"aeronautics" poems - Hello Poetry

It was in total a fast track ticket to the moon and I can't return to transaction dock 8 too soon the star checkout lane at my local supermarket tops balloons with rocket science aeronautics that pilot's service areas binary counter perfect exceeding expectations bent into global orbit My items sped along to muzak her slim milky way belt a smile beaming discount countdowns heaven sent taking off in bit lips when her priceless item buttons almost burst free to air with a strain of special promotions helpfully assisting my every excess flight of fancy made impulse buys a baggage allowance necessity She stroked parts of her radical laser station to fully engage hygienic wiped spills of imagination and I felt the warp of hyperdrive tangelo engines urging me into a dive to scan juice ripe tangerines a last minute save fuelled by stalling flashback cavities gyrating in tight nets as we escaped earth's gravity With a twist of her wrist I was into fits-the-bill ecstasy as the whirr of electronics cut loose such quality with a lick of an index finger our mission was bagged handled too efficiently for any danger of jet lag no flyby chance to not exchange standby coupons my trolley emptied of offers too galactic to pass on

0

Jul 7, 2014

Jul 7, 2014 at 12:52 AM UTC

anthony-williams

The Pocket Rocket At Dock 8

It was in total a fast track ticket to the moon and I can't return to transaction dock 8 too soon the star checkout lane at my local supermarket tops balloons with rocket science aeronautics that pilot's service areas binary counter perfect exceeding expectations bent into global orbit My items sped along to muzak her slim milky way belt a smile beaming discount countdowns heaven sent taking off in bit lips when her priceless item buttons almost burst free to air with a strain of special promotions helpfully assisting my every excess flight of fancy made impulse buys a baggage allowance necessity She stroked parts of her radical laser station to fully engage hygienic wiped spills of imagination and I felt the warp of hyperdrive tangelo engines urging me into a dive to scan juice ripe tangerines a last minute save fuelled by stalling flashback cavities gyrating in tight nets as we escaped earth's gravity With a twist of her wrist I was into fits-the-bill ecstasy as the whirr of electronics cut loose such quality with a lick of an index finger our mission was bagged handled too efficiently for any danger of jet lag no flyby chance to not exchange standby coupons my trolley emptied of offers too galactic to pass on

24

"Time flowing in the night" Alfred Lord Tennyson "Have I dreamt my life, or was it a true one?" Walter Von der Vogelweide Look for the sleepers on Their backs, eyes closed, Their palms upturned to sacrifice Their dreaming bodies to the night. Not knowing that even as the Sun rises wearing a halo of liquid gold, And as their long dark lashes lazily open, They are not waking from their dreams. Outside the hummingbird whirring in Dizzying aeronautics, and the barn owl Shutting its fierce yellow eyes Are dreams too; All dreams. The morning routine: The taste of honey and oats On the tongue, the orange-yellow Melon scooped and swallowed hard, Waking the senses; the bitter coffee, The slightly burned toast Dreams, All dreams. It was a book delivered to him By a misty-eyed stranger in rags Who spoke but a few words barely Audible and, with a toothless grin, Hobbled away, though his gait was Somehow a noble one. This had happened a few nights ago, Only the book remained unopened, He was too tired at the end of the Day and there was work to do in The fields and that stubborn tractor Breaking down each midday. It was last evening that his curiosity Got to him and he kicked off his Work boots and sat with it in the Reclining chair; he put on his spectacles And began to read. He was not a reader much; his time Reading was mostly spent on the Good Book, which he found somewhat Difficult to stay focused on. But this book was different: he was Engaged after the first sentence. There was a stirring in his chest And he intuited from the incredible Words that there was something here That was true. He read until the moon was high In the night sky and he turned the Last page at sometime after midnight, Falling into an easy sleep in which He dreamed that he was a Persian Prince and each night he was told A story by a beautiful girl. He KNEW that he was dreaming and he knew There was such a thing as magic, even In his mundane world. Now the sun in a heat haze. The old chipped weathervane on the Tin roof of the barn, casting a long Shadow on the rows of wheat, Waiting to be harvested. As he climbed onto the rusty Tractor he felt a sense of wonder Present in all these things. As the old tractor belched and Caught fire, he had the thought That if he was still dreaming, As the book had said, he felt more Awake than he had ever been in His life.

0

Oct 2, 2010

Oct 2, 2010 at 5:56 PM UTC

christopher-crow

Dreamer Wake

"Time flowing in the night" Alfred Lord Tennyson "Have I dreamt my life, or was it a true one?" Walter Von der Vogelweide Look for the sleepers on Their backs, eyes closed, Their palms upturned to sacrifice Their dreaming bodies to the night. Not knowing that even as the Sun rises wearing a halo of liquid gold, And as their long dark lashes lazily open, They are not waking from their dreams. Outside the hummingbird whirring in Dizzying aeronautics, and the barn owl Shutting its fierce yellow eyes Are dreams too; All dreams. The morning routine: The taste of honey and oats On the tongue, the orange-yellow Melon scooped and swallowed hard, Waking the senses; the bitter coffee, The slightly burned toast Dreams, All dreams. It was a book delivered to him By a misty-eyed stranger in rags Who spoke but a few words barely Audible and, with a toothless grin, Hobbled away, though his gait was Somehow a noble one. This had happened a few nights ago, Only the book remained unopened, He was too tired at the end of the Day and there was work to do in The fields and that stubborn tractor Breaking down each midday. It was last evening that his curiosity Got to him and he kicked off his Work boots and sat with it in the Reclining chair; he put on his spectacles And began to read. He was not a reader much; his time Reading was mostly spent on the Good Book, which he found somewhat Difficult to stay focused on. But this book was different: he was Engaged after the first sentence. There was a stirring in his chest And he intuited from the incredible Words that there was something here That was true. He read until the moon was high In the night sky and he turned the Last page at sometime after midnight, Falling into an easy sleep in which He dreamed that he was a Persian Prince and each night he was told A story by a beautiful girl. He KNEW that he was dreaming and he knew There was such a thing as magic, even In his mundane world. Now the sun in a heat haze. The old chipped weathervane on the Tin roof of the barn, casting a long Shadow on the rows of wheat, Waiting to be harvested. As he climbed onto the rusty Tractor he felt a sense of wonder Present in all these things. As the old tractor belched and Caught fire, he had the thought That if he was still dreaming, As the book had said, he felt more Awake than he had ever been in His life.

76

"Time flowing in the night" Alfred Lord Tennyson "Have I dreamt my life, or was it a true one?" Walter Von der Vogelweide Look for the sleepers on Their backs, eyes closed, Their palms upturned to sacrifice Their dreaming bodies to the night. Not knowing that even as the Sun rises wearing a halo of liquid gold, And as their long dark lashes lazily open, They are not waking from their dreams. Outside the hummingbird whirring in Dizzying aeronautics, and the barn owl Shutting its fierce yellow eyes Are dreams too; All dreams. The morning routine: The taste of honey and oats On the tongue, the orange-yellow Melon scooped and swallowed hard, Waking the senses; the bitter coffee, The slightly burned toast Dreams, All dreams. It was a book delivered to him By a misty-eyed stranger in rags Who spoke but a few words barely Audible and, with a toothless grin, Hobbled away, though his gait was Somehow a noble one. This had happened a few nights ago, Only the book remained unopened, He was too tired at the end of the Day and there was work to do in The fields and that stubborn tractor Breaking down each midday. It was last evening that his curiosity Got to him and he kicked off his Work boots and sat with it in the Reclining chair; he put on his spectacles And began to read. He was not a reader much; his time Reading was mostly spent on the Good Book, which he found somewhat Difficult to stay focused on. But this book was different: he was Engaged after the first sentence. There was a stirring in his chest And he intuited from the incredible Words that there was something here That was true. He read until the moon was high In the night sky and he turned the Last page at sometime after midnight, Falling into an easy sleep in which He dreamed that he was a Persian Prince and each night he was told A story by a beautiful girl. He KNEW that he was dreaming and he knew There was such a thing as magic, even In his mundane world. Now the sun in a heat haze. The old chipped weathervane on the Tin roof of the barn, casting a long Shadow on the rows of wheat, Waiting to be harvested. As he climbed onto the rusty Tractor he felt a sense of wonder Present in all these things. As the old tractor belched and Caught fire, he had the thought That if he was still dreaming, As the book had said, he felt more Awake than he had ever been in His life.

0

Oct 2, 2010

Oct 2, 2010 at 5:56 PM UTC

christopher-crow

Dreamer Wake

"Time flowing in the night" Alfred Lord Tennyson "Have I dreamt my life, or was it a true one?" Walter Von der Vogelweide Look for the sleepers on Their backs, eyes closed, Their palms upturned to sacrifice Their dreaming bodies to the night. Not knowing that even as the Sun rises wearing a halo of liquid gold, And as their long dark lashes lazily open, They are not waking from their dreams. Outside the hummingbird whirring in Dizzying aeronautics, and the barn owl Shutting its fierce yellow eyes Are dreams too; All dreams. The morning routine: The taste of honey and oats On the tongue, the orange-yellow Melon scooped and swallowed hard, Waking the senses; the bitter coffee, The slightly burned toast Dreams, All dreams. It was a book delivered to him By a misty-eyed stranger in rags Who spoke but a few words barely Audible and, with a toothless grin, Hobbled away, though his gait was Somehow a noble one. This had happened a few nights ago, Only the book remained unopened, He was too tired at the end of the Day and there was work to do in The fields and that stubborn tractor Breaking down each midday. It was last evening that his curiosity Got to him and he kicked off his Work boots and sat with it in the Reclining chair; he put on his spectacles And began to read. He was not a reader much; his time Reading was mostly spent on the Good Book, which he found somewhat Difficult to stay focused on. But this book was different: he was Engaged after the first sentence. There was a stirring in his chest And he intuited from the incredible Words that there was something here That was true. He read until the moon was high In the night sky and he turned the Last page at sometime after midnight, Falling into an easy sleep in which He dreamed that he was a Persian Prince and each night he was told A story by a beautiful girl. He KNEW that he was dreaming and he knew There was such a thing as magic, even In his mundane world. Now the sun in a heat haze. The old chipped weathervane on the Tin roof of the barn, casting a long Shadow on the rows of wheat, Waiting to be harvested. As he climbed onto the rusty Tractor he felt a sense of wonder Present in all these things. As the old tractor belched and Caught fire, he had the thought That if he was still dreaming, As the book had said, he felt more Awake than he had ever been in His life.

76

It was summer, late 80's, Lubbock, Texas, age prevents me from recallng the exact date and time. It was my father on the phone, asking if me and my wife, Karen, would like to go with him out to the airport to visit with my Uncle Jack(Major, USAF ret.). Jack called him and said that he and a 'friend' were flying in private plane to Houston, and would be stopping in Lubock and would be in around noon. Jack was the youngest of three brothers, and my favorite. Shortly before eleven, dad picked us up and off we went. I asked dad if he knew who was coming with him, and he said "no, have no idea." Sitting in the coffee shop, looking out the windows, we saw this Cessna land, and taxi over to the gate. "There they are", dad said, with some anticipation. In a few minutes Jack and his 'friend' emerged. The 'friend" was tall, slender, grayish hair, crew cut. He looked familiar, that 'friend' as they entered the room, and then came the introductions. His name was "Deke" Slayton. One of the original seven astronauts chosen by NASA (National Aeronautics and Space Administration) to participate in the original Mercury program in 1959,and was later the pilot of the docking module when they docked with the Soviet Soyuz capsule in 1975. He was a bomber pilot during WWII, and later became a test pilot. Jack was a glider pilot during the war, and upon retiring from the air force went to work for the FAA(Federal Aeronautics Administration) as Supv. Flight Control Operations, in Albuquerque, New Mexico. They had known each other for a long time. Needless to say, Karen and I nearly "slid out if our chairs", for it's not everyday when you find yourself having a casual cup of coffee and conversation with someone who considered such feats as, "just doing his job." "You never know, who you're going to meet..... on any given day..... at any given time." r.riddle: 10-16-2016

0

Oct 16, 2016

Oct 16, 2016 at 6:47 AM UTC

richard-riddle

You Never Know Who You're Going to Meet

It was summer, late 80's, Lubbock, Texas, age prevents me from recallng the exact date and time. It was my father on the phone, asking if me and my wife, Karen, would like to go with him out to the airport to visit with my Uncle Jack(Major, USAF ret.). Jack called him and said that he and a 'friend' were flying in private plane to Houston, and would be stopping in Lubock and would be in around noon. Jack was the youngest of three brothers, and my favorite. Shortly before eleven, dad picked us up and off we went. I asked dad if he knew who was coming with him, and he said "no, have no idea." Sitting in the coffee shop, looking out the windows, we saw this Cessna land, and taxi over to the gate. "There they are", dad said, with some anticipation. In a few minutes Jack and his 'friend' emerged. The 'friend" was tall, slender, grayish hair, crew cut. He looked familiar, that 'friend' as they entered the room, and then came the introductions. His name was "Deke" Slayton. One of the original seven astronauts chosen by NASA (National Aeronautics and Space Administration) to participate in the original Mercury program in 1959,and was later the pilot of the docking module when they docked with the Soviet Soyuz capsule in 1975. He was a bomber pilot during WWII, and later became a test pilot. Jack was a glider pilot during the war, and upon retiring from the air force went to work for the FAA(Federal Aeronautics Administration) as Supv. Flight Control Operations, in Albuquerque, New Mexico. They had known each other for a long time. Needless to say, Karen and I nearly "slid out if our chairs", for it's not everyday when you find yourself having a casual cup of coffee and conversation with someone who considered such feats as, "just doing his job." "You never know, who you're going to meet..... on any given day..... at any given time." r.riddle: 10-16-2016

6

Schematics of crushes, roguish or otherwise waggish, befitting to summation, of a cosmic life span of paper cuts suffered by poets, and lovers alike, are not to be understood by a future non-tactile Internet age. Yet, may I be as bold as to predict some sort of quark spun eyeballs, as simple malady one might experience in fated approaching calamities of those daring enough to extend electric aeronautics of the heart? For this is what I have found, in my online romantic searches. The effects leaving me only slightly, bug-eyed.

0

Nov 13, 2015

Nov 13, 2015 at 1:38 PM UTC

pj-poesy

Digital Slits

Schematics of crushes, roguish or otherwise waggish, befitting to summation, of a cosmic life span of paper cuts suffered by poets, and lovers alike, are not to be understood by a future non-tactile Internet age. Yet, may I be as bold as to predict some sort of quark spun eyeballs, as simple malady one might experience in fated approaching calamities of those daring enough to extend electric aeronautics of the heart? For this is what I have found, in my online romantic searches. The effects leaving me only slightly, bug-eyed.

16

I swept the pink dirt from the grounds beneath the apologetically heavy saturated grass pursed my lips and blew it into the cloudy cushions of my blushing hands then swallowed it all whole one single gulp of its chalky séance sliding down a dry kind of water slide slipping itself around in its flamingo floatie almost-falling from the grooves of my throat spinning in the fuzzy nostalgia of the circles it made around my feet this morning one thousand times over zooming speedily past the burnt oranges and half-hearted blues again and again leaving crystal-clear pentagrams in the split open wakes of dusk all of these tiny little pleads these gloomy promises dissolving themselves into pale ashes dipping their hair into a thick murk taking flight with two feathery and forbidden midnight arms spread only to rebel against the wind or maybe to hover tower One million feet— above your scary-big shadows small as ants from up here.

0

Oct 14, 2016

Oct 14, 2016 at 1:33 PM UTC

amanda-24

Aeronautics

I swept the pink dirt from the grounds beneath the apologetically heavy saturated grass pursed my lips and blew it into the cloudy cushions of my blushing hands then swallowed it all whole one single gulp of its chalky séance sliding down a dry kind of water slide slipping itself around in its flamingo floatie almost-falling from the grooves of my throat spinning in the fuzzy nostalgia of the circles it made around my feet this morning one thousand times over zooming speedily past the burnt oranges and half-hearted blues again and again leaving crystal-clear pentagrams in the split open wakes of dusk all of these tiny little pleads these gloomy promises dissolving themselves into pale ashes dipping their hair into a thick murk taking flight with two feathery and forbidden midnight arms spread only to rebel against the wind or maybe to hover tower One million feet— above your scary-big shadows small as ants from up here.

30

So far so far you are. To far to swim, walk or run. Your physical terrain will not allow terrestrial travel and your spiritual pressure denies aeronautics. The white whale you are and to most a tall tale.

0

Oct 9, 2016

Oct 9, 2016 at 7:56 PM UTC

alexander-liss

Peace.

So far so far you are. To far to swim, walk or run. Your physical terrain will not allow terrestrial travel and your spiritual pressure denies aeronautics. The white whale you are and to most a tall tale.

1