Carousel Sings The Blues

Written
2011

 Carousel Sings the Blues

 

For 100 years each May

         they start to arrive in the Berkeley hills

         signaling my winter rest is done.

I know the day is coming

         when my herd is newly painted

         and the brass riding poles are polished.

Their cars roar up the hill to Tilden Park

         and doors open and slam

         to squeaks of anticipation.

The race to the ticket office

         is like a roaring river

         flooded with spring rain.

Long lines of folks form to

         get their tickets

       to ride me around and around.

Open the gate

         and children stampede

         to grab the lion.

Somebody has to get the curch pew seats for little ones

        and reminiscing olders, but not for the littlers

         who are parent held on the herd.

The music starts,

         same song over and over

         never a change.

Then around and around,

         some fast some slow,

         but same old circle.

How many times have I looked out

         to the same view of

         mothers, fathers and trees. 

I am blinded by

         the flashing bulbs so a child

         and I can be framed on a wall.

At one hundred it is customary

         to be retired and spend

         long, peaceful days in a museum somewhere.

Looking forward to the rest and quiet

         of peace at last

         and no need for a gold watch.

I do worry that in a museum

         the herd’s brass poles will tarnish

         and dust will gather on them.

And truth be known

         I will miss the smell of

         eucalyptis and pines.

And I will no longer see the

         the changing fashions of

         dressed-up kids and parents.

I saw the coming of short skirts,

         the beat's black and hippies,

         many colored flowers.

And I will certainly miss

         working each day to the

         sound of children laughing.

I was honored by the joy

         I brought and the memories

         I cast on generations of kids.

 I guess instead of dusty

         old museum,

         I want to see another crop of riders.

It is a life metaphor,

         routinely same old circle and music

         but so rewarding.

 Doug Minnis  February 23, 2002

 

Notes
I love the carousel in Tilden Park in the Berkeley Hills. I visit it every spring and summer. I have been enjoying old agers gift of routine and when I think of the rewards and horrors of routine I think of the carousel as a perfect metaphor. Idoubt if the carousel is 100 years old, but it seems to always have been there.