“Everyone’s different,” says someone born in May
To the another whose birthday’s in June.
“But we all get a “hip hip hooray!”!”
“Every cake’s different,” say tastebuds to a spoon;
A stable table to some disposable plates
As they hear for the first time the table’s same tune.
“Every bite’s different,” say the plates in turn on the table.
“Every different bite’s bitten to a new beat on the first record
That plays when cake song’s sung and cake placement is stable.
The foreground to “the food of love” is to tape record.
The format of birthdays is repeated, results still differing for
Each year’s wish, released like a parachute pack by a ripcord.
Something soft to give
Recoil/repulse
Parachutes
Are for girls
Draped in billowing clouds
Of silk linen and lace
I am a storm
Wrapped in black hide
Hides me
Easy to brush off
After a crash landing
Parachutes, Gates, and Mouth’s
Written: by Miracle Man
2006/2021
A parachute makes man light as a feather,
Just a sudden jerk and then you float.
It works the same regardless of weather,
but failing to open there’s no antidote.
“A mind is like a parachute. It doesn't work if it is not open.”
Frank Zappa
In truth, both are not found to be oblate,
and about gates and mouth’s I’m predisposed.
Both require a set of hinges to operate,
and are often open when they should be closed.
“Mouth’s are like gates,
usually open when they should be closed.”
Tom
Wet leaves glisten
on the bough.
Crystal dewdrops drip
down, fall slo-mo,
each parachuting
on a tiny halo
to kiss the damp
grass below!
First leaves of autumn.
Slow parachutes this morning
almost at the curb.
Donal Mahoney
Two men left the airplane without parachutes
One was a young student not too bright and out for fun
He had sport sneakers on when he departed
The old guy wore heavy worker boots as a rule
Took one small step at a time when flying
In fear that he might fall
He was coming down with a cold or flu as well
Torrential rain and eclectic winds caused poor visibility
Vague city lights flickered on dark distant runways
As fate would have it, the plane had already landed
But the duration of the trip was long and tedious
Only slight turbulence was experienced while in flight
Now they simply have to fight the weather as predicted
Two men and others left the airplane safe and sound
Bound for separate destinations as designed
Commercial airlines don’t offer parachutes to customers
It is not their policy
Beer and wine still cost three dollars on all flights
As uneventful as may seem
floating on
a dying whisper
blowing slowly
upon the breath
one flower
blossoming colour
of sunshine
one blow
cotton like
parachutes
on a gentle breeze
kissing upon
a wish whispered
keep guessing
beautiful
within one's mind
as the last
one blows
watching them
floating out
of vision
love me not
flirting dreams
on the breeze landed
in love
a fairytale
you do
love me
love me not
I sit before my snow framed window,
watching thick flakes drop from the dark sky,
parachutes that disappear into the calm white sea below me.
The light is fading framing a reflection,
I see myself glazing, still like a photograph,
inside, I drift back to the watery place by the Black Sea.
I can’t remember that moment in detail,
when I crashed through the surface and into this blue
wash of emotion which has charged me magnetically.
The snow has receded and the sky is now dark.
But the time just stands still as I relive those thoughts,
gathering strength with my will to reinstate through alchemy.
In the distance my senses are stirring again.
Steadily, they come closer, I hear them whisper to me,
“drift back to the surface and let go, its just a memory”.
A family picnic outing on the lawn,
Granny’s hair like dandelions in sun –
silver filaments, a childhood toy.
A puff of breath, the seedlets fly
the way the morning’s breeze has gone.
Memories wind-borne on the sky.
Love is whispered and not forgotten
If this be so
I deaf to soft lipped invitations seek no thought of hope
I of no past collection hold thought
To forget is gruesome and beautiful
My eyes, swift allies in my war of world tell no lies
Silent in the 4 walled chalkboard blue
Shakespearean mad men twist their tongues with words of bland hue
I believe the concept of Ugliness is more profound than that of beauty
Dreams of my bladed face fill up behind my eyes...scratching my mind
Nothing goes SURPRISE! anymore
To love and lose is not the exciting protagonist to never having lost love
the optimists run in circles
pretenders of despair hunt themselves
Every street is Desolation row and my window is covered with blood
Nothing comforts anything
No advice
....just surprises
Parachutes and pillboxes clamor,
such a colorful rumba of
mood elevators locked in time-
released buffers. They can't wait,
they can't wait for the future,
with stanisodium fluoride
and beta blockers, humming
walls of dazzle in high-def,
explosions and collisions in rich
clarity with those smug ties
and flirty personas. Clearly
those farmers didn't want
freedom enough if they weren't
happy being blown into
confetti in a grand unveiling
of just what globalism means.
Butterflies land on
Bunches of flowers with their
Parachutes of wings
noontime rain gladdens the heart so,
leaves sway, glisten upon the bough,
as moist crystals drip and fall slo-mo,
each parachuting on a mini-rainbow,
just to smooch the wet, grasses below !
Your eyes have gone empty as earthenware.
There are no more tragedies, no selections,
no decrees. There are just faces numbed
or edged to laughter: old stories of expediency,
slow dancing to mechanical music.
All things turn ocher and eggshell.
It is hard to believe in anything, yet
we persist, honoring stones
crumbling to the hug of weeds.
We are akimbo in the night, afraid
of silence; locusting ears with noise,
choosing not to remember the abyss,
the waking or the lack of waking.
You are reaching for cords and falling,
arms spreading to parachutes but catching
death - its cold face caught at the window,
meerschaum, smiling, fresh through centuries.
Looking for the formal definition, structure, and history of this poetry form? Visit the Poetry Dictionary entry below. Then return to explore how PoetrySoup members bring the form to life through their own poems.