“Audaces fortuna iuvat.” “Fortune favors the bold.” ~ Virgil

“Virtue has a veil, vice a mask”. ~ Victor Hugo

Costumed in red and yellow they scamper through the streets
and knuckle the doors
the hot sun pooling,
as if splashing,
molten hot from a crucible,
around their feet
the Carnevale is coming….

Porcelain, peacock blue, emerald green and gold mask the windows,
the streets,
the faces,
and the air is an elixir,
and the very stones smell of chocolate,
of figs,
of sour spilled wine and orange peel.
Stained by magic old and new,
by sex and mystery and rainstorms.

Demons and Courtesans eye each other familiarly
while the golden tower is carried through the square
and a humming cry spirals up from the crowd,
its energy bending and glowing as if the moon were melting.
Beads my darling?
the vendors sing
Jugglers and fortune tellers and disappearing doves,
prayers of the faithful
and faithless alike in a cacophony of rich wanting,
of craving,
of coveting…
Masks make fortune and her other lesser known sisters much bolder,
and nothing more than breathing in the river of scent can bring a flush to your face.
And the feeling rises in you until you are sure its vibration can be heard by others
like the buzz of human cicadas,
as if you are Orpheus’ lyre
and will lead them out…
or back.
Look up and gasp at the flight of the angel
and then clasp each others eyes as if to confirm it was seen
and let the details dance past you,
red eyes,
red wine,
parasols of black web lace,
painted smiles.
The Carnevale is here…..

Senses swim and clutch for more befuddling
as the sweetest of vices
echoing like deep night fox song.
Around every corner a tableaux plays out,
some comedy,
some art,
in real or restrung time.

he stared
she held a finger to her lips
he wondered where she found a mask with wings
and then she flew away…

Count them all,
like the seconds after a lightning flash,
sweets and eggs and candles in windows,
guttering on gravestones grown suddenly fresh,
and the music plays all around you but no musician is present,
and that does not surprise anyone.
Not here,
in this uncreated night,
this wild revelry,
this Carnevale.



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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4 Responses to Carnevale

  1. You are indeed a writer, a poet of words!! Very, very good!!

  2. Pingback: Writing Links in the 3s and 6…12/12/16 – Where Genres Collide

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