CLOWNING AROUND

CLOWNING AROUND

Sometimes I guess I must admit, I miss my old frivolity,
The days I passed so merrily, full of piss and jollity.
I miss my greasepaint, lipstick and of course my bulbous nose,
Red as a ripe apple, floppy shoes and festive clothes.

So summon to my bedside the likes of Stephen Sondheim,
Or even better Judy Collins, and let us pass the time,
I miss my days of clowning around, the pastiche and the last laugh,
The harmless days, the stoic ways, the straddling of the rugged past.
For the clowning beats the frowning, by more than just a little,
But all that I can do these days is to aim for just the middle,
The space between the light and dark,
The flesh and bone, the ashes,
The daylight bright and the moonlight stark,
The random brilliant flashes.

So open up the window, to let my spirit fly,
I hear it is a custom in some foreign lands.
When one is done and poised to die.
I’m tiring of this two step, this waltz, this solemn dance.
Where life is lived with gravity, and there is no second chance.
No second chance of freedom, no minuet of movement sweet,
No relief from the pangs of grief, from the loss of dancing feet.

My daily walks are getting slower, almost to a crawl,
Neighborhood eyes upon me, curious as to why I fall.
Why balance has eluded me, like a tightrope dancer on the wire,
Like some forlorn, frenzied forest, engulfed in deadly fire.

Sometimes I guess I must admit, I miss my happier rhymes,
Instead of this whistling in the dark in these uncertain times.
And yet though I love happiness, there’s a beauty to my sorrow,
I chase the blues away with rhyme and pray for a bright tomorrow.

So send in Stephen, but most of all Judy, and send in my body of old,
And let me have a day of movement before my corpse turns cold.
A miracle of sorts from my Creator, the man in the healer’s clothes,
I miss my greasepaint, lipstick, and of course my bulbous nose,
I’m tired of being a mean old man who’s in this fight alone.
So do me quite the favor, get wardrobe on the phone.
And let me have just one more day of that whoopee cushion sound,
A bloke with his blues and floppy shoes, one last day of clowning around.

-Bruce Potts
Copyright 2012
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED