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