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My parachute

My parachute is a flat gray
Not showy at all
It doesn’t smell musty even so it is exactly as old as I am
It waits in a thin cardboard box
Under a tin roof
in a quiet place
It practices breathing exercises
Preparing for the day when it drops me on to the earth
Like icing on a fresh baked cake
And I will rise up and walk this earth as if it is a new thing

People will walk up to me and being curious about my visage
They will ask questions
And I will say things like

Head in the clouds
I’ll take that with a grain of salt
Yes, I was born yesterday

But for now I look through shadows at the clouds racing into tomorrow
And my parachute breathes ever so deeply

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About wherearetheheros

just someone my mother might know

6 responses »

  1. Oh! This is fabulous, really! I read it three times…lifts me up and amuses me everytime, and fascinates with what you’ve done with language! Who’s talking? The parachute? You, me, them? Ak, it’s just gorgeous, I’m beaming! It’s very, very good.

    Reply
  2. I have been reading your blog for some time now, but I regret to say this is the first time I have taken the time to comment. Your poetry is remarkable! You have a style all your own, and you have not once failed to either amuse, intrigue, please, or astonish me! Kudos to you! I hope your readershi[p grows and grows! You deserve to have tons of readers!

    I’ll keep coming back, and I thank you so much for sending in that winning entry!

    Reply
  3. congratulations on your winning entry! đŸ™‚ very well deserved!
    And this one is no exception to your marvelous work. I really loved that second to the last stanza . . .but then I really loved it all. Thank you!

    Reply

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