Circus Life.

It’s a difficult day at work as
She realises her childhood dream
Of becoming a star a the circus
Was not as silly as it seemed.

The contortionist folds herself neatly
Into a sturdy coloured box
And pulls the lid closed tightly
So the clowns can close the locks
That confine her securely within,
Which ends the first act, allowing
The escapologist’s act to begin.
Daring, nimble, death-defying!
She emerges from the locks and chains
Escaping the darkness that smothers,
Miraculously free of those constraints
Inflicted on her by others.
But the show is not over yet!
She leaps onto the high trapeze
Of life without a safety net
Where she swings and sails with ease,
Until the tightrope twists and tangles
While she’s still up in the air –
She is caught and left to dangle
While the audience gawps and stares.
Upside down, she swings herself low
Then dives into a tiny pool!
It’s all part of the Big Top freak show
Full of wonders, misfits and fools.
She stands smiling at the Ringmaster
Who deftly throws those deadly knives
Which fly so hard and fast at her
That one false move could end her life.
An almighty roar distracts her –
There’s a lion on the prowl!
Hungry for blood, it attacks her
Then continues to snarl and growl.
Taking a whip and a sturdy chair,
With which to tame the big cat’s rage,
She holds its gaze with a steely glare
And forces it back into its cage.
The strong woman flexes her muscles
Benchpressing the weight of the world,
Carrying it all as she hustles:
A veritable Supergirl.
She juggles all the spheres of her life
Despite her growing sense of doom,
All the while balancing astride
The elephant in the room.

She keeps looking for the exit sign
And dreams of running away
From being the star attraction
At the circus, day after day.

‘Circus Life’ is one of the poems in the collection titled ‘The Passing of the Night’ by Joanne Van Leerdam

March 28, 2021 0

Thank You… I Think

How ironic
That you don’t like it
When I stand up for myself:
You’re the one
Whose weapon words
Gave me real-time training
In the art of self defence.
Had I not learned
To deflect your contempt
And resist your hateful words,
I would not be here today.

You prompted my resistance,
Inspired my defiance,
And forced my indifference
To anything else you have to say.

So thank you, I think,
For helping me become someone others like
Infinitely more than you do.

Thank You… I Think
#poem #Poetuit
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February 17, 2021 1

What’s Cooking?

A powerful new aroma rose drew demons from near and far to the enormous kitchen.

“I smell sea salt,” moaned Festus as he wiped his drool on his sleeve.

“Do you really? I smell Vegemite!” exclaimed Provokus.

“You’re both wrong. It’s meat pies! That smell of melting, bubbling flesh is unmistakeable.” Cocky and confident, Argumentus sneered at the obvious errors of the others.

“Damn, I wanted some January 26 lamingtons, or a pavlova.” Minimus, the smallest of them all, who also had the sweetest tooth, looked very disappointed.

“Hey boss, what’s cooking?” Festus asked.

Satan snickered as he answered: “Australia.”

January 25, 2019 1

Facing The Monster.

Defiant, I stood as tall as I could and faced the enormous beast.
Towering over me so that I was lost in the cold of its shadow, the monster met my bravado with silent derision.

I carried no sword, nor any other weapon, but deep within, I knew I could win this fight by using my wits. With all the strength and conviction I could muster, I growled, “As intimidating as you are, remember this: I created you, and I will defeat you.”

No longer able to maintain its composure, my to-be-read pile barely held itself together as it laughed and laughed.

November 27, 2018 5

Mind Blown

“I still don’t know what to do.” Greg’s words hung in the air, the atmosphere pregnant with frustration as his classmates’ faces mirrored the teacher’s umbrage.

The teacher glared, deliberately silent as heat flushed, dark red, up his neck and across his face. His mouth opened, but no words came. The sound of his pulse reverberated around the room, growing louder and faster as he fought for control.

The explosion, accompanied only by a vague squelch, spewed bloodied flesh and grey matter across the room. A disembodied eyeball on the floor continued to glare at Greg.

“Whoa!” he gasped. “Mind blown!”

November 23, 2018 0

Full.

“I’m full of good ideas,” I told him,
“Full of something,” he promptly said,
And he was right: there’s always more
Than just bright ideas in my head.

Vivid memories stream on a cinema screen,
To a soundtrack of favourite songs,
A maple tree full of autumn leaves
So my heart can visit where it belongs.
There’s a flowing river of storylines
And a deep well of imagery,
A box full of timely lessons, hard learned,
And useful facts from world history.
The walls are lined with shelves of books
And pictures of beloved faces,
There’s a graveyard to visit with those who have passed
And doorways to favourite places.

And right at the back, where no-one can see,
In the darkest part of my brain,
There’s a very deep hole where I throw away
Things I don’t want to think of again.

November 8, 2018 1

Holding My Tongue.

Someone told me this morning
That I should hold my tongue,
So I’ve taken heed of the warning
Using my forefinger and thumb.
It’s really quite uncomfortable
And swallowing is tricky,
My hand is covered in dribble
And it’s getting kind of sticky.
It’s difficult to talk much
So I have to grunt a lot,
In all my life, I’ve not seen such
Dirty looks as those I’ve got.
I’m sure it wasn’t good advice,
And suspect I’ve been misled:
I wonder if it would suffice
If I just shut up instead.

If you enjoyed this poem, please leave a “like” or a comment so that my post becomes visible to more people. Thanks in advance!

June 17, 2018 2

The Artist

Pictures splash furiously onto each page,

Images shaped with both light and shade,

Memories and thoughts, things she wished she had said,

Emotions and fears that had never been shared.

Some pages were dark, some filled with desire,

Yet others glowed with heaven’s own fire;

Some scenes that exposed the true hearts of men,

Were blotched by tears she had shed over them.

Some pictures were smudged, some faded with time,

Others vivid with colour, rhythm and rhyme.

Some portraits brought pleasure, some caused her pain

That she had hoped she might never feel again.

And the truth looked directly back into her eyes,

Its gaze unashamed, its candour undisguised,

For what she had thought had been fiction’s domain

Was staring at her and speaking her name.

The shock of enlightenment jolted her soul –

Each page revealed truths that had never been told;

Every fiction created as part of her art

Had been drawn from the depths of her world-weary heart.

The Artist is one of my favourite poems from ‘Leaf’.

I was inspired to write it by my friend Nicky, who is an incredibly gifted

Leaf 2nd Ed Title Only copy artist. On looking at one of her paintings, I commented that I wished I could do what she did.
She said, “You do. You just do it with words.”

Leaf is available in your favourite digital bookstore or in paperback.

September 19, 2017 1

Stained Glass.

A masterful, vivid mosaic,
A fragmented work of art;
She finds her greatest beauty when
Light shines through the tinted glass.
Though fragile, her strength is in the scars
That unify her; thus, she remains
Beautifully broken and mended,
And permanently, poignantly stained.