No Clowns Allowed

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I don’t like clowns.

Don’t care for them.

Pass on by grease paint.

Pass on by fuzzy wigged one.

 

Don’t like clowns.

Not even a little bit.

Pass on IT clown and Gacey.

Pass on Shriner and mime.

 

Don’t like clowns.

Not funny nor cute.

Pass on by baggy pants.

Pass on by big bad shoes.

 

Don’t like clowns.

Creepy false faces.

Hidden behind drawn tears.

Hidden behind painted smiles.

 

Don’t like clowns.

Dislike almost every kind.

Two exceptions are allowed.

All others git yerselves gone.

 

I love two clowns.

Only two, rare and true.

Rodeo clowns of daring do.

My sweet son, having fun.

 

I really and truly do not like clowns. This amuses my husband to no end, especially when coupled with my distaste for closet doors and the possibility of clowns lurking within said closet behind said hated doors.  I admire and respect aboriginal sacred clowns, court jesters, rodeo clowns and adore it when my son dressed up as one a while back.  All others need not apply. You who are clowns, it isn’t anything personal, I just don’t like false faces and trickery and that sort of clowning around.  Blame bad guys and horror writers and a nasty trickster when I was young for my dislike of your kind.  Playing at With Real Toads today.

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Poppy

Slender necked, softly furred appearing ultimately delicate.

Dancing with natural seduction in unusual fields.

Heavy pods sway, narcotic blood infused.

 

Illegal to farm them you know, you can treasure them wild.

They grow best upon blood rich fields of war.

Paper thin petals waving on pollenators.

 

She is a thing of beauty, watching her impossibly lovely.

Strengths you can’t even imagine inside her,

Hid beneath a flower smiled facade.

 

There is strength there, born of blood and in war.

She dances to cries under gunfire and hears.

She knows the strongest come after.

 

Battles wear the rage of men, their war cries.

After is where she is strong, growing.

War soaked soil bears new life.

 

Blooms last barely a season, frail and bright.

Seeds wait for generations to grow tall.

Waving fields of poppies and sons.

 

Poppies grow abundant in rich soil, bloody soil.

Women strong after battle, rebuilding.

Neither as fragile as they seem.

 

For With  Real Toads (Alphonse Mucha) and for dVerse (attempt at allegory)