Fancy Fairs

A tune of steam organs

crying out, enticing punters to venture further.

Fire eating, honeyed words and deft fingers

trap them in a warm shell,

mothering them beyond their sanity and good sense.

Pennies escape their purses

to be replaced by humbugs aplenty.

The Orange Tree

The butterflies rise from the fruit

born of the cogs and bones of an inquisitive mind.

Where is the winding key

that sets their flight in motion?

 

I have a secret, a wish

concealed in the pearl of the fruit.

It cannot be juiced, only revealed

when the veil is lifted.

 

Crack, goes the wood.

Crack, go the leaves,

leaving only the blossoms

to float down to your palm,

wingbeats fragile as they die.

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Remnants

Most of them were now bones, picked white by crows,

only a lock or two of hair would tell.

 

No motion at all could convince the trapeze, swinging ever higher,

that it was nearing the zenith of its arc.

But the hunter with silver fur and hungry eyes lay ready,

the full moon its guide.

 

He would have bluebells waiting by the thousand,

painted clay cups that collected his luminescent tears,

frozen and pressed into precious stone –

hoping to replace the ammonite clasped in her hand.

 

He could grant wishes for her, bend himself to her will,

but always in a way that would cause havoc.

Outshining the fire,

a delicate flower began to bloom.

Ghost act

The rain has filled up the circus tent, lithe

figures walking out of the wet floor to take their positions in the ring.

Spotlights create mirrors as they climb up thin vines

to the trapeze at the top. Aerial acrobatics

for anyone wanting to watch, energy matching

the stink of old straw, popcorn and tinsel pompoms left behind.

Outside, the sun breaks through and sends evening’s fire

around the grounds, sneaking into the big top as the act begins.

The performer jumps and evaporates, nothing more than steam.

Lip Locked

Considering all the words I have in my head, all the thoughts, opinions, the attitudes that make me me, why, when I have chance to open my mouth, does the flow of my mind run dry?

Why can’t I be the one to argue a point and deliver a message succinctly? Why do I stutter and stare, fighting against my very self just to say something simple, or think in a straightforward way, before my answers stumble, scattered, from my lips?

Why? Why? Why do I need to justify myself to myself? Justify the way that I am? Why does it matter if I can’t verbalise my thoughts, when I can with paper and pen?

Little ballerina doll

Toes against the box. Comfort lacking.

Weight on one pointe; gravity sucking me down.

My foot sinks into the floor. Smile. Be light.

High arches circle, support from the side.

I feel safe now, knowing I can lower myself.

Hop away. Run from the box.

Run, but never escape.

The box is attached. It demands to be risen on.

It owns me.

For the swans and fairies I’ve grown up watching,

it’s clear they own their box.

Why can’t I?