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 starts to grind
desperately
feeling for the stirrups
with feet that never seem 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 blurred faces
flashing before me stare fixedly,

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
blended together and I am
losing my grip on the slippery
glossy brown smooth saddle,
the scratchy music blaring
as the carousel moves which
seems to me at a frightening pace
then suddenly the ride is over.

I have conquered my fears until next time.