circus-circus

 

 

 

I like it best when

the elephants walk around and be menacing.

Those (all) with the prithee

to overwhelm and slam things to

the ground. Those without

the constant company, though colorful,

of the frantic little men with heads

as large as drag jewelry, with buckets

of paper confetti; once it was thrown in

the face of an old woman. I laughed

but she didn't./

I am sitting at my desk

pretending tiny, pink striped

steps, paper faces

in pagodas of compassionate extravagance.

I have to deal with wild, monomaniacal

black folk all my days, some who wouldn't

know a stanza from a hole in the ground. Others

who might have heard, but out of fear of the

unknown, concluded that I thought of things

destroyed, even the things jeopardized by endless

love; dreary grey things that domestication had

called salvation. Though Januse-faced,

I would write those things down. I must

admit, I did write a lovely love poem this morning

but because of my hatreds, ran out of room.

Even like today, on sunny Fridays

with places to go and money, knowing full

well that I will die possibly alone,  but not of happiness or in

war with a noble crest or pictures of muskets.

Just die, a city sweller with green dreams

of the jungle and no good way

go get there.

Reviews

[Lydia Shutter]

Your poetry surely does touch on a lot of people, places, and things, Dana. Confetti being thrown in faces....funny for those who do not get it in the face, but not so much for those who do. A great metaphor. We must never think we understand any situation in life till we have experienced it firsthand. "Green dreams of the jungle"...never give them up because no one knows what tomorrow brings. I enjoy trying to decipher your meaning. Interesting poetry. Lydi**

[Emily B]

am i too late for the calliope? i want to be the trapeze artist, flying gracefully overhead

[Corset]

Elephants huh? well, join the crowd, today is kick the local clown day. You are just in time for the festivities. Sometimes poems are just poems, and dreams are just dreams, and love poems should never be recited but sometimes they fish out hatreds from all sides and friends from the unlikeliest places, pickles can be sweet and queens can be a scary color of red.