The Circus of Night


The Circus of Night has come to town
raise the tents and put up the signs
and scatter gold dust amid the straw
watch the elephants dance for their peanuts
and laugh at the bulging shapes your reflection shows in the tricksy mirrors
as the cups in the back tent are refilled endlessly
raise a glass and join the crowd
wind the calliope up once more and listen with filling eyes
as the Bird lady sings so sweetly
from her canary swing
Come hear
come here
the pretty lady needs her fortune told
Pennywise waits in blended shadow outside the gypsies tent
he already knows your fortune and seeks to start your journey
on a more immediate path marked “abandon hope….”
while Mr Dark walks the straw strewn lanes twirling his cane and laughing in his horrible way
to his tattoos who hiss softly back
with instructions to the dust witch for the amusement of the gleefully mad
to scatter the glittering lures for boys who run the night
who are only seeking calliope music and merry go round rides
wanting the view from the funny looking mirror to be just a curiosity
and not a snare
but the traps are subtle and eternal in this
The Circus of Night
and not all the acts are seeking only applause
and not all the exit signs are to be believed
and not all the paint and glittering lights can mask the dark…




*Please note – this poem has nothing to do with the fully excellent book “The Night Circus” by Erin Morgenstern. Just happens to share a similar title. However, if you are searching for a wondrous, captures-you-on-the-first-page kind of read, by all means run…don’t dawdle…to the nearest book place and grab a copy. You will not be disappointed, an amazing read.
** Please note2 – there are, however, some mentions of  names/characters incorporated from other equally excellent books: “Something Wicked This Way Comes” by the masterful Ray Bradbury and “IT” by the incomparable Stephen King.
both of these are also in the “run, don’t dawdle” category.

About chimerapoet

I write. I write a lot. A. LOT. There are times I am half blind with a sentence ricocheting off the walls of my stupid, cant be shut off to save my life, brain. I am miserable until I get it down on paper. Punch it up a bit. Usually cross out half of it. And then breathe. Relax. Only to do it all again..... But I just thought that was me. How I am. Not a writer....noooo...not me. Writers are.....writing people. People Who Write. REALLY write. Write things that matter. All grown up very important things. I am just a scribbler of sorts. And I was/am content with that....if it's true, well then....a scribbler am I. Until the thought wormed its way in to my brain (the furtive sneaky bitch) that maybe...just maybe...that is writing. My style. My strange way. But....still writing. So here I am at the dance. Not sure I know any of the moves and the music is entirely mine. But.....only one way to find out. Would you care to join me?
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