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elle jaxsun Apr 3
if my head weren't attached
i'd lose it in seconds.

no. milliseconds.

my head is more like
a beautiful bouquet of balloons
i hold tightly with both hands

when i'm doing too good
i get so excited that


i let them all go.

and then i'm jumping
like a ******* idiot
trying to gather them all.

but they float away fast
and i'm still jumping
while others tell me,
"it's okay, they always come back...
well, after you f i n a l l y calm down."

but i can't calm down
i lost my balloons.

of course, eventually, they do come down.
deflated and strings tangled
(or missing)

i gather them
try to untangle and repair them
and hold on tightly
with both hands
once again.
NaPoWriMo day 3 - 040319

ya know, when you frequently lose your **** it takes a minute to come back down to Earth, regroup and try again.
Karen M Feb 13
Sounds of rubber against rubber
Scraping a sandpaper Q-tip through
Your ears will raise hairs from your
Arms and neck to be tugged
On by little ghost hands
Of electricity coming from a tiny sack
Of nothing that fits anything and everything
Wrong you've ever said
Or done and thought rising above
Your head out of reach to be
Popped outside of Heaven's
Cash Carlos Jan 15
They say you get to a certain level of comfort,
and your life as an artist is done,
that you can't have existential angst
if you drive a Buick, that you don't have anything
relevant to say
when you shop at Safeway, and pay your bills;

but last night, as I ******* in the shower,
I saw Jesus in the mist,
dressed in his glowing garb,
and floating like an angel;
and instead of telling me what I was doing
was wrong, and a sin,
he wanted to give me a high five,
and tell me it was okay,
that life was long,
and wives have busy days,
and sometimes you don't want to disturb
the universe,
with anything more than a gentle tug,
to remember you're alive.

And though I didn't find his message ******,
it did make me feel better, overall,
as if finally I was doing something right in the world,
and maybe,
just like Jesus,
still had things to say.
Marsha Oct 2018
smooching cotton clouds
soars higher as burners roar
reaching wondrous heights

— Marsh
A haiku...
Knit Personality Oct 2018
In beautiful Boulder, Colorado the little boy's balloon literally burst,
and he figuratively burst into tears
as though it were literally the end of the world;
and, figuratively, for him it was.
But, literally, one day you'll find that all of your miseries
Were, figuratively, so many burst balloons.

White and black birds
Gather together
In a field
Mixing their colors
Like pawns on a chessboard

Drawn by their flight
My mind wanders
Like a balloon
Adrift in the wind
Let loose by a child

A sense of lost
What is lost
But just somewhere
Alone with too many thoughts
My mind wanders too much sometimes. It wanders so far that even I myself cannot catch it sometimes. Poems help me get my thoughts back through words. Thank you for reading.
Gary Brocks Aug 2018
At four, you took my hand and pulled me to your bed,                                                            
your small form cuddling, curling, you urgently said,
"Tell me… tell me a story! Story, make it long",
I began to tell the story, the story of when you were born.

Drums and bugles, bubbles and balloons,
somersaulting clowns and calliope tunes,
you came out to meet them, on the day that you were born,
and they were there to greet you, through a January storm.

Lions and gorillas marched to military airs,
snowmen and snowwomen danced without a spring time care,
somewhere in the harbor, a tugboat played a note,
and all the while you smiled a smile, upon a birthday float.

Just like a circus troupe, we formed a great parade,
and sauntered to the birthing bed where your mother lay,
she picked you up, she held you, as close as close can be,
her hand in mine, she softly said, “Now... we are three.”

Copyright © 2003 Gary Brocks

Children always want to know who their parents are; their thoughts, hopes, dreams, fears and actions at stages in their lives.
This poem, a poem in several parts (only the first part here), portrays a father for his child, through the manner in which the story of the child's birth is retold at various stages in their life together.
Tony Luxton Aug 2018
Buses are emptied unlike
many minds at this time
in the trudge to work
beneath the canopy of
buoyant barrage ballons.

Another factory day ***** in
the dark figures downcast with bad
war news and routine ritual.
But there is comfort to be had
in the chorus of familiar talk.
Lowry's painting 'Going to Work'
A black boy came upon me
running with the wind
He rushed passed me
With one blue and one yellow balloon
Bouncing excitedly behind him
Like some faithful pet companions
His laughter in both sight and sound
Spread all over his face and around
The bright bouncing balloons pulled
Hard against the strings
And he laughed and laughed...
A child can bring joy in the smallest way, so free
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