The Carousel
Oh, this has been so, so fun.
I’d like to liken it to an amusement park ride, but can’t quite find the right one. It’s not like a roller coaster, for one. Too many ups and downs. This ride has been too smooth for that, with a few clatters and bumps that made the ride interesting. But at no point was I clinging on to the ride for dear life, or hoping I didn’t puke.
I could call it a ferris wheel, the slow turning, up to the skies, and down, the swaying of the gondola, the gentle wind in your face. The wild knowledge that you aren’t strapped in, that you are free at the top of the world. But this ride we’ve been on isn’t quite so slow. This ride rolls along, clickety-clack, clickety-clack, gaining momentum with a vague swaying rhythm.
I could call it the tilt-a-whirl. That is a noble ride, and I have always thought so.
Head falls back against the hard shell of the ride. The ride shudders, your cart rolls downwards and backwards. Clickety-clack. Clickety-clack. Now we’re really going.
Hope you’re heavy enough to get really spinning, not too heavy to go too fast. Hold on as the cars do their dance, the dance of the spheres, with its strange music. The ride begins to spin, and you are glad, spinning under the hot midsummer sun. When the cars jolt, you fall against your friend’s arm, and you are laughing, crying, holding on and hoping it never stops.
Yep, it’s a tilt-a-whirl.
And then the car becomes lazy, attempts another half-spin and falls uselessly back down the slope of the ride, swaying on its hinge. The ride is over, for now.
That’s where we are. And hey, friends, thanks for taking me this far. Thanks so much. Thanks for reading. Thanks for telling us our work touched you. Thanks for 40 subscribers. Thanks for praying. Thanks for submitting. Thanks for everything.
To Stephanie Walsh (King of Kings, Mirror)—what nobler task is there? Thanks for reflecting with me, friend.
To Israfel Shae (Paper Pilgrims)—for magic. Your paper pilgrims travel afar.
To Rose Kocher (The Edges of the Marvelous)—for the marvelous, and communion with a kindred heart.
To Justice Kocher (The Story of Jim Elliot)—for a grain of wheat.
To Yva Agcaoili (Yonder Horizon)—O mellon, how our hearts yearn with yours towards that far horizon.
The tilt-a-whirl has stopped, and it’s time to get off. What happens next?
We’re at an amusement park, silly. We’ll get on again later, but for now let’s try a gentler ride. How about the carousel? Oh come on, it’s not as boring as all that. My stomach needs a break. Make sure you get a horse that goes up and down.
Until we return to the tilt-a-whirl again in April, you’ll still see the occasional poem by yours truly pop up in your inbox now and again. The carousel is not without its merit. Until then—
May your pens stay sharp.
S. I. Brubaker
Heron Hollow, PA
A poet, lover of trees, and splasher-in-creeks, S. I. Brubaker has a deep love of story and word, mythos and logos. She heads the Kingfisher Quarterly, which she founded with a mission to publish excellent poetry, fiction, and nonfiction by aspiring young writers that rings true and nurtures affections. She lives in a little hollow in the farmland of Pennsylvania through which a creek flows and occasional small dust devils make life interesting.