Friday, October 30, 2009

Day 30: Carousel


(A true story,

Portrayed through poetry,

Unknowingly documented by Charles DeMar.)


A puff of warm air drifts lazily over your head.

The heat catches your attention,

Drawing it away from the eccentric man sitting beside you

(but he’s never far from your thoughts for long)

And as you breathe in deeply,

Once, twice,

You detect the scent of warm pepper

And cigarette smoke

(he’s always, always smoking, that man)

That gives everything a hazy, abstract quality

Your temperate, benevolent personality

Is completely content with,

A type of contentment

You only achieve when


Feeling particularly conciliatory because


Inevitably did something wrong.

Then there’s a warm, broad hand on your

(pathetically delicate)

Shoulders, and you’re quite sure he’s going to

(crush you, you and your pathetically delicate shoulders)

Say something monumental,

Because he never touches you now

(but always all the rest of the time when you don’t want it)

So you look up slowly,

Past the warm, broad shoulders,


(Resistance is futile)

All you’ll see is the

(cold, lacking apathy)

Wild, crazed, violet eyes

And the self-righteous air of arrogance

(you secretly love)

That always surrounds the

(criminally insane)


What's worst;

You say you’re impartial when it comes to


Anything, but you’re


In denial,

Especially when faced with this “diverse”

(only he uses that term)

Relationship you

(were forced into)

Are in

With such a pious man

Who worships


You, and isn’t that

(totally awkward)



(secretly unwelcome)

Jolt from your

(secretly provincial)


Comes in the form of

(narrowed eyes and clenching fingers)

A sharp tongue,


Hissing above your head

And a long-fingered hand

(claws, they’re claws; God, they hurt)

Sliding into your brown locks and grasping tightly

With a sharp jerk backwards

So you can look into the eyes of

(a madman)

Your nightmares

And all the while,

Your thoughts are spinning and spinning

(‘round and ‘round in a mocking parody of your childhood)

Like a carousel

That never



Imagine my surprise, and surge of pride, as I read daughter's vocab test from her English class. Being the creative 15 year old that she is, she opted to write a poem when given the assignment to use all of her vocabulary words in a "story"... It doesn't *obviously* fit with the current countdown or Halloween theme, but it belongs here nonetheless.


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