"helipad" poems
gently i descend the heavens,
on a feathery whiff
silky mane fluttering.
approaching planet
deep blue
or, is it
some shade of grey?
landed on
umm... helipad?
i fill my lungs
with the air perfumed
cough cough
-- maybe not.
so much for
mama' s tall tales!
kicking a hoof,
leap i go
into the nearest forest
or, whatever is left of it.
Jul 17, 2020
Jul 17, 2020 at 4:18 PM UTC
*neither your helipad nor your limos
neither your huge country mansion
nor the famed cellar of vintage wines
in your basement world of wonders
neither your wild and loud wardrobe
nor your collection of fancy silk ties
when it matters most in this world
can make any real difference for us
in our assigned bits of rugged terrain
your fabulous diamonds and rubies
and your green emeralds and pearls
are no more than mere shiny trinkets
before the warmth and camaraderie
exuded by those who still can smile
and still can laugh a deep hearty laugh
in this world of sordid corporations
shady conglomerates and mega deals
you had better be on the lookout for
smooth operators and suave conmen
with fads, facts and figures to sway you
these are the hyenas of today's world
and they will always dissemble if it pays*
Mar 16, 2016
Mar 16, 2016 at 5:40 AM UTC
Bullion stacked against a window sill
piled high enough to watch the street parade
from behind bullet proof glass panels
wives and children safely ensconced
in upper rooms closer
to the helipad on standby.
He watched the streets burn
Moloch madness known
ego blown and ballooned
on taming the nightskys own fireworks
with the stars in attendance.
with God as his butler.
The man on the street did not think so.
The bills mounted high
and his power was cut for the presidents party.
with a loaf of bread to feed six children
he lost his soul to the furnace in his brain
molotov cocktail in hand
he marched down the alleyway
to the highway of the presidential palace
to set fire to his anger
on the parapets of broken promises
to lay waste to the promised kingdom
to break bread with his brethren
until his message was written
on the politicians plate of plenty.
The helicopter rose
straight into the molotov smash
and the fireball consumed the palace.
The rising ashes replaced the starlights
in the sky and the gold bullion melted back into the earth.
Author Notes
The Revolution has just finished in one place. It will start again in some other.
© Marshall Gass. All rights reserved.
Apr 3, 2014
Apr 3, 2014 at 4:12 PM UTC
Earth's axis twisted around the vernal equinox
and March passed the baton to April
in a radiant kaleidoscope of
pink and white and fuschia blossoms.
A sudden breeze launched
a thousand tiny choppers
into the April air
each crafted of finest maple -
spinning, fluttering
searching for a helipad
in the moist and pliant soil.
A spring shower tore
an oak limb from its its trunk
and gravity did the rest.
A robin perches
on a fallen branch
Apr 6, 2016
Apr 6, 2016 at 6:04 PM UTC
A Palace like bungalow,
A helipad,
Private jets,
A helicopter,
Garage full of luxury cars
B U T
He went to the toilet on his two feet.
7/10/2024
Oct 7, 2024
Oct 7, 2024 at 6:30 AM UTC