Murder!
Only on weekends
I get onto the plane.
It took me many flights of planes
And all I got were many stares
To get onto this plane.
The plane’s no more a plane
And up it curves.
I must give in
And follow its trajectory
To reach a higher landing.
What high? What low?
I wasn’t high when I began
Yet stooping low
I see how all the paths I take
Are lines or circles as I see.
It’s all around but nonetheless
I’m out of it, I’m out of breath.
I pop a hundred thousand red balloons
Because I think that I deserve
To have the air in them.
I’m hardly taken in
By this delightful act
And hardly has the day gone by
That I don’t feel I’m too much
Out of breath -
So all that bursting joyfully
Was time well spent
Say I to me quite humbly.
I turn to see the blue
That runs out from the tap
At heaven’s end.
I throw the shreds of red balloons
Into the light beyond
The bulb that shines
Beyond the point
Where waves were made,
Where this enchanting plane
Begins to make its journey’s end.
Ah! The site of red and golden blue.
If only there were some more red balloons!
Boundless creativity -
Groundless.
Experiences unite us. I believe words can provide these experiences. The Poet is just one of many ways to share them.
The Poet fuses my reality and imagination using rhythm and rhyme.
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