LPiA-26 Nov. 2

[Tiger the Lion]

Let's Pretend it's April - Nov. 2

Rules: Write a poem for LPiA on the topic or form described. Each poem should appear as a New Reply to this thread. The goal is to, at the end of the month, have written 30 poems for the month of November. (or one, or six, or fifteen) Prompts may be revisited at any time. All members are welcome.

Topic : Write a poem inspired by a Circus Attraction
Form : Any
Line requirements: 8 or more

Feel free to reply with comments or kudos as you wish. 

Questions?

[CRNDLSM]

Locked up, hidden clues strewn across the floor,
hair strands, powder, blood, grease, his tools, a note:
'thank you, take this too, use it for the store',
lint and dust in the pockets of his coat.

Pictures from all angles, the office books,
logs of all employees, and where they live.
Everyone's a suspect, the car shop looks
like a circus tent over run and driv-

en by cops and reporters.  Madison,
owner, first to answer the call and come,
couldn't hide their shock, mentioning his gun,
but she didn't know where the note was from.

Captain Martin checks words her tone betrays,
find the truth before evidence decays.

[RiverNotch]

I'd rather watch the clowns
that pick up all the pieces
left over from the chariots
as they crash, the splintered
boards and beams, the horses
for the moment freed
from their deadly burdens,
than the race itself,
agents of the throne
throwing loaves of bread
to the chanting crowd,
the greens and blues and whites
making mad displays
for men they barely know---

I'd rather hear the cries
down at the pits, the surgeons
pouring wine and oil
over skin peeled off,
setting dislocated
joints or broken bones,
and in hopeless cases
hacking off whole limbs:
there, especially when
some jaded priest is summoned
to trust a life to God
that just an hour before
was proudly of the devil,
is proper entertainment.

[busker]

I'd rather watch the clowns
that pick up all the pieces
left over from the chariots
as they crash, the splintered
boards and beams, the horses
for the moment freed
from their deadly burdens,
than the race itself,
agents of the throne
throwing loaves of bread
to the chanting crowd,
the greens and blues and whites
making mad displays
for men they barely know---

I'd rather hear the cries
down at the pits, the surgeons
pouring wine and oil
over skin peeled off,
setting dislocated
joints or broken bones,
and in hopeless cases
hacking off whole limbs:
there, especially when
some jaded priest is summoned
to trust a life to God
that just an hour before
was proudly of the devil,
is proper entertainment.

There's no hippodrome like a Byzantine hippodrome
nice