
and I'll fall apart
I didn't mean to complain about this town,
or my friends
I just couldn't see with such selfish eyes
I figured if I tried hard enough,
the world would be handed to me.
Never ever did I think I'd be trying to remember
all the names of the people I've kissed
all this time spent trying to help everyone and myself
i'm going insane
I don't want to disappoint anyone,
but I let the sadness eat me alive
and I can't go outside without feeling like
the sky is mocking me with its constant brightness and darks
I don't know who I am,
but someone useless
Jun 22, 2014
Jun 22, 2014 at 2:34 AM UTC
Why can’t you look at me as normal?
Why do you see me a freak?
Why don’t you think that my heart can’t break?
Why can’t you understand that I own my own pain?
That I drive myself insane trying to become something new.
But when I say that I hurt, its, “who knew?”
So put me in a cage,
Condemn me for wishing for normality
That wish led to my fatality.
So I am here
With the ones they call odd
The ones you laugh at
The ones you question
Because if I can’t be normal, than no one can
Spend my life wishing to be larger than life
Wishing that people would see me, and not for my appearance.
Because as this is written, I am in pain
At this time I have no hope.
So go and tell me
“No need to mope”
But hell, not even the pope
Could pray the things I need prayer about.
That’s why I fell so far behind
Because I thought there was another path to find
And music was the only way I felt right
The notes where my eyes to see the light.
But you still laugh at me
Because my music is not sung at church
Because I scream
I am labeled a freak.
But if I don’t have talent
Why am I still writing on?
Because one day
You will remember the remraf name
When I claim my fame,
You will burn in the flame of my darkness
Of my shadow
So welcome to the carnival,
Where the lowest of the low find the highest of the high
Because today
Is the day
We rise,
Every “freak” in the world
Rise.
Because a freak is the new normal
And if you don’t agree,
Than you can stand before me
And tell me all my faults,
Tell me my insecurities.
And when you’re all said and done
It’ll be my turn to pay my respects
Because when you looked down at us
You forgot that even you had overseers.
Because what you do
What you say
Is downright *****
I am angry at your actions
Treating me as a carney boy
I am no freak
I am no freak
I am no freak
Leave me be!
Oh!
Leave this alone
Let me live my life
So what if you don’t like my music
So what that you don’t like my style
So what that you are to ***** to make your own
So what?
So what?
Apr 24, 2017
Apr 24, 2017 at 5:23 PM UTC
Take a Carney ride
at high noon,
or at midnight sky
under the Moon.
The Moonlight says,
the Night is a good deal..
and the Night says..
the Moon knows
that we are here
to pack a wallop.
But the Stars ignore
the Moon's stolen light,
knowing that they
will soon be dust,
While they spend
wistfully useless hours
wondering if
the only reason time exists is
So everything
doesn't happen at once..
then, all at once,
They were able
to leave 'well enough alone'.
Jun 11, 2014
Jun 11, 2014 at 10:15 PM UTC
From so far away
the fairground music fades
the carney's call echoes.
Were you sure you wanted to pay those pennies
for that stick of horehound candy?
String a song of sixpences together
And **** at them until they turn your mouth blood red
To hide your broken lips.
In the double wide that gapes into the evening
With its yawning broken windows.
The dingy feeling in your eyes
Refuses to fade with the dust
And the touch of sticky plastic stars on your bedroom ceiling
Keeps you company
In the bitter watches of the night
Jesus and John watch your father from the living room wall,
As the last flickers of a camel’s Pentecost flame
Are extinguished on your arm.
Branded, you lie stained in sin
Your child eyes asking St. Peter
Why the gate is shut.
He breaks bread across the table
With your bones crushed to a fine flour,
Mixed with wine.
This is my body.
This is my blood.
May 11, 2018
May 11, 2018 at 7:19 PM UTC
Take a Carney ride
At high noon,
Or at midnight sky
Under the moon.
The moonlight says,
The night is a good deal
And the Night says,
The Moon knows
That we are here
To pack a wallop.
But the Stars ignore
The Moon's stolen light,
Knowing that they
Will soon be dust.
While they spend
Wistfully useless hours
Wandering if
The only reason Time exists is
So that everything
Doesn't happen at once.
Then, all at once,
They are able
To leave well enough alone.
Apr 16, 2015
Apr 16, 2015 at 8:58 PM UTC
"...A STRAIGHT LINE DRAWN CROOKEDLY INSIDE ME..."
( for David Olof Carney )
"Six months, if that...eh?"
inside the cancer
eating him cell by cell
life now
a death sentence
he couldn't live with it
"If it be now..."
Hamlet's solliquoy
comes to mind
in the car crash
his last laugh: "Thank you God!
You're a good sport!"
Aug 30, 2017
Aug 30, 2017 at 3:04 PM UTC
HOW TO MAKE A BREXIT-EXIT PIE
( for David Olaf Carney )
Put in as much
Gove as one can take.
"Not a lot...not a lot noooo
no **** it....that's too much!"
One can make it too toxic!
Sprinkle in enough barmy bumbly
Borisisms
to make one gasplaughchoke
in total disbelief.
Then, come what May...
round up the usual suspected
lies lies and damed lies
enough to fill a "Blunderbus!"
Leave out the petty Pretti one this time out.
Cook on a slow Conservative heat.
Ooops you upped the Auntie
way to high!
Even the lies are becoming
transparent.'
Ouick...more lies more lies more lies!
Oh my good Conservative God they are
becoming see through....what will we do!
Looks a bit burnt about the edges!
Looks decidedly
un-tasty and incredibly inedible.
And when the Pie was open
the liars began to sing!
Oh wasn't that a truly terrible dish
to sit before
the dissed United Kingdom.
Face it - things is looking Grimm!
"The United Kingdom - Le Royaume-Uni
NUL POINTS.....NUL POINTS!"
Nov 12, 2017
Nov 12, 2017 at 7:23 PM UTC
Why does the Ferris wheel
stop
when you're on
top?
Sep 6, 2014
Sep 6, 2014 at 9:48 AM UTC
(POSTSCRIPT TO AUTHOR'S NOTE: As the bit of my brain which allows me to actually complete a piece of writing seems to have gone on hiatus, this chestnut is re-submitted for your approval)
We’d stumbled upon it simply by chance,
Playing on a channel heretofore unknown to us,
Almost as if the remote, in a final, desperate attempt
To escape the CGI-augmented Britneys and Biebers,
Had taken matters into its own hands and steered us there
(Indeed, when we tried to find that channel later,
It had gone a-gleaming, replaced by some lower-case Telemundo)
Presenting no outsized and over-decibeled spectacle
But a stark, quiet, indeed all but silent black-and-white panorama
Where a distinctly un-scrubbed and un-homogenized Santa
Delivers no new cars, no cartoon-mouse vacation cavalcade,
No million dollar prize from some scripted faux-survival experience,
But those things from the realm of the small, the subtle:
A sweater, a meal, a bottle for those not overwhelmed by the contents,
All courtesy of a purveyor of gifts seeking nothing more
Than to provide some measure of comfort and joy
For those who were well short on either.
It all tends toward the romantic and maudlin a bit,
One could contend
(And, indeed, did not the teleplay’s progenitor
Insist on spending his eternity on a lonely hilltop,
In order that he could have an unobstructed view
Of the cold, narrow lake
For which he’d formed such an improbable and irrational fondness?)
And those who take such a position may very well be right,
But it is equally likely that we could be better men in a better place
If the notion that we could rise above
Our tin-can and yowling-tabby tribulations
And embrace that within ourselves which is child-like and yet saintly
Was submitted for our consideration on more than an annual basis.
(AUTHOR'S NOTE: This poem owes a considerable debt to the December 23, 1960 episode of The Twilght Zone. The episode, entitled "The Night of the Meek", features Art Carney as a decidedly down-on-his-luck department store Santa who receives a helping hand courtesy of Messrs. Serling and Claus.)
Dec 24, 2019
Dec 24, 2019 at 9:31 AM UTC
snake oil selling man
*** H Dee, carney barker
pushing empty dreams
rock bottom close out pricing
beware the foolish buyer
May 20, 2019
May 20, 2019 at 1:15 PM UTC