CLOWN FLOWERS
The bluebells are ringing
happy clappers
to glue the day together
and in the stinging weather
permit me to mention
that my fancy pants
and tethered balloons
allow me to prance
in the style of a loon
without attracting attention.
I am a clown
among the flowers.
Make room! Make room!
So I can bloom.
The tension is palpable
but my nose is long
and the stinging will sing
with notes all wrong
but I belong among
the rungs of sun ladders
that adders will climb
from sad climes to fine
while my furlong shoes
tap dance the Blues.
You are a flower
among the clowns.
Make time! Make time!
So we can rhyme.
The circus purpose
makes you rumble aloud
but absurdly murky
among this crowd
of powerful flowers
are the games of clowns
so down on the ground
I am fated to tumble
crestfallen in pollen
and fallen in vain.
IRISH GHOST
I was
an Irish ghost,
to be sheer,
to be sheer,
to be sheer.
Trapped in a
haunted sock
behind
the chopping block,
I writhed inside
my fabric tomb
and felt
the loom of doom
give room.
A snip! A rip!
A sideways slip.
I shook the lint
from my ghastly lips.
And I was free,
reckless, scary.
Now hear my chant,
you beer-filled host:
I am the grin
without the ghost.
This is no
time to sneer at things
I’ll fill your soul
with fears
that bring
the worst of comforts.
But first
drink up all your beer
while I propose
a toast
to myself, an Irish ghost
imprisoned
in a sock. My name?
The words you dread
the most.
Mr Midnight O’Clock.
Rhys Hughes has lived in many countries. He graduated as an engineer but currently works as a tutor of mathematics. Since his first book was published in 1995 he has had fifty other books published and his work has been translated into ten languages.
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