"aeroplanes" poems
I
Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone,
Prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone,
Silence the pianos and with muffled drum
Bring out the coffin, let the mourners come.
Let aeroplanes circle moaning overhead
Scribbling on the sky the message He Is Dead,
Put crêpe bows round the white necks of the public
doves,
Let the traffic policemen wear black cotton gloves.
He was my North, my South, my East and West,
My working week and my Sunday rest,
My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song;
I thought that love would last for ever: I was wrong.
The stars are not wanted now: put out every one;
Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun;
Pour away the ocean and sweep up the wood.
For nothing now can ever come to any good.
II
O the valley in the summer where I and my John
Beside the deep river would walk on and on
While the flowers at our feet and the birds up above
Argued so sweetly on reciprocal love,
And I leaned on his shoulder; 'O Johnny, let's play':
But he frowned like thunder and he went away.
O that Friday near Christmas as I well recall
When we went to the Charity Matinee Ball,
The floor was so smooth and the band was so loud
And Johnny so handsome I felt so proud;
'Squeeze me tighter, dear Johnny, let's dance till it's day':
But he frowned like thunder and he went away.
Shall I ever forget at the Grand Opera
When music poured out of each wonderful star?
Diamonds and pearls they hung dazzling down
Over each silver and golden silk gown;
'O John I'm in heaven,' I whispered to say:
But he frowned like thunder and he went away.
O but he was fair as a garden in flower,
As slender and tall as the great Eiffel Tower,
When the waltz throbbed out on the long promenade
O his eyes and his smile they went straight to my heart;
'O marry me, Johnny, I'll love and obey':
But he frowned like thunder and he went away.
O last night I dreamed of you, Johnny, my lover,
You'd the sun on one arm and the moon on the other,
The sea it was blue and the grass it was green,
Every star rattled a round tambourine;
Ten thousand miles deep in a pit there I lay:
But you frowned like thunder and you went away.
15.2k
With it's broom broom cars,
With it's bright bright lights,
With it's swoosh swoosh aeroplanes,
And it's cough cough pollution,
This is the world we are creating?
I think DEMOLISH should be the word!
The cars go broom, broom, broom,
Whilst we **** **** ****
And the world dies, dies, dies.
What happens when the world,
Is dead?
What will the maleostic humans do?
What will the innocent animals do?
What will the universe do,
With out the world,
Right here,
Right now.
The cars go broom, broom, broom,
Whilst we **** **** ****
And the world dies, dies, dies.
Mar 28, 2010
Mar 28, 2010 at 6:13 AM UTC
you can take all your aeroplanes
dump 'em all in the deep blue sea
said you can take all them aeroplanes
dump 'em all in the deep blue sea
say, i don't need no plane to fly me
i got my own smooth pair of wings
you can take all your automobiles
park 'em all in a big green field
said you can take all them automobiles
park 'em all in a big green field
say, i don't need no car to drive me
i got my own cool set of wheels
you can take all of your trains
and run 'em off the track
said you can take all of them trains
just run 'em right off the track
don't need no locomotive engine
i got the blues, i'll blow my stack
(better get back)
Apr 18, 2015
Apr 18, 2015 at 7:17 AM UTC
Finger paint my life,
as I painted as a child
Trees now bigger and intricate in style
Do you think that's were we went wrong
To much detail, branches and leaves
Oh Finger paint my life
I could finger paint triangles
Mum knew they were trees?
Aeroplanes had smiles
and way to many wings
Oh finger paint your life
Cats and dogs looked like horses and sheep
But Dad knew what I painted
And all that it ment
So get out the paint and start again
Focus on basic and not over complex
Oh Fingerpaint your life
It isn't the details, the finicky bits
Not how many branches with leaves at their tips
Look to the simple, look deep inside
Then paint with your fingers
A triangle at a time
Fingerpaint your life woo woo oo
Finger paint your life
Mmmhhhhmmm
Nov 24, 2013
Nov 24, 2013 at 7:34 AM UTC
a thousand restless fingers
pluck along my nerves
and crawl swarming bees
over my flesh
******* dry honey
and I as a comb am empty
waiting on the waxing moon
to bring in the tide
exposed and littered
on the cracked seabed
lighting beeswax candles
impromptu runway lights
for those aeroplanes
who always fail to land
and wasted afternoons
fade into wasted nights
tossing to and fro
I sleep
under the cupboards instead
Oct 28, 2016
Oct 28, 2016 at 5:22 PM UTC
Napoleon shifted,
Restless in the old sarcophagus
And murmured to a watchguard:
"Who goes there?"
"Twenty-one million men,
Soldiers, armies, guns,
Twenty-one million
Afoot, horseback,
In the air,
Under the sea."
And Napoleon turned to his sleep:
"It is not my world answering;
It is some dreamer who knows not
The world I marched in
From Calais to Moscow."
And he slept on
In the old sarcophagus
While the aeroplanes
Droned their motors
Between Napoleon's mausoleum
And the cool night stars.
1.9k
Mama I'm not coming home tonight,
Don't fret I promise I'll be alright,
I'm moving on to better things,
Left the nest and spread my wings,
And feel the sun on the back of my heart.
Father you never understood my plans,
Told me you'd take matters into your hands,
Kicked me to the ground and said,
Son you need to clear your head,
But I'm still waiting for life to start.
Hitch-hiker happiness and suitcase sorrows,
Feel the space between today and tomorrow,
Ride the winds of a thousand ambitions,
Set fire to your inner inhibitions,
Aeroplanes and cars and trains,
My future will never be the same,
I'm a travelling teen with a travelling mind,
So I'll start again and leave my insecurities behind.
Nov 10, 2013
Nov 10, 2013 at 10:28 AM UTC
A full moon suspended
In a slate grey sky
Wisps of clouds illuminated
As they drift casually by.
Stars sparkle brightly
Un-obscured by any cloud
The Milky Way packed tightly
Where thousands seem to crowd.
Aeroplanes criss- cross the skies
For far off cities bound
Cats and dogs night time cries
The only other sounds
Moths and many other creatures
Flutter furiously in the light
Spiders crawl from cracks and fissures
In their element at night
A serene and soothing silence
Steadily descends
Night in all of its magnificence
As yet another day ends.
Mar 27, 2015
Mar 27, 2015 at 3:42 PM UTC
Grandma, sing a lullaby
The fine tune you made for me
I want all the fireflies, the
Glass bottle and light an entire night
Where are my milkweeds
Aeroplanes, milk and honey?
I stood with my umbrella
And the wind took it with her
For the tempest outside my land
And no news returned
There’s my Grandma, her voice
That ooze out of my walls
You’re the bride, the picture
The house and a forgotten lullaby
Grandma, sing a lullaby
The fine tune you made for me
Oct 11, 2015
Oct 11, 2015 at 1:07 PM UTC
Like the way a speaker prepares his toast. Each yearning sensibility, their bold autumnal stamen cast lines into the horizon of our lives. That when we were younger we even thought, that aeroplanes would land just where we stood in front of our homes in our neighborhood. And if unfurled, as our oil riggers kept us off the benches so we must only had whispers of our doings. Then Harold Sev and Linda Wevven brought to us our cars, our toys, our wives...cooking and cleaning and children. This was not the narrow passage of peak four.
Because of this we have learned many wonderfully-suited professions of our tertiary friends: radio captain, Saharan Field Marshall, dairy operator at a dromedary farm.
Why in this short-timed, often-rainy parody of existence due countries set embargos upon one another so that two men who cannot afford even the drink they carry, so long as they handle the glass properly, and we concern ourselves with things as trivial as this.
You stay everyone! This America is stupendous.
Or then drink from my hands and say, "America Finding the Curious Even More Curiouser.'" Where with two plates two bowls, two forks, two spoons, two glasses, and thrice the knives of a charcuterie.
So with your bold hand baskets, and Model-Ts, go show us how you fffffffffffffffffffff
May 25, 2014
May 25, 2014 at 4:42 AM UTC
Maybe I'll just shoot aeroplanes,
And let your cloud eyes wander,
Falling on bomb-dropping drones,
While I sleep underwater
Feb 4, 2012
Feb 4, 2012 at 10:31 PM UTC
'Does the sower
Sow by night,
Or the ploughman in darkness plough?' — William Blake
On this night
black as innocence lost
buses, taxis, aeroplanes
plough with broken furrows
the fields of Castleknock, Dublin 15
after which the wind from a bottomless bag
disperses the tears
of every parent, shed
to fall on disturbed tarmac.
Before the rays of the sun
make pale the moon
and extinguish street light:
with junkie’s needle
and rotting reed, blot
in moon black blood
this balcony where I make myself scarecrow
keeping a watchful eye
for all the children taken.
Oct 1, 2010
Oct 1, 2010 at 2:59 PM UTC
Musk. Wind
whispers mysteries in the form of it;
it thickens thin air until it turns black,
black enough to
hush. Wind,
being black, absorbs your thoughts,
makes violent curls of them; thickens,
thickens thin air until it
transmogrifies
into pages and pages
stained black with disaster-
as if a hurricane crumpled
those could-have been white aeroplanes, potential
papered to fly, and flung them
into the pit of your mind to
sink
deeper
and
deeper
and
deeper
until
your poems were written and the casualties numbered:
each line a suicide of a thought that could have been,
each syllable ink-stained and bloodied black
by artistic integrity, or madness: the same.
This wind is your hair.
This wind is your territory.
Not mine. Never could I have met you here,
in this place
of your solitary being: where real poets exist.
I am not a hurricane: and I am not your disaster.
I have learnt and re-learnt how useless it is to define you
in terms of myself; how useless it is to define you
at all. A rationalist like me can never truly understand
what it is to be part of your endlessness, the sheer
mountainous immensity that constitutes your thrill.
Yes,
your hair fascinates me as much as any ancient,
spiralling, far-away Andromeda- but the fact
that even now, I've already tried to limit you
with words
shows the absoluteness, the solidity,
the density
of my misunderstanding of your... your...
And
real poets know that rationalists are fools.
You know
I am a fool.
I write these meagre verses
with unreachably cold computer technologies
thinking
that these words could somehow save us. Yet,
simultaneously,
I am some drunken nuisance knocking
vehemently
at your door, who turns and strolls
away
right before you finally
answer.
I am a fool
going home and seeing clouds
in the darkness. It is my first
time seeing them in the sky. First
time in nearly a month.
The moon illuminates the clouds,
and so do
the towers of highway lights in the middle of two roads.
One road leads forward, the other backwards.
As the car passes the towers,
the two lamps attached to each of their heads glow.
They streak on as the car speeds on homewards.
They leave fading tails like shooting stars, except they do not travel.
They are stagnant mind lights, peripheral memories; unmythical,
artificial.
They are not like you.
When I pass you,
You....
You...
You.
Please,
never believe-
for even a whisper of musk
to yourself;
for even a black hush,
to yourself;
for even one sliver, one strand
of Andromeda hair, falling
towards yourself-
that
Grahamstown
didn't mean anything less than Eternity to me.
It does.
I am not a hurricane. I am not your disaster.
You are far too much of yourself
for me to be even a zephyr
to you.
Jul 29, 2015
Jul 29, 2015 at 2:58 PM UTC
In Aleppo, they do not weep
for how can one
weep in wounded time.
Souls bantered
piled up, interlocked
dead & dull
lost in dusts
in a cold frenzy night.
Oppress Eden
but not Aleppo
not today, not tonight
not in this time
where children can’t weep
to save their tears
for them to drink
& not their blood
while trapped
within collapsed walls
of the wailing world.
Children of Aleppo
cry not, die not.
Memories will never bury you
to the infested ground
saturated by psychedelic bombs
& festered by maddening
cataclysm of human cold art.
The old world tries to redeem you,
to let you live, live with living
but it cannot for how can the world
try to win, then and again
tears back to emotive impulses
breaking the wind pulsating
in the plane sanity of mind?
In Aleppo, dead men forgot
to weep. Forgetful men
wept yet weeping
with no clause why.
Aeroplanes are still there
buzzing the sky,
bombing your hearts.
Aleppo, your body might die
tonight & several nights more
but memory, in this wounded time
will never bury you to ash
for Aleppo, young child, will live
beyond wounds, beyond cries.
Dec 14, 2016
Dec 14, 2016 at 10:45 PM UTC
Sirens, ballads of anguish are singing, ears are ringing,
Our nightingale is shrieking, and children are clinging.
Our Kalyna is red, but wrapped in blood now, not love,
From the massacres aeroplanes bring from far above.
My uncle, enters the now upside-down house of his,
“Welcome”, with a phoney grin, and wariness he says.
The house holding memories is now clogged rubble,
In the land that shall never greet occupiers or trouble.
His daughter's dreams shattered, for the reverie of filth,
It matters not; the nation of his deserves blood spilth,
We deserve not peace, but the delusions of a hag pass,
May he rest in peace, along with the delusion he has.
My mother may never hear the raindrops fall again;
Missiles seal ears with noise, and the death of men.
The men, women and children, who will lead us all,
Through scorched fields with whispers old and small.
She is a hairdresser, she might braid hair for the fun,
But other mothers, braid the hairs of daughters gone,
They keep them safe under a pillow where they smell,
The warmth of days before the dictator's missiles fell.
Red and black are the only colours they pervaded here,
They wish for our colours to diminish and spring adhere,
But beauty routs the devil of ugliness and his conceit;
Our colours saturate our resistance, painting your defeat.
They shall not sprout in our fields, like poisonous herbs,
They "rescue" us, but the gunshots my brother disturbs,
We did one day exchange our dreams for a pistol facing -
Facing the bear who is destruction, within embracing.
Blood accumulated in heaps on the sleeves of killers,
Like a marvel detested in a chapter of stained thrillers.
But thriller this is not, it is lives of the innocent lost;
He plays chess in reality, after a coin he has tossed.
Mothers, daughters, sons and fathers are everyday slain,
but spring soars today, prevails tomorrow - in Ukraine.
Apr 23, 2022
Apr 23, 2022 at 10:06 AM UTC
Top hat and tails.
Fire and ice and bison graze the land,
man's hand desiring more and more until there is no more to feed,and at such speed and still we need that more than more, so dig down deep into the core of where we live,
we give ourselves an even chance when chancing fate but fate gives us a passing look as if to say,'fuck you,you do what you do and expect so much,to touch the stars,dig up Mars and plunder planets'
I wonder such as gannets fly across the worn out pillaged sky where aeroplanes shave micro lines across the sheets of landing times.
It's fire and ice and desert scrub, manufacturing gin in the old bathtub and guv'nor can you spare a time when if you ever spared a dime for beggars on the city street who graze the dog ends at their feet and look in kiosks for lost coins.
It's the road we're on,no going back now,we've ******* the world and have to live somehow with ******* crops ,unfertile ground,the world keeps spinning round and round,a crazy top,can't someone please just make it stop.
And then, when men become cave dwellers
why do we expect the fellers (sic)
to do or not become much more than what the modern man once saw,
we're in the spin
we cant begin again
can't beat the acid rain
just relax and revel
in the pain.
Nov 28, 2013
Nov 28, 2013 at 9:02 AM UTC
If we lie here long enough
we will feel the curve of
the Earth moulding into
the curve of our spines,
the universe expanding above
us, relentless and racing as
our hands weave together,
pulled tight at the fingers
like shoe laces,
we watch paper aeroplanes
fly like comets, brilliant
against the carpet of night,
cloudless, we imagine faces
that we know, white stars
growing like flowers,
time passing in seconds,
speeding into hours as
our hearts beat against
our bones, the air wrapping
around our skin as we fit,
piece by piece,
into each other
Apr 11, 2014
Apr 11, 2014 at 12:07 PM UTC
He laughs so hard it feels like he's laughing at you
Comedy is the best Philosophy
After a Tragic History
My Head will never be ******* on again
Lose weight and get laid
Is the typical answer to everything
Marriage is the be all and end all
Driving a stake into the ground and settling up camp
Highest grade imaginable
Hearty losers making an early deathbed
Don't bury me when I'm gone, I don't want that brown soil
Ideas buried alive in the dirt of my mind
Figures, I'd have to chase it actually
Watching scores grab at me
Fearing me naturally
Mum! I'm going Off
Stop Smoking ****
Stop Smoking ****
Hard Knock Life, Ghetto Anthem
The Struggle is Beautiful
We are the Blessing
Black is Cool, White: Innocent?
What do We do, Now Equality is Assumed?
Feminism isn't cool
Anarchism's for...fools
(?)Hope you consider the meaning of words
Hope redefinitions start teaching us words
Language is a paradox, we can't refute words
Panic at the infinite, our romance is absurd
Paper aeroplanes will litter my hall
Children at my mercy, I have to teach them to fall
Teach them to pick themselves up and go forth
Trying to be the same Slave that I bought
Forget being humble I'm heading for the Lowlands
I'm singing across the riverside, rapping my feet along the path
Dire through the mire, hip hopping across rocky foundations
Beat dropping like a generation, the way is the destination
No direction to this poem, no direction home,
Lost in the world, see through my Third Eye
I'm laughing so hard now it's all in a dream
Would it be best to die at your happiest moment?
Just know I did it for Hip Hop,
Promise that you will sing about me when I'm gone
And I did it for Jay
My Best Mate
Nov 12, 2013
Nov 12, 2013 at 6:15 PM UTC
Keeping a vision ever since
A feeling to aim for
Living in that vision
Longing for it every day
Catching shooting stars
Eating aeroplanes
Blowing candles on a cake
Wishing the same wish in every possible way
Put oneself through obstacles
In hopes of a worthy exchange
Working towards that dream
That forms whenever eyes are closed
*That one thing...
That moves...
Slowly...
Peacefully...
Gentle and carefree
Happy and soothing*
A sweet life in moderation.
Jul 8, 2016
Jul 8, 2016 at 10:26 AM UTC
Paper boats sail
With little paper sailors
And their little paper hearts
They belong to a sea
Of broken blue acrylic
Paper aeroplanes fly
With little paper pilots
And their little paper courage
They belong to a sky
Of rich and dank enamel
nothing is real
Little paper people
Walk restlessly around
Some little paper town
They have no home
They don't belong
In this paper world
Where we are all
Just being eaten by
Mildew
Waiting for paper rain
To wash us all away
To wash this Paper World away
It's not a dream
It's just on paper
That's why
Jul 27, 2018
Jul 27, 2018 at 11:44 PM UTC
Beer and Barbie
sizzling meat and sunburn
Stars and late night aeroplanes
Laughter and jest
Some serious stuff kept lighthearted
More beer more meat
more laughter
Sep 3, 2014
Sep 3, 2014 at 8:47 AM UTC
Something sad, horrible,
condemnable happened this day
Two passenger planes deviated
from their designated way.
Intentionally two planes crashed
into huge, tall, towers two.
Thousands died, survivors
were less, negligible, very few.
But who were behind this
barbarous act, heinous crime?
Can they do? , people living in
caves, way back in time.
Surprised were pilots experienced
when plane took turn U.
Can a passenger plane be flown
that way by pilots new?
Will any sophisticated mobile
phone function from that height?
Can any airfuel melt steel
strong, hard, standing upright?
Can fire bring down structure so
strong, quickly, veritically that way?
I have seen buildings fragile
standing ***** and burning for days.
I am writing poem, stories
and novels I cannot write.
Islam is not the enemy, - >Quran (5: 32) , (5: 82)
break glasses black and white.
Now so costly are petrol and
diesel, cheap is human blood.
These are modern days, in deserts
one can find rain and flood.
In Google type ' Scientific Forensic
Evidence Exposing 9/11 Lies'
Try to increase your thought's
horizon, take my honest advise.
Must be destroyed tall tower
of lies, huge tower of greed.
Two aeroplanes filled with fuel
of truth is all that we need
Nov 3, 2014
Nov 3, 2014 at 12:05 AM UTC
Los Angeles
Griffith Park,
June 2009,
we got out of our concrete cage
and into the untamed wild.
We tried to escape the amber streetlights
because they polluted the sky;
twinkling stars
winking aeroplanes and
startling skylines
covered in the midnight blue.
I walked with you,
in lockstep,
we avoided the cracks
in the pavement.
We found a quiet place,
just you and I,
the sky cleared
and I didn’t want to blow my cigarette palls
into the sky
as I feared
they would block your view.
Apr 8, 2014
Apr 8, 2014 at 2:43 PM UTC