J.L. Moore

Through a hazy world of multicolor, white faces appear
in our midst. Their painted expressions, laughing, crying
to us, is entertainment and pleasure.
Rouged lips of silly grins and teardrop eyes belie the person within.
Escape to the wondrous circus and hide beneath the red, yellow,
blue and purple lights of our imagination.
But what is the life of a clown,
what does he do? He spins nonsensical
tales with silent words, louder to our ears than the fire-
engine horn that blares. His whimsical tales enthrall, he
captivates our minds into blissful forgetfulness of the
harsh world outside. In the tent of brightly colored illusion,
we are safe and we extol the one who saves us.
The clown is mysterious, abstruse in his rendering of mimicry.
He begs and pleads for that elusive smile of some small child,
the smile that rarely comes but for the foolish games the clown plays.
He plays a sprightly tune and dances a silly rigmarole
and the dance of airy imagery flash across the eye.
Then, one last blast of the trumpet sounds,
the show is over,
time to go home to brutal life and the laughter dies.
The clown, with caking make-up and false hair,
retires to his dressing room and sits down to rest.
He takes a long sigh, a breath of relief, for the end of his performance,
the conclusion of a fantasy.
He has made his bread and now he can sleep in warm reality.
Cozy and safe in his couch-bead, his eyes close and…..
He dreams.