Carousel Poem by Helen Crutchett

When I was a child the raw
earthy decadent smell of carnival,
flashing mirrors and bright lights
frightened me.

The gaudy carousel
giddy with colour of
ruby red garish paint,
splashed with speckled
orange and green on horses
with bizarre wooden faces.

I hang suspended
as the music started to grind
desperately
feeling for the stirrups
with feet that never seemed to reach
My stomach churning over
like a piano roll
in time with the clanking
of the greasy machinery.

The smelly oily rags hanging
from the overalls of a freckled
faced youth with a cheeky grin,
around and around, I go
blurred faces flashing before me.

I grab the golden pole attached to
my poor inanimate pony
holding on so tightly that my
knuckles turn red, white and
then numb.

Music, horses, noises, spilt food,
the sickly smell of sawdust all
blend together and I am
losing my grip on the slippery
glossy brown saddle.

The scratchy music blaring
as the carousel moves
at a frightening pace
then suddenly the ride is over.

Helen Crutchett