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Rules: Write a poem for national poetry month on the topic or form described. Each poem should appear as a separate reply to this thread. The goal is to, at the end of the month have written 30 poems for National Poetry Month.
Topic 29: Write a poem inspired by a carnivals, sideshows, or vaudeville.
Form : any
Line requirements: 8 lines or more
Questions?
The secret of poetry is cruelty.--Jon Anderson
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STRIP CLUB SIDE SHOW
midgets on giants
third nipples in lady beards
sword swallowers
bodies hanging from shoulder hooks
(there is a certain, meaty smell)
as feathers boas tickle dangling toes
freaks love toes
live piercings wherever
live tattoos wherever
(don't worry, the needles are clean
unless you brought your own, don't share)
you can staple a dollar to me if you have one
(it's my tip)
plenty of poles to hang from
any desire or command
welcome home
Thanks to this Forum
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![[Image: giulietta-masina.jpg]](http://wordbiscuit.com/im18/giulietta-masina.jpg)
everything i know
about carnivals
and sideshows
and circuses
and performance
has long since dissolved into the film
La Strada
Frederico Fellini's direction
Nino Rota's music
Anthony Quinn's acting
and
Giulietta Masina
i fell madly in love with her at first sight
i shall remain madly in love with her until i die
a brightly colored fungus that grows in bark inclusions
just mercedes
Unregistered
Annie
Oakley shot a squirrel
in the house, through the orchard,
to get a hickory nut.
A rifle fired writing
side to side.
The encyclopedia
failed her audience, truly split
edge-on, tossed in the air, cigarettes
from lips, a card riddled
before it touched the ground.
Perhaps her ability to repeatedly
touch, while using feet.
R. A. Koestler-Grack watched
Chief Sitting Bull. Oakley
skipped on her rifle,
aimed at a candle,
snuffed out the whizzing bullet.
Sitting Bull watched corks off bottles,
a cigar held in his teeth.
I can't believe this is the penultimate poem. 
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Joined: Feb 2017
the little tent
next to the big one
where children watch
a lesson in flannel
as their parents
find strength
from The Word
to make another day
pushing through a cruel world
knowing it's a vapor
needing the courage
to warn others
in love
their bridge is out
there's always a better reason to love
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Joined: Oct 2010
The House Had Landed
It wasn’t the tornado,
but what it brought that killed
Baby Alice the Midget Wonder.
Center stage became the chorus,
and then bit parts
until Alice hung
like drying clothes on a line.
The train had left the station
decades before.
Alice could see the road
now like everyone else,
but could only point
out the destination
never walk upon it again.
The secret of poetry is cruelty.--Jon Anderson
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The dancing bears
so graceful in their clumsiness.
The dancing bears
are jesters filling wells with tears
a never ending emptiness
What brings humans to commit this?
The dancing bears
Tired elephant
From town to town and show to show
Tired elephant
Decorated so eloquent
You move so slow, sway to and fro,
Without the tents where would you go
Tired elephant?
Peanut butter honey banana sandwiches
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Shy
The next guy snipes one at the coconuts
like Monty Panesar with a vicious spin
which lops the top clean off, brown husk spinning
onto wet grass. A cheer goes up until
we all see the nail in the blasted shell,
then a wave of booing drives the stall man
away, stuffing his giant teddy bears
into the boot of his mud covered car.
Tomorrow in the white supermarket
aisles by the rows of coconut milk
I'll think of a slow left arm orthodox
taking out the whole lot. Then just smile and
put my hand back on the shopping trolley.
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Carny Night
Our love was like a carnival, my dear:
tableau vivants joined swiftly in our dash
from ticket booth to midway running rash
and breathless, thoughtless in our mad career.
We each played carny talker with a flash
of innuendo on the Internet;
I posed as Strong Man, muscles pumped and set
to your snake-charmer, limber-limbed and brash.
Then, Tattooed Lady, you showed on a bet
your tramp-stamp butterfly; we tucked in quick
balloons and spicy something-on-a stick
then went our ways as if we’d never met.
Our carnival has journeyed on, my dear,
but we could play its parts again this year.
Non-practicing atheist
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Stray Thoughts on Ivanka
Triggered by the eyeless look
of the egg-white omelet warming
the morning shows, I thought of
an all-white breakfast, so I tossed
an egg-white omelet, sprinkled
shredded mozzarella with two
ass-shakes of white pepper.
At lunch I plated parsnips and chive tips,
a galloping dollop of cottage cheese -
large curds of course – huge, actually,
then three slices of teeth whitener.
Dinner was easy – blanched cauliflower
with hominy, sugar cubes over mayo
and tutu’ed angel food.
Tonight – Parmesan popcorn, thank you,
and New York fashion snow falling
beyond a steam-frosted window,
now yours for three easy payments.
Posts: 598
Threads: 83
Joined: Apr 2016
This One's For the Kid in the Back Row
Ask me anything.
We need to talk about it.
You don't have to phrase it in any particular way,
or worry about saying something non-PC.
Let's be real and talk about everything
to do with the freak.
We have a history of the ‘freak’, like,
“you’re a freak, get away from me.”
I've reclaimed the words – I am
a natural born freak – not as an insult
but as identity and power.
Freak, to me, is rarity. I see
people describing themselves as freaks
because they want to seem
less human. I use it to feel
more human. I love the bed of nails,
I like putting a nail up my nose,
that fine line between pleasure
and pain. I use my sense of touch,
I use my sense of hearing
to do aerials, hula hoops –
have you ever hooped?
Hold it behind your back with your hands tight,
turning little circles with your stomach.
Front, side, back, side; front, side, back, side.
Give it a bit of momentum;
you’ve got to fling it.
Let’s talk about this idea
of what is beautiful, what is grotesque.
Beauty is absolute awareness of experience.
It's a dangerous idea.
People don’t dare ask me about love
and relationships, if I’m really honest.
Nothing is more dangerous
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Sawdust rings
I wanted the real photograph
not the straw bails
and candy apple faces.
The circus tents veil of glamour
soon returns to canvas and rope
as sticky children skip away,
trailing laughter.
I walk small amongst the closing down,
and creep my shadow on bill board walls
side tents glow behind busy glances.
The thin slit of a caravan door whispers
of a world not seen before.
She sits straight on a high back chair
smearing lines across her face,
high above the audience she climbs
each night with dusted hands
and plans a ballerina's fake escape.
The old trailer talks to her down,
as the low lights dim and surge
she wanted to be heard.
Is this the picture you would take from me?
The shot glass reality of aching muscle
and crippled hands, a life that seeps
on traveled cracks between
your towns and fields
each poster pasted
over stolen miles and years.
Olga, you should at least know my name.
I didn't answer, I stayed a coward
as my camera stole everything she had left.
If your undies fer you've been smoking through em, don't peg em out
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