… and the broken.

I defy you,

Or you …

Any of you who are

Capable, still,  of feeling;

Not robbed of sensitivity

By society’s cavalries …

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The Janus Faces.

… and,


The faces


Old-once Janus

Parades before

Our inner eye

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The Currency of Clowns.

Small, frail shapes


Cursor fast

And confident:

Through woodbine tunnels

In the elf-shine hours, navigating

Between moon nectar cups

 And scent promise blossoms.

Stakes are mortality-high

But the brief-held prize Is so,

So gloriously worth it

That resistance is the

Currency of clowns.

The gods who created moths

Never intended them to

Grow old and feeble.



Image: www.jennacartwright.com


To Dance With Clowns

“Strange,” he thinks, quietly to himself,

Climbing the suddenly-too-steep staircase,

“Strange how the world turns

Around a moment in a relationship” :

For earlier, he watched love shade

Change to pity then full-blast ranting hatred.

“Strange, ” he cannot stop thinking now

That he’s started …

“The world is turning around this latest demand”.

He means the single white pill, so tinily perfect –

Balanced like an equation-to-be

In the bowl of a silver spoon.

Reflections come, twist, haunt  and pass on.

Quiet desert fire isolation,

Wild, decibel-loaded parties,

Southern belt skies, dreams of

Oaks and queens and

Better-when bad princesses,

White bannisters, warm apples,

Good company on journeys-far-from home.

Reaching the familiar-for-once carpeted landing

He pauses to rescue a breath, reminds himself:

“Those who choose to dance with clowns

Would do well to remember how quickly,

How well, how completely they recover from falls.”