Merry-go-round

The plastered smile grins

Phoney, dancing & prancing

Up and down on a pole

Happy battle waltzes tinge the air

As tourists strolls along the prom

 

The painted faces on the horses never change

Forever caught in mid neigh delight

I don’t know what’s real anymore

The duality of seaside living

Stops the truth from grasping hold.

 

Were you cheating or is that a dream?

Held in falsetto choir ringing in my ears

The gulls take their strategic places

Atop signage and the quaint street lamps

Ready to swoop and steal pastries

From unsuspecting folk below.

 

Remember when you said you loved me

That we would never part

Remember all those promises

We made so long ago.

 

I sit watching the children on the carousel

And wonder is that where I’m at.

Living in a goldfish bowl

Each hint, lie trick

As if it was the first –

Never experienced before.

 

Seeing the doctor didn’t help

Him being your mate, I s’pose

The tablets zonked me out

Forgetting even my name

 

I should be able to stand tall

Married to the town mayor and all

And yet I feel equine sympathy

For the plaster caricatures

With my face plastered in pancake

I vacuously grin

With all the other wives

Each time we banquet together.

 

At least the horses have a plan

To go up and down

And round and round

I have no blueprint for my life

Your epitaph should read:

Paul Mason, duplicitous mayor,

Lying husband, philanderer, cheat

Mine will read – FOOL.

 

 

Judgeth {thee} not …

You left me in that moment

Though you didn’t move an inch

Eyes glazed over

Ears stuffed shut

 

Judging me in your presence

Watching my words, not soul

My heart shattered

My mouth closed

 

Fragile life hung in balance

Do I take on board your hate?

My soul cried out

The helper salved me

 

bluegrass

Stella and her belly were doing flip flops, as in she was practicing that shoe shuffle dance so popular at bluegrass festivals in her flip-flops and failing miserably and her stomach, God bless it, was a tightly wound as a Jack-in-a-box.

Daniel was filling the saddle-bags in an intricate pattern, weaving each item so everything needed for the road trip was accounted for. He looked up at the sky, the beautiful blue sky and brilliant sunshine polar opposites to how he was feeling. A damp, grey day in England was how he felt. An uneasiness was eating into his core.

Brian picked up Star and they rode over to Stella’s. The radio mic was on but neither spoke. The chasm between them could not be seen, as Star clung to Brian’s back, but it was palpable to them both.

The four friends rode all day on their way to Telluride, stopping off at Grand Junction for the night. Most of it spent in silence as they slept in sleeping bags like sardines in the tiny motel room. Daniel only spoke to say not a bad time from Fort Morgan.

Brian said he was sorry when he tripped over Stella. Star did not speak at all but was sick twice. Stella kept going into the bathroom to practice the dance, she wished she had her fiddle but they had decided not to unpack the instruments.

By this time tomorrow with Daniel on mandolin, Stella on fiddle, Star on banjo and Brian on bass, their four voices, (high lead, tenor, baritone and Star’s beautiful dissonant soprano) harmonising their own material on the Elks Park Stage, they would know if “Blow the Vault” could become the next big thing.

Just like they dreamed of last year when they lost Virginia and Virgil on the journey over from Fort Morgan, they hadn’t performed and spent the next twelve months rejigging the set without two guitars and without their best friends.