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

WHOOPS!

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.

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
Domain.

smooching cotton clouds
soars higher as burners roar
reaching wondrous heights

— Marsh

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

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.

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...

I wish to be colorful and bright
Everyone would be pleased at my sight

I  desire to be touched by delicate hands
Little kids would be my friends

For once, I wish to be tied by a string
Giving me a sense of belonging

And when they'd let me free
I would sing a Carol of glee

Losing the control of my mind
I'd drift freely with the wind

High above the world I'd fly
And float between the layers of sky

When drained of all my energy
As tired as  I'll ever be

I'd lay flat on the ground
There I'd have a sleep profound

And when the stress would be too much
I'd have the luxury to burst

To fly too high and to be shattered too soon
In nutshell I wish to be  a balloon

Balloons, balloons!
Floating through the air
Balloons, balloons!
Floating without a care
They’re all sorts of different colors
And all sorts of different shapes!
Some are round and others look like animals
They look so cute. I want to hold one.
So I walk up to the salesman with a coin in hand.
“One balloon please,” I say, as kind as I can.
And now, I grasp the string in between my fingers.
The sensation, it lingers.
So I release it and watch the balloon float up.
My body fills with glee, so I jump.
The balloon, it’s soaring high.
Forever lost, above the puffy clouds in the sky.