Golly, what a Pickle you’re In -- Bub,
How is it That you’re stuck in a Pub?
Gullible -- You look, Pimp
for why not hop, on Blimps?
and Fly in its Massive Ruba-dub.
CDs
Every second Sunday my CD collection disperses
fertiliser from
blimps and
zeppelins onto a
great distance areas.
There’s a global inflation problem
everywhere lungs are puffed up
heads are swollen.
Balloons increase in volume overnight.
The cost of rubber bands
has been stretched to its limits.
We recall sadly the heady days of deflation,
when shrinkage gave us more space
to spread, to drink our fill
of a less bloated air.
Politicians and pronouns
are loudly popping
empty suits and Stetson hats
billow and blow more than we can
know.
We see the mushrooming clouds
of bluster and bluff from afar.
The world pumps on way too hard
continents expand beyond their land.
The sky busts out of its high wide window.
Soon we shall see
how it will be before the big bang
as we escalate into fat flatulent globs
and awfully slow, bulky, bouncing blimps.
I struck the raw edges
Jagged scraps
my shards
thunders like waves of anger
on your shore breeze sighed
to ride the wind
sunrises past my dismay
odious side of dark
souvenirs blazing
fade in
skyline silken sun song
propel blimps
orthopter wings
&
draw dusk aches
with burning shapes
& endless rapturous sinew
crimson philharmonic!
grateful life flows
beyond obvious
bestowal affection in a diamond hour
lucidness
climbing longing
velvet whispers
spectrum choir
Written: July 23, 2022
A BRIAN STRAND PREMIERE CHOICE Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Brian Strand
Gremlins, gnomes, a leprechaun and thee imps
Walked into a bar owned by some chimps
Ate too many chips
Weight went to their hips
They rolled out later, looking like blimps
BREATHE DEEP
Hugging the earth
With you since birth
Though invisible
Much is possible
Fun times in party balloons
Less often in hot air balloons
Kites built and challenged to fly
Planes and blimps enjoy the sky
Games played with inflated balls
Windmills make energy, not squalls
Top-down convertibles make hair stray
Clouds and fog begin the day
Sail boats glide on the waves
Fragrances travel, then saved
Forgive a hurricane or tornado
Enjoy adventure on the go
Now show that you care
And feel the love in the air
They are dug in under the screen door
where my foot swings, where concrete crumbles.
Fat and fuzzy the bees scurry as heavy as baby mice.
They share an apartment with a chipmunk,
and a long amber centipede
that sometimes emerges
to ripple-wave at something only it can see.
The bees skim a small acreage, meander low;
rotund whirring blimps that chase each other
in a small circle of light.
When night drips from the roof,
we share a living space
made for their hypnotic huddles,
and my unpacked shadows.
Bruce Willis is at the Super Bowl with blimps and tunnels to run thru!
Run! Bruce Willis! Run! The bad guys are after you!
His wife is in the seats wondering if she’ll be safe!
Honey! Your Hubby is BRUCE WILLIS! No one could be MORE SAFE!
If something is not right! If terrorists are running a muck!
Bruce Willis to the rescue! Thank you very much!
With Miley Cyrus as the ½ time act! Don’t worry anyone!
Before she begins to twerk! He’ll tackle her to the ground!
Are the vendors charging way too much? What will you do?
Simply call Bruce Willis! He’ll do whatever there needs… to do!
As everything goes into sudden death over time…
Bruce Willis to the rescue…That in unless…
Chuck Norris is there for the other blooming team!!!
Then Run! Bruce Willis! Run! Chuck Norris is after you!
Cream puffs, pies, and chocolate brownies
Should surely be banned from the planet
They have no real value, no redeeming factor
We stuff our faces like gannets
Moms always says, “Johnie's got a sweet tooth”
So when he chows down like a pig
It gives him the okay to eat gobs of this stuff
Till he no longer can dance a jig
Now there ain't nuttin' bad 'bout being obese
Some very famous people are blimps
Won't name them here for the fear of a lawsuit
It would leave me tattered and limp
But cream puffs, pies, and chocolate brownies
Are delicious morning, noon, and night
For breakfast, lunch, or important meetings
They're evil but such a delight!
© Jack Ellison 2013
On My Eighty Fifth Birthday
Another Birthday…I’m still alive
Never thought that I’d survive
To the ripe old age of Eighty Five!
But here I am…feisty still
Even though I’m over the hill!
Don’t count me out...Don’t ring that bell
I’m still here and raising hell!
Had a few blimps along the way
But I’m not leaving, I’m here to stay
Still have plans…I’m not done yet
I may do things I may regret
But I’ll have fun doing it
You can bet!
It matters not how old you are
You can dream your dream
Or follow your star
Your flesh may fail you
Your steps may be slow
More and more wrinkles start to show
But there is one thing I surely know
A man isn’t judged by how he looked
Or the size of his fortune or pocketbook
The greatest legacy he leaves behind
Isn’t intelligence or a fertile mind
But the love he gave to his family and friends
A heart full of love always transcends
Fame and fortune in the end
So Happy Birthday again to me
How many more…..?
We’ll just have to see
In the meantime friends
You’ll be hearing from me!
Copyright©2013 Beatrice Boyle
(All rights reserved)
Man Believed and Dreams Came True
By Dane Smith-Johnsen
Man looked up and saw birds fly.
Then, dreamed of soaring in skies.
Balloons, blimps, and hand-gliders
Rockets, shuttles, planes. Man flies!
Man looked out and saw seas near.
Then, dreamed of swimming with fish.
Skins, tow sleds, and breathing gear.
Aquanauts! Man’s fulfilled wish.
Man looked out and saw daylight.
Then dreamed of seeing at night.
Lamps, lanterns, flashlights, streetlights-
Man made his nights glowing bright.
Man looked around; saw earth’s sights.
Then, dreamed he could move mountains.
Bulldozers, hooks, dynamite.
Tunnels pass through! Man attaines.
ã Dane Ann Smith-Johnsen
August 31, 2009
World War I gave us the fly-boys
Who flew by the seat of their pants.
Many would never return from war
While others survived by chance.
Their planes were mostly canvas and wood
Gasoline, bullets, bombs and poison gas.
Every pilot carried his own pistol
Wearing leathers, scarf and goggles of glass.
Aviators had no Parachutes
To escape their burning plane.
Many were forced to jump to their death
Or self inflect a bullet to the brain.
Blimps where known as battleships of the sky
The roar of their engines gave reason for fear.
They flew so high they were hard to shoot down
Hiding above clouds till their targets drew near.
Tracer bullets for the first time were used
In the guns of airplanes to set blimps a fire.
The skies became man’s highway of death
With duty and honor their driving desire.
How many Fly-boys have we lost since then
Those days of the Great War and more?
Where do we get such brave souls of chance
Who rise from the rest in the battles of war?
By Tom Zart
Brine,
in my hairs,
twined,
sun,
shining hard,
having no fun,
eyes bloodshot,
like pigeon blimps,
sight as yet limp,
muscles taut,
of legs,body and arms,
for each step I fought,
the swim was long,
deep and far in sea,
I think taking effort so much was wrong.
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