Long Launch pad Poems
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Location, location, location!
A view that's truly out of this world!
Buy now! Prices are on the up and up,
Own your own piece of the Red Planet,
Turn your cosmic dreams into a reality pump.
Roll up! Roll up! To a crimson dawn,
Where sunsets blaze in purple and blue,
A penthouse by the great Olympus Mons
with a billion-dollar interplanetary view.
This opportunity is truly rare.
You'll never find a better lot anywhere,
with such fabulous, sky-high potential—
It's really, truly: Out of This World!
It's all Freehold title, so no lease to pay.
No body corporate fees to spoil your stay.
Take all the time you need—no rush, no fuss.
Modules are lined up to go on the launch pad!
You can do anything you want there.
No silly council rules to make you despair.
Trees, fountains, pools, tennis courts galore!
The future's all yours—who could ask for more?
Get in early, the lots are going real fast.
Forty-two already sold already this day passed!
We've had one hundred and thirty-seven
Enquiries in a single week— they're all gone!
Close to transport! Drone supplied!
All modules interconnect by Elon's Red-Tube Ride.
No need to step outside, if you don't want to!
Luxury designer space-suits all supplied to you!
Just perfect for investors! Can't you see?
Everyone's lining up to exit old tired Earth with glee
We're building new lifestyles, wealth and value!
Tomorrow! It's life Out There! Not stuck in Here!
Location, location, location!
A view that's truly out of this world!
Buy now! Prices are on the up and up,
Own your own piece of the Red Planet,
Turn your cosmic dreams into a reality pump.
Whilst sitting on the Launch Pad
They await the final countdown
Their rocket – called TAKE 5, begins to shudder
The Captain is well known, and called BUTTERFINGER Boris
The other crew are MIKE and IKE and a female they call Doris
Rising with a roar like thunder
The MILKY WAY GALAXY to their left
Igniting like a Rocket at a Guy Fawkes celebration
They travel through the atmospheres and up into the stratospheres
The crew men on the Mother ship are called THREE MUSKETEERS
As they approach the Harvest Moon
A wondrous sight for all to see
The ship positions carefully, preparing to touch down
The Moon looks like a Christmas bauble dangling from the skies
Such a WHOOPER – it’s humongous, they really can’t believe their eyes
Landing with a bump and beginning to alight
They step upon this waterless and dusty satellite
There are SNO- CAPS for to climb, with such a steep incline
Great MOUNDS of debris all around that block their route ahead
But truthfully the crew would like to be at home, instead
As they explore the Moon once more
They stumble upon a strange creature
A little Green Man, who is very obese
Announcing himself with a sweeping bow, as Mr WATCHAMACALLIT
He’s training to run a Moon MARATHON, but he needs to get fitter to win it
The crew they finished all their chores
Boarding the Mother Ship they fasten her doors
Lift off is smooth, as they drift and float, gliding back into space
But hearing a strange voice nearby, whispering "Are those goodies for me"
They discover Mr W, on bended knees, embarking on a chocolate SPREE
But how on earth did he climb aboard, this CHUNKY little man
The crew in such a quandary and not knowing what to do
Should they turn back NOW AND LATER tell the reasons why
Or continue on their journey home, they did not want to die
Let’s take him home, cried Doris, he can live with me, I like his smile
But the twinkle in her eyes became a tear upon her cheek
She was lonely and emotional as she began to speak
She had fallen for the Moon Man in amongst the ballyhoo
Back home now and in wedded bliss, living on 5th AVENUE
How Sweet it is Competition, Sponsor Carol Connell, written on 29.09.18
Contest Brian's Choice D
Sponsor Brian Strand
Spring Equinox 2019 ™®©- çø!a
Wednesday, March 20, 2019
out of hibernation,
sans mancave, I will climb
specifically at 5:59 Post Meridiem
eastern standard time,
when calendrical, celestial,
and chronological prime
airy factors mark
onset of temperate clime
mitt, also coincides with
'super worm equinox moon,'
to this Earthling, would appear
no larger than a dime
though ironically enough,
said satellite of Earth
closest to this oblate spheroid
whatever esoteric tidbit may be worth,
yet unwittingly inviting once in a
blue cheese moon opportunity
to espy with naked eye lunar dearth
of life, nor feasible conditions
warrant sear ching colonizing ahoy
by an adventurous space cowboy,
but perhaps convenient
launch pad to employ
entrepreneurial minded profiteers,
whether Jewish or goy
establishing other worldly
getaway to enjoy
reprieve, asper burgeoning
hardy madding crowd
populating nearly every square inch,
sans third rock from the sun, a proud
arrogant, defiant, haughty,
et cetera species predominantly cloud
ding, glomming, mucking, et cetera
exploiting courtesy manifest destiny
bajillion year old planet as if endowed
by divine creator to trumpet "FAKE"
supremacy, tis not white in my mind
declaring might equals right unbowed
credo selfishly amassing untold wealth
ideally at expense and health
of every others by fiat, force and stealth
consigning subjects to slavery
in an effort to rule global commonwealth,
which self centered
aggrandizement that ball
(pockmarks most visible hall
of the moon tin king)
did not return my call
and thoroughly explains
without rhyme and reason
why what appears as face on lunar surface
actually migrants of Stonehenge vestial wall.
For My Daddy with Endless Love
decide … phone people … arrangements need made …
cannot pick … call who … where … when … oh, casket …
my world just stray-shattered fully dismayed
and pain’s pall stretch-burns me like thin plastic
BLUE MORNING - just took Dad …
hued my fragile blunt-sad --
my brain’s left its launch pad ~
no thoughts compose ~
tears fully oppose
planning-time throes.
in Dad’s home, his feel has not yet strayed ~
my known hangs in vague creases of tragic ~
whisper-feels from clothes, Daddy-scent-clad …
bring him to me via my grieving nose
My mother counted meatballs
As she plunked them in the pot.
When I exercise, I count each rep
So I know what is what.
We’ve been told to count our blessings
And, of course, to count the change.
Counting sheep to an insomniac
Would surely not seem strange.
A dieter counts calories.
(For that, please count me out.)
A KO’d boxer hears the count
And knows he’s lost, no doubt.
A countdown at a launch pad
Lets us know that blast off’s near
And the thought that counts reminds us
What we want might not appear.
If you’re counting on an ending
To this little counting spree
Then don’t worry since you know that you
Can always count on me.
Waves pushed a torrent of power and might.
Against the tiny creature seemingly lost in the night.
With only the moon to navigate her path,
Little seahorse galloped—
Giddy up—giddy up—
Hungry suitors let her pass, tonight peace without wrath.
Hippocampus—was her genus, a clever equine design.
Upright she rocked, the shallow temperate sea brine.
With back and forth swiftness, and straight ahead scurry,
Little seahorse galloped—
Giddy up—giddy up—
Her love patiently waiting, she approached in a hurry.
Bequeathed to but one, her monogamous beau.
His sack carrying offspring, soon released in the flow.
She focused on him, and the time now at hand,
United they galloped—
Giddy up—giddy up—
Till they stopped in the moonlight, and knelt in the sand.
Together they witnessed their family emerge.
Dad’s brood pouch and safety, quickly empty and purged.
Fully formed miniatures, resembling Mother and Dad,
A thousand new seahorses now galloped away—
Giddy up—giddy up—
The obscurity of sea grass, their new life’s launch pad.
Difficult to parallel paradigms when
Their shifts are juxtaposed, but with
Gravitational references giving respect
To weightlessness and the weighted
Historical baggage of American racism,
Cosmic and terrestrial revelations
Become as enlightening as the stars.
The anti-gravitational pull
Of weightlessness in outer space
Theorizes well, the upward floating
Away of justice for blacks down here
Spaced-out in oppression on planet Earth:-
Indeed, the weighted historical baggage
Of oppression carried on the backs of blacks
On the planet Earth, is aching to the pull of gravity
On the revolving service of the launch pad at the
At the Kennedy Space Center in Florida with
A teaspoon of a neutron star sitting atop it!
Yet, over the many centuries of rising and setting
Suns in our revolving sojourning flights across the
Space of injustices on Earth known as America, we
Remain as a shaking “people soda” with the cap about
To pop releasing long-awaited shooting star liberation.
The lack of or the gravity of attention given to
The overall injustices and inequalities of wellness
On planet Earth is as easily seen as are its constellations
When viewed through the telescope of monetary distributions
Geared towards solving problems down here “vs” those up there:-
A spaceship called Hope... made from the future's grand mist,
is perched upon a launch pad of manic chemicals and loss.
With stun-gun emotion, Mother Earth regurgitates.
5-4-3-2-1
Her metal finger meets the button...
She releases her ballast...
Blast off!
My brain engulfing G forces.
Soon to become a mustard seed
in a speed-of-light garden.
Filled with gravid redheaded planets,
giving birth to fat-headed moons.
The stars are cheering, like starving mad islanders.
Light years have passed.
Ground control has lost contact.
(by choice or by accident).
The rations are depleting,
but I'm serene in a starry tranquility...
I've blown by a million past lives.
Apologized half-heartedly to an alien God.
Who wished me well, pointed toward a giant black hole.
Then disappeared into the vapor trail
of lost potential and cachexic hope.
It's eerily over.
There's no more virgin oxygen.
Only the stale argon of saints and tyrants,
casting shadows of black hallucinations
chanting:
"Little seed...little seed...Didn't you know this was a one-way flight?"
I gaze out a stained-glass window for the last time.
Church bells are ringing from the parched throat of time.
Four golden letters peel from the side of the star-dusted ship.
Satiating the madness of stars...
"Little seed...little seed."
One rocket on the launch pad....----------------------------
10..........
9.........
8........
7.......
6......
5.....
4....
3...
2..
1.
we have ignition
Written by James Edward Lee Sr.2018©
4/19/18
Surrounded by my paintings around my desk,
Closest one I see the missile launch pad painting,
Under the dark Hawaiian Island skies,
Lighted palm tree and the streak of missile path,
Spent thirty years working there, relates to my heart.
Next, I watch a Bob Ross style painting,
A snow-capped cabin, land and all the trees,
The sky is crimson, with a hazy sun,
Its so serene, it invokes my tranquil thoughts.
Moving along, I am on the banks of a river in Bengal,
On one side, a deer stands looking at the water, afraid to drink,
A tiger stands growling on the other side of river,
My instructor wanted harmony, and suggested they should not be on the same side of river,
Next, a painting of our city manmade lake,
With the bald California mountains overlooking the lake,
The willow tree, oak tree, and a cherry tree, along the sidewalk,
Pair of ducks wading in water, seagulls resting little further away,
Seagulls and geese flying overhead, the scenery made my day.