The Scary-go-round

When it opens every afternoon
It plays a moaning, creaking tune,
A slowly dying rooster's croon,
And people flock to ride it like buffoons. 

The ride that every child will dread,
It's all a dreary black and red,
The painted horses have no head,
And all the other creatures stuffed and dead. 

It goes around, but not-so-merry.
Hold on tight,
This ride gets hairy.
Breakneck speed is more than scary,
Throws you off the side if you're not wary. 

Don't know why the people ride it,
With years of maintenance denied it,
Hoards of spiders crawl inside it,
And all the shrieks of fear
from those who tried it. 

They wait and wait in line for hours
Just to face the grisly horrors,
But often I have heard report -
The line that LEAVES the ride
is rather short.


-B.C. Byron
Dead horses and spiders on a rickety carousel with grinding gears and smoke coming out? Sign me up.
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I think this ride would actually be pretty popular. People often go to great lengths to get genuinely frightened or risk bodily harm and they pay good money for the privilege. Forget rock climbing, sky diving, shark fishing, and Nascar. There’s something extra fun about a rickety old ride that threatens to fall apart with each rotation. Roller coasters are scary too, sure, but it’s much more thrilling when you know it could collapse from poor maintenance or you might get gangrene from rusty metal protrusions. In fact, a whole theme park full of broken rides with insect infestations could be the next big thing. I could call it Derelict Park. It would be cheap to operate since the rides would either be salvaged from abandoned carnivals or home-crafted with junkyard parts. The playground area would be a real junkyard filled with farm equipment, car parts, refrigerators, and industrial machines. What a great way to recycle. Liability waivers are a must, of course. Wouldn’t want to wreck everyone’s fun with an injury lawsuit.

I had to rush to finish the drawing for Scary-go-round so I could post it in time for Halloween. This poem was written some time ago, but I was a bit daunted by the illustration work and kept putting it off. For me, being new to art in the past 2 years, this was a step up. I’m glad it’s finished, so now I can come back to it in a year, recognize all its glaring flaws, then completely redraw it. I’ve come to realize this is one of the most important steps in both writing and drawing – revisions. I’ve revised some works 5 or 6 times and felt better with each new version. But how can I know when there are enough spiders and disembodied limbs in my pictures? I’m not sure. It seems art is never really done, just paused while we work on something else.

Hand-some

A hand is strutting down the hall,
The fingers walking proud and tall.
A mighty bold and handsome hand,
With knuckle wrinkles oh so grand.
I'm sure some kid is missing that
When he reaches up to fix his hat,
With just a stub to tip the brim,
No digits top his rounded limb. 
But hands like this don't need an arm,
Don't need a kid,
With all that charm.
The nicest hand you'll ever see,
It ought to be out running free.
Whose hand it is,
I'd like to know.
It's putting on a lovely show.
I recognize those fingernails,
And skin like me
So rough and pale.
Familiar hand of fine design.
Oh, crud.
I think it's mine.


-B.C. Byron
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I’m realizing as I post this that I have at least four poems about losing a hand. I’m not sure why my poems go that direction. Losing a hand isn’t so funny if I really think about it, so I avoid really thinking about it. I’m sure a psychologist would have something to say about it. I avoid those too.

I thought of this poem during a rather boring speech that I was required to listen to at work. I found my mind wandering and wishing something interesting would happen to kill the humdrum. As my eyelids were drooping closed for the tenth time I imagined a disembodied hand, like the one in The Addam’s Family, walking on fingertips through the hallway nearby. It was strutting its stuff and showing off like a model on a fashion runway as it passed the breakroom. People were cringing in horror and scrambling out of its way like it was a giant venomous spider, but the hand continued posing and strutting, unperturbed by the shrieking bystanders – a blessing of not having any ears or eyes. This idea got me laughing out loud. Thankfully, the meeting was a remote virtual one, like most work meetings these days, so the only person that heard me laughing was the fellow in the cubicle in front of me. He’s used to me talking to myself and making odd sounds, so it didn’t phase him at all.

Then I imagined the hand was my own. It had somehow snuck of the end of my arm and took off on an adventure. I passed the remainder of the dull speech entertaining myself by trying to type and drink soda with just my wrist. There were a few liquid spills and some indecipherable emails sent – and the beginnings of a bizarre poem. All-in-all it was a productive meeting.