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Donna Swanson

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The Carousel Rider
by Donna Swanson

Friday, March 23, 2012
Rated "G" by the Author.
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Recent poems by Donna Swanson
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           >> View all 10

Who rides with us on the Carousel?

 THE CAROUSEL RIDER

 

The old man climbed on the carousel

            with trembling step and slow.

No one who watched him standing there

            could be expected to know

 

The depth of his love for the charming beasts

            who waited in stately stride;

To carry the children on their backs,

            a token for a ride.

 

He chose a seat on a chariot

            pulled by a prancing fawn,

And smiled as the children laughed and waved

            to their parents on the ground.

 

The organ commenced a rousing tune,

            the creaking giant stirred.

The old man’s eyes grew misty and soft

            and he spoke, though no one heard.

 

“I shaped you with care and my hands still know

            the dimensions of every line.

How it feels to follow the tangled curve

            of mane and trappings fine.

 

They call me a master carver I hear.

            They marvel how a man could know

Enough to bring such creatures to life

            and set them spinning so.

 

I wonder what they’d think if they knew

            my amazement matches their own.

That I marvel myself at the magic I wrought;

            the beauty of grace and form!”

 

The ride waltzed on to the cadence sweet

            as the old man dreamed and dozed.

And no one knew who rode that day

            on a gilded chariot throne.

 

Illions, Dentzel, Muller, Carmel?

            Were they all dreaming there?

Or was it Morris, Parker or Louff,

            Herschel, Zoller or Dare?

 

 

 

We never know who rides with us

            and shares our world so fair.

What memories flow from a carver’s hand

            and drift on the summer air.

 

But those who love the carousel

            know a secret shared by few.

That each carver rides the carousel

            as surely as we do.

 

The music stopped, the ponies paused,

            the laughing children ran

To waiting arms and other rides

            and no one saw the man

 

As he walked into the afternoon

            with trembling step and slow.

No one but the ponies

            who whinnied a soft, “Farewell!”

c.Donna Swanson

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Reviewed by pat medlin 3/26/2012
enchanting donna...a lovely piece...pmedlin



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