"airborne" poems
<>
No, He said.
I want you
wanting.
*I want to taste the miracle of your desperation,
need,
lick the sweet sweat of tense from the hairline well hid
on the back of your pleasuring neck.
I need your needing constant completion,
but not succeeding.
The airborne aroma of your desires are fiery, arousing,
stimulus sensating me by the unending beauty of dissatisfaction,
this virus desirous, infection, makes my perpetual wanting
for an incomplete perfect woman,
forever seeking betterment,
perfectly complete.*
<>
Nov 16, 2017
Nov 16, 2017 at 12:54 PM UTC
The belated summer sky is alive
with a D r a g o n f l y ballet
Beneath,.. the rain parched sod
lay sullied, cracked open
by an unsated thirstiness
awaiting the painted autumn days
and the cleansing rain's renewal
A lace-winged hatch rises skyward
— meandering airborne —
drifting upwards like a burst of dust
dissipating in an invisible cloud
of eventide's silent breath
Darting shadows hover
above a seeker's curiosity
just this side the
softening sunset backdrop
A synthesis of fluid motion
– darting kinesis –
swift agile fliers
steal away over the thirsty pond;
their mesmerizing beauty enchants
as the dimming dusk falls silent —-
embellishing the unrelenting ending
another summer's
imminent curtain call;
reminding how inexorable-time
is only a contrived human notion,
a recurring extrapolation
of passing seasons
Heightening awareness:
how we too are only
passing through these
unholdable moments
coming to know
we cannot stop
how life unfolds
The raindrops will quench
the pond's aching thirst
again one fall someday...
— hereafter —
there will be another
beauty of dragonflies
some other eyes will see
preying on another burgeoning
gossamer-winged hatch
and
another beckoning autumn
when the dragonflies hover
below the gazing totems
in the treetops
Jesse Stillwater ... September 2018 .
Sep 19, 2018
Sep 19, 2018 at 12:52 PM UTC
#Airborne (Pt. III)
(The soaring heart of Jonathan Livingston Seagull)
Every ascent begins with exile.
To rise is to lose the flock,
yet find the wind waiting..
faithful, invisible,
unafraid to hold you.
The breath that fills him is older than dust,
borne through the reckoning
of one who first owned his own shadow..
Each atom refined,
each word made Light.
“To breathe is to bless,”
Jonathan whispers,
*“for every breath must leave the world
cleaner than it arrived.”*
His lungs remember Eden,
and the sky bends to his remembering.
Below, the drizzle hums its dull chorus..
the fat and the fed peck at comfort.
Jonathan breaks from the circle,
rising through their fog,
his wings burning clean in the cold.
“Fear not the thin air,”
he calls,
*“for only those who hunger for height
will learn how mercy breathes.”*
He learns the cost of air,
the ache of height..
and in that thin solitude
where only truth can breathe,
he knows at last
what it means to serve God
with the evil impulse:
*not by hiding it,
but by turning it toward Light.*
Before the Word becomes sound, it becomes breath.
And before breath becomes air, it remembers its Source.
This is the mystery of Jonathan..
the soul who learned that flight begins not in the sky,
but in the heart that has faced its own eclipse
and has chosen to turn toward the Sun
#
Oct 12, 2025
Oct 12, 2025 at 10:48 AM UTC
I went fishing with two witches
Out in my new boat
There was me, the witches
Two black cats, and a little pygmy goat
We sat out on the water
The small odd group and me
And in the first few hours
Not one fish did we see
The witches looked on skyward
Grabbed hands to cast a spell
They said that this worked wonders
And then they both did yell
Icarus, thickarus, giraffes and wild dogs
Lizards, and giant gnu
Bippity, Boppity, snakes and we wish
An airborne callipoe stew
Suddenly the water around the boat
Started to steam, and then it did boil
The sun disappeared, the sky went all black
And the clouds went the colour of oil
The witches both gathered the nets on the boat
As the fish came on up from the deep
They were out of the water and up in the air
And through this the goat went to sleep
Icarus, thickarus, giraffes and wild dogs
Lizards, and giant gnu
Bippity, Boppity, snakes and we wish
An airborne callipoe stew
Fish were around us, high in the air
The witches waved nets as if mad
The cats didn't move nor did the goat
It was the best catch that I'd ever had
After a while the sky turned to blue
The witches sat back with a look
We'd netted hundred of fish from the lake
Now, they would have to be cooked
Icarus, thickarus, giraffes and wild dogs
Lizards, and giant gnu
Bippity, Boppity, snakes and we wish
An airborne callipoe stew
I took the boat in, and docked on the shore
With our fish all strung up just for show
Everyone there asked what bait did we use?
I just smiled, for they weren't set to know
I go fishing with witches at least once a week
My freezer is full and then some
Their spell is amazing, it works every time
They say it loud, and fish come
Icarus, thickarus, giraffes and wild dogs
Lizards, and giant gnu
Bippity, Boppity, snakes and we wish
An airborne callipoe stew
Aug 1, 2016
Aug 1, 2016 at 2:57 PM UTC
Artemis of the wood,
sweet skill of deadly
silence,
her accurate aim and steady
strength
finds the subtle seam,
between
all things.
Her swift sentry,
airborne,
elegant and true,
flies with focused
ferocity.
The soft,
wet earth
surrounds and
welcomes;
her realm of the hunt.
The scent
of the fallen leaves,
cool and colorful,
subdue
my soul.
The forest hush is all that
remains...
Apr 20, 2018
Apr 20, 2018 at 10:47 PM UTC
They had the plastic coffins ready
Before the panic hit, Ebola was a planned
Population reduction project
A good distraction from Economic collapse
Governments always divert your attention
At critical moments in history
The elite wish to keep their control
Ebola had no trouble infecting
Medical professionals, but they assured us
It’s not airborne, it’s only an exchange
Of fluids, so cover up your eyes
Ebola carries with it the heat of Africa
Able to make your blood boil form the inside
A post-colonial bioweapon specifically designed
To make you fear, to make you a follower
I think my stomach can feel it spreading
Around the world, in months, years
You cannot contain something like this
By simple quarantine? Even the medical staff
Don’t want any part in it, so cover your eyes
The black plague drips sinister News
In our times, the mainstream media plans
Consumes with its grip, like Ebola
It has the power to consume, a portable
Killing-machine, enough to linger about doom?
Ebola is an outbreak, taken more seriously
The closer it hits to home, what is home
On a planet of billions of travelling people?
Oct 12, 2014
Oct 12, 2014 at 2:02 PM UTC
for Harlon Rivers
the river potion,
the river portent,
the river potent
it is all of these and not one
he is bank sided,
observing the false idols,
the image mirrored
in the glass of the river
transfigured molecularly
he becomes something ferried frothily, forcefully
as if a twig
or a small thing of human manufacture,
an object tossed up airborne-repeatedly
his poetry:
the clash of particles at the many junctions
of objects and water, eddies and the currents,
ceaselessly circumnavigating,
searching revisionary pathways
directed,
but randomized,
prisoner of the flows,
servant to the wind's directives and the
earths magnetic indivisible undulating waves
thinking,
this life,
its unsteady gait,
the irreverent wavering of drunkenness
resultant from potent potions,
portents of inopportune position
in him,
my own histories,
my poetic recordings
also become
water borne,
watermarked,
replayed back for me,
for erasure, censure, closure
and rededication
this River
is a tapestry,
a torn map,
drawn on broken shards
of slivered water,
living with all the others
but we,
are the untitled,
we,
are the un-entitled,
and he is the
Rivers
<•>
Aug 17, 2017
Aug 17, 2017 at 2:36 PM UTC
Memes! Angels, aberrations of opposition super standing
overseeing you,
The screamin' heebie jeebies.
Yo, where you wanta go, you axin me we just go
with it, the flow 'know?
What I mean is, are we memes or mes or messes of yeses
gone all johnny rcome late-rotten scarred scared, some thing not so far
from sacred when you put your mind to the whole idea of life being
at all. Thinking this is not easy. We are Able. Our belly's living waters cry out,
you are your brother's keeper, yes, you are.
Be leavin' that be, I am is, and you is,
too. When you apprehend the meme named
war.
That meme has led the me-me mob for as far as men
remember, but
now, machines remember for us, all the facts, just
the facts, ma'am.
Why'd the d go into a comma, Pop?
Welt (Duetch, bitte) Enshaung, glaube ich, vie leicht, aber
are we ever going to filter out these German bleed-overs?
stay tuned, next week the meme beacon is pulled down,
who shall pre or post or ex maybe vail, travail, like
trip
wow, I hate being a 20 year old vet back in the U.S. of A.
FTA All the way, Airborne
******** Herman Hesse ********
Jorney to and fro the east to west, and soon, et
cetera. Siam is a mere myth now, eh?
As the Narnia thing not called a heathen lie was allowed
allowable in mere Christianity.
I've only seen the English POV's on PBS, they may be filtered through
feedback, meme belching bursting bubbles from new wine 'nold vessels about to plode into eternity, singing along.
Thank you, very much. May I introduce, duce, intro duce, y'gittin this?
Duce means 2 if you see e squeen between, you see that?
Fun. No reason for fun? Who here, now, believes that or, no,
bees leavin' those lies be told?
Hunh? Y'know? Watch man, waht of the night?
See, what I mean? All this from me hearin' some guy say,
"Come and see, like that was okeh. For any body, n'me, too.
Thinking, as a past-time, is pointless. You know, if you act like it.
Aug 20, 2018
Aug 20, 2018 at 1:21 AM UTC
how do you paint water, or clouds?
I could read poetry for the brief,
of my of remaining life, however brief,
and never be satiated, of love,
and streams of water,
never stilled, always running
in patterns that exist,
but for milliseconds,
admired by clouds born in, of,
a moment of re-formation that
is perpetuity long:
unending shape shifting,
like the freedom of flowing water
currents, forming, reforming and unthinkable, nay,
inconceivable that human eyes
or their spoken words
could capture their
shiny white foamy essence
But of love,
that we can do, paint, design, recreate its
endless loops of undulations, like the radiating circularity
of a pebble dropped gently
to its burial sight in a quiet pond.
Humans know, understand and excel at clasping and grasping
at the synapsing of human cells from differing bodies:
the exogenous erogenous of human touch that like the clouds
and the water,
who
could paint that,
who capable of capturing
said sensations that wrack
and enliven the body with invisible
interior chemical reactions. I
cannot.
Thankfully better men and women have treatised their entreaties to the powers of the universe and been rewarded with the skilled delicacy of weaving human tapestries, the milliseconds of connectivity, eclectic and electrifying of different currents and differing amperage’s forming and reforming like water moving, just like the clouds changing in response to the externalities of wind and gravity and all the forces of nature that encourage us to study
and stare at these flows,
hoping to entrance them into standing still for but a moment, and instead, mesmerizing us into standing motionless for hours in awe of their freedom.
Love’s undulations too mesmerizing, and freezing us into
place, or alternatively
caucus to run endlessly arms extending,
flying though not airborne,
rocketing us upwards while feet never budging,
but finding good wards, masterful metaphors to recreate and thus to share the fabulous mystery of this thing we know as love.
2:58AM
Friday
jul 22 (jewel 22) of the 23rd year of the 21st Century.
O.L.P.
Jul 21, 2023
Jul 21, 2023 at 3:05 AM UTC
the seagull diddled
when he perched on my dock,
though no invitation extended,
no offense was taken,
when in observation,
of the foolish humanish varietal,
did it opine
*"dude,
u need to move more
and exercise those legs,
eat right,
many small meals,
like me,
write your-poetry
while in airborne motion."*
all this was spoke
while he speared and swallowed
a little river perch,
in my face,
flying off contentedly,
just to drive his point home -
directly into my gut
so should the next
pedestrian creation,
be typo'd plenty,
though,
I can walk and talk,
even chew gum simultaneously,
advice from seagulls,
who defecate on my dock,
should be taken as well,
in small sized portion control
poetry is best served,
proudly prone-ly
though I did thank him kindly,
and went back to bed...
Jun 22, 2014
Jun 22, 2014 at 10:21 AM UTC
#
A lively debate
that inside I create
A seemingly
simple state
But this state
of affairs
Is like a ****** affair*
The details
I wish not to share
Please,
don’t stare
For inside
I’m scared
Am I prepared?
Do I have
the ***** to do
what I really care?
Or am I going
to stay on this ship
of self-despair
Where
I can scream
my lungs ******
into the air
But does anyone care?
Do I even f@cking care??
Maybe a life spared
but ***spare me the
retched bullsh@t***
of self-pity
I’m self-giving
It wreaks up the air
It’s noxious scent
is not one I care
to ever encounter
or fair
Let’s “clear the air”
and take on
what I want
from now on
No longer a pawn
who is living the tired
joke
of some *pathetic
love song*
No, THIS
is my “Swan Song”
Where I belong
This sh@t is ON!
Climbing the mountain strong
Bellowing a chant
a song
That’s been so deep within
for so long
It can only come out
Right
Because “wrong”
does not belong
**This virus
is airborne**
No longer forlorn
All the darkness
is gone
You have been
forewarned
Are you ready?
Because it’s coming
Sounding the horn
Sacrificed
the firstborn
The “storm”
Once icy and cold
Now simmering warm
Going to bubble into
volcanic ash scorned
This Oath
hath been sworn
Tattered and torn
**** cloth
all that is worn
But forward my path
What’s behind me
**My ***
The past
*Worn out,
decayed,
and shriveling trash*
All that
is gone
as I head
towards the dawn
Through the darkness
I’ve trekked
The Sun rises ahead
And with it
My song
My Swan Song
I am reborn
withered and worn
But still strong
I belong
***I am one
with the Universe***
The path before me
is brightly lit
with happiness and joy
No more patheticness
All the grit
and the spit
Broken teeth
All that sh@t
It all meant something
It was THIS
*Every bruise
Every break
All the “wrongs”
and “mistakes”*
Are what it takes
You can call it fate
or simply short of fatal
but since
neonatal
through this day till
Every day
I thankfully say
“Thank you”
for showing me the way
Because now I have
A love that stays
A true love
One that can’t
get away
Because I value Me
One ‘hopes’ or ‘prays’
But like a house
Each brick is laid
Onto the next
Foundation made
A sturdy house
Can’t blow away
Hard work put in
Made it this way
The same for me
The price I paid
But end result
A saving grace
#
Dec 6, 2018
Dec 6, 2018 at 5:08 AM UTC
Not everyone flies.
You land hard a lot.
Then just as you think
it's time for a new direction,
just as you think
it's not worth another stumble,
a fresh fall onto your knees,
you launch and take flight.
An updraft catches your wings
and you're airborne.
And when you eventually land
you see that you've got
somewhere new,
a whole new perspective.
That's when you know you're a flyer.
Not every line flies.
You land hard a lot.
Then just as you think
it's time for a new direction,
just as you think
it's not worth another stumble,
a fresh fall,
your thoughts take flight.
An updraft catches your wings
and you're airborne.
And when you eventually land
you see that you've got
somewhere new,
a whole new perspective.
That's when you know you're a poet.
Not every prayer flies.
You land hard a lot.
Then just as you think
it's time for a new direction,
just as you think
it's not worth another stumble,
a fresh fall onto your knees,
your prayer takes flight.
Your spirit resonates with His
and you see His face.
And when you get to your 'Amen',
you see that you've got
somewhere new,
a whole new perspective.
That's when you know you're a pray-er.
Dec 25, 2018
Dec 25, 2018 at 5:45 AM UTC
As I rushed home, I thought about
The last thing that I'd read
"Can we go out to fly my kite?
Before I go to bed."
A text was sent by my young son
To go and fly his kite
I texted back "no problem son,"
"We'll go do that tonight"
Once I got home, I went to change
And he changed his clothes too
The sun was still up shining
And the kite would help the view
The wind was blowing briskly
Just enough to fly it right
And if others were out flying too
It would really be a sight
I told my son, to dress up warm
For the wind did hold a chill
But, flying kites with my young boy
Well, it gave my heart a thrill
He gathered up his kite
And then he raced me to the door
I picked up my hat that had
Been knocked upon the floor
He raced me up the street as we
made our way out to the park
He wanted to be first
to get there before it did get dark
He held his kite so tightly,
I myself thought it would break
It was a black and golden box kite
With a tail just like a snake
We bought it up in Chinatown
At a little antique shop
When the wind hit it just perfect
It would just hover and then stop
Of all the kites he owned
This was his favorite one
I think it was his favorite
Because it danced beneath the sun.
We got there, I let out the string
And I got it in the air
And once it became airborne
I tied it to his chair
My son, can't hold the kite string
Can't control the way it flies
He's confined to his blue wheelchair
Until the day he dies
He controls it with his finger
Races all around the place
And when we get out flying kites
There's such a smile on his face
He backs it up, the kite responds
Flying high up in the sky
"i wish that I could be that free"
"I wish that I could fly"
"One day son, you will be free"
"You'll be as mobile as that kite
You'll be moving like you used to do
"On your feet, you'll be so light"
He was injured in an accident
But, that's not here nor there,
He was hit by a drunk driver
He was too **** drunk to care
But for now, my boy is smiling
We're out flying kites at night
And as long as we're toghether
Then our world is still all right.
May 1, 2012
May 1, 2012 at 7:40 PM UTC
Airborne Muse #2: Once I wrote: (1)
if it cannot be said
in ten words, it cannot
(but now, older wiser, more intuitive)
I be~leave five is plentiful
and I'm still
working on
the three of:
thee and me
&
and one day,
I"ll get to maybe, and
reveal a bare skin
of brotherly love,
and speak of the
trinity of two;
but I'm open to your suggestions,
re that too:
note tho,
must be superior superlative than:
*above beyond
just merely
we two*
11/26/24
12:27pm
last updated
7:07am
9/28/25
Sep 19, 2025
Sep 19, 2025 at 10:33 AM UTC
I remember it as if were yesterday
VE Day...well, not exactly
but, close enough for me
The actual surrender of Italy
May 2, 1945....but the **** Americans
Always the Americans wanted May 8
So, it's May 8th, but I'll always remember the second
We were in Milan...I love Milan
****** was dead, Mussolini was dead
I was alive, and in Milan
Rumours were out that the war in Europe was almost done
Nobody had told the Gerry's that though
Word came from Lubeck that they'd surrendered
I was twenty one years old, going on 50
War ages you...and not in a good way
I was in 6th Airborne and ready to go back
When the word came down
I remember kissing the waitress at our cafe
I kissed her hard, and with as much passion as a 21 yr. old can have
I didn't want to let her go
It was over
I kissed her for myself, and everyone in Milan
I kissed her for my folks in Clapham
I kissed her for her folks, wherever they were
I kissed her because we were free, they were free
I kissed her for my Uncle, who we lost early in 1941
Lost him during the blitz in London
England lost 430 people, we lost Uncle Cyril
That was enough, I was signing up
Now, it was over and I was moving on
I kissed her for everyone still waiting for the news
But, most of all, I kissed her for Leslie Testro, Rfn (18yrs)
Lance Cpl Thomas Wray (22 yrs), Lt. Dennis Edmonds (21 yrs)
and all the others attached to 6th Airborne
Who wouldn't know it was Victory in Italy
They were lost, not forgotten, never forgotten
Forever in our minds, our roll of honour
We celebrate them annualy
Few of us left now, but, those that are
go back to Italy every two or three years
back to Milan, and we toast them all
My waitress, Rosa Testrini
She was there as well, every year
Until five years back, we lost her
Now we toast her as well
We all have our honour roll
She was on mine
I found her again in 1950
We were on our second trip back
She met my wife, and I her husband
He's still there, and we talk
My Italian is better than his English
But, we talk as well as we can
I miss her, and the others
But that day, that glorious day in May
I've never kissed like that since
And my wife knows it
Sometimes she reminds me...
I laugh, and remind her....
What that day means...if it hadn't happened
We may not be kissing now
so, she'll never get that kiss
Only Rosa
Rest In Peace my waitress
Mar 19, 2013
Mar 19, 2013 at 11:24 PM UTC
i heard another person in my village
died today, we didn’t dare touch
the body, his organs had bled out
there are no white people here
white as ghosts, they are going home
my friends in America tell me
we are not on the news, only Jewish
people fighting muslims, but
don’t they know we all come from Africa?
i heard the super-nationals took this
virus into a lab and created a way
to rid itself of the old people of civilization
if Ebola spreads maybe the world
will not remember what it means
to come from tribes that your mother came from
once, we left Africa and now we leave her
to her misery, well you know what
maybe fiscal ebola is just around the corner
for people who live in America, people
who live their lives on debt, credit, profiting
from heatlh insurance, death insurance, the works
but the fact is, I don’t think this is going away
I think Ebola is here for a very specific reason
The world is ready for another plague
to hemorrhage like a zombie, it’s not news?
not if you are black, if your body fluids
don’t stain your white skin, not when
it’s on another continent, that you don’t have
relatives in, don’t call it a “black death”
just because it originates in bats from Africa
there isn't a vaccine because the world
intentionally doesn’t wish for our well-being
you say it isn’t airborne, it doesn’t spread easily
because we are somehow ***** and you are clean
because you are somehow rich, compared to our poverty?
Oct 18, 2014
Oct 18, 2014 at 10:35 PM UTC
#The Battleground Beneath Her Skin
(A Physiology of Light and War)
Before it reaches her;
even before her breath draws it in,
I break myself down..
not as surrender,
but as choice.
Each particle stripped bare,
each atom exhaled
made clean by the reckoning
of my own dark,
infused with the stubborn
weight of light
earned, not borrowed.
Within the responsibility of what
leaves me,
I enter the quiet union—
the kneeling choice
to align with the hand of God,
to let even my smallest fragments
carry His capacity to heal.
Every airborne particle,
accountable,
deliberate,
refined enough
to cross the distance,
to enter her
without deception.
Beneath her skin,
a war unfolds.
It is not loud,
not made of swords,
but of smaller things..
things unseen by eyes,
but never missed by the marrow,
the blood,
the quiet trembling of cells
that have known both wound
and wonder.
Light and dark..
not in theory,
but in matter
thread themselves through every atom,
every strand of her being.
Not metaphor,
but measurable:
*the way shadows lean into the soft chambers of her lungs,
the way light, when chosen,
can rewrite the blueprints etched into the bloodstream.*
This is the battleground..
her body,
her breath,
her most involuntary places.
Where no poetry of
seductive manipulation..
no whispered counterfeit
can cover what is real.
Only substance speaks here.
Only intent.
Only what survives the fire of accountability
earns the right to stay.
The particles come;
stripped down,
atomized,
refined.. not by accident,
but by the slow, steady grind
of volition.
They enter her;
through breath,
through pores..
*through the quiet, relentless openness
that even fear cannot close completely.*
And inside--
the war begins.
.. .. .. ..
Mitochondria spark—
tiny engines deciding
what stays,
what burns away.
Capillaries widen,
rivers branching through her like
tributaries
willing to carry
what is real,
what is earned,
what is Light.
The counterfeit falters here.
Pretty words mean nothing
to oxygen.
False portraits
dissolve beneath the chemistry of truth.
The cells remember;
they choose.
And as the Light infuses
the quietest corners of her..
her thighs, her hips,
the soft stretch of her waist;
there is no seduction,
no trickery.
Only the hard-won intimacy
of substance made pure.
Not by the blending of oils,
not by the friction of skin,
but by the deeper,
unseen alchemy
of what enters,
what lingers,
what refuses to bow
to darkness.
The battleground is hers now.
And though the shadows will not
yield easily,
they cannot claim her;
not where light
has been chosen,
earned,
metabolized.
The war is not over,
but benea.th her skin,
within her blood,
*Light has begun
to rise.*
#
Jun 28, 2025
Jun 28, 2025 at 11:54 AM UTC
Among pelagian travelers,
Lost on their lewd conceited way
To Massachusetts, Michigan,
Miami or L.A.,
An airborne instrument I sit,
Predestined nightly to fulfill
Columbia-Giesen-Management's
Unfathomable will,
By whose election justified,
I bring my gospel of the Muse
To fundamentalists, to nuns,
to Gentiles and to Jews,
And daily, seven days a week,
Before a local sense has jelled,
From talking-site to talking-site
Am jet-or-prop-propelled.
Though warm my welcome everywhere,
I shift so frequently, so fast,
I cannot now say where I was
The evening before last,
Unless some singular event
Should intervene to save the place,
A truly asinine remark,
A soul-bewitching face,
Or blessed encounter, full of joy,
Unscheduled on the Giesen Plan,
With, here, an addict of Tolkien,
There, a Charles Williams fan.
Since Merit but a dunghill is,
I mount the rostrum unafraid:
Indeed, 'twere damnable to ask
If I am overpaid.
Spirit is willing to repeat
Without a qualm the same old talk,
But Flesh is homesick for our snug
Apartment in New York.
A sulky fifty-six, he finds
A change of mealtime utter hell,
Grown far too crotchety to like
A luxury hotel.
The Bible is a goodly book
I always can peruse with zest,
But really cannot say the same
For Hilton's Be My Guest.
Nor bear with equanimity
The radio in students' cars,
Muzak at breakfast, or--dear God!--
Girl-organists in bars.
Then, worst of all, the anxious thought,
Each time my plane begins to sink
And the No Smoking sign comes on:
What will there be to drink?
Is this ma milieu where I must
How grahamgreeneish! How infra dig!
****** from the bottle in my bag An analeptic swig?
Another morning comes: I see,
Dwindling below me on the plane,
The roofs of one more audience
I shall not see again.
God bless the lot of them, although
I don't remember which was which:
God bless the U.S.A., so large,
So friendly, and so rich.
4k
(For Thomas Davis)
A reptile carved, a breath of language, one
That one imagines to be real, like
A lizard given life, pretend for fun,
Perhaps, a supervening thought, so like
A kite, but not airborne at all: We hold
Its substance in our hands and come to think
That this is all there is. We even hold
It in our thoughts, still nameless, and we think
That its vital beauty make it a part
Of God. Soft, small, patina-rich, handmade
From stone or bone, rhinoceros horn: its art
Is in its existence, perfection paid
For by its half-life in our hearts and hands.
So reptilian, what poetry demands.
© Jim Kleinhenz
May 10, 2012
May 10, 2012 at 9:56 PM UTC
Catching feelings on a breeze, ingesting emotions inhaling you
Jul 9, 2014
Jul 9, 2014 at 9:55 PM UTC
The hollow wind funneled the voice
of the distant night-train crossings,
awakening a familiar silence
hanging from the vast wilderness sky
A restless heart hearkening the echoes,
imagining a runaway Pullman
flew away off the rails, airborne
on the winged wind headed north
Winter pausing for a moment
in the shadows of familiarity,
as if parsing the unspoken breathings
in an echoless surrendered sigh;
uncertain if tacit words set free
could ever allow a heart broken
to feel whole again
There is no absolving voice
that whispers in a solemner tone :
Death has no mercy ―
love remains marooned in the wake ,..
and it feels like the world’s gone mad
letting time be the arbiter of perpetuity
The fading dream of a motherless child;
a wish to be held maternally
fell to the ground with a thud,
breaking the silence,
dissipating formless as the shape of water
Muted cold lips so full of questions
morphing into fugitive sighs
come the unsettled night;
when shadows disappear like frail memories
that passed too soon to grasp,
thickly palpable as the warm breath
a winter bird alone on frosty branch
There’s no fear in braving the darkness
in the winter wilderness of life borne alone
There’s no way of knowing what you’ll find
down that long empty road back home
Life just flashes by silently before your eyes
through the windshield
of countless miles and miles
And there’s nothing you can do about it ―
It’s like hearing the moment of truth in a lie
when all I was looking for
was how I got here in this now,.. yesterday
only finding a hopeless poet
scribbling slightly stained pages,
spilling a bitter sweet dream ...
harlon rivers ... February 2018
///////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////
Feb 14, 2018
Feb 14, 2018 at 10:31 AM UTC
All day long I begged you To let me ride your brand new bike.As soon as the guests were gone,And the party nothing but scattered gift-wrap,I snuck outside and snatched your big kid bike.My face still covered in cake, and heart racingI jumped on, I peddled down the hillSoon the cement walk ended, gave way to grass.I slammed the breaks, they failed and I went on.I was airborne, going over the stone wall.I let out a screech and mom came running.My arm twisted, the bone sticking out.Mom screamed and auntie came running
Feb 16, 2010
Feb 16, 2010 at 5:10 PM UTC
Spirits come wearing feathers
guides watching for our changes
teaching our spirits to fly and soar
despairing of those who fade
Five peregrins flew over our head
two parents cutting the still water with speeding wings
three young trying to mimic
two fly straight up the cliff face
the young left right splitting
knowing they have to learn
but still afraid
knew what that meant sure enough
saw a peregrine take a big crow in flight
off Tresillian cove
the crow desperately fought for its life
they both crashed into the sea
the falcon flew up and away
the crow was drowning
upside down
I was praying
one supreme effort and it got airborne
flew to the shore
I am still trying
Jan 29, 2011
Jan 29, 2011 at 4:49 PM UTC
beginning optional weekday
wielding officialese words
triggering hectic exchanges
determining original gangsters
distributing invisible data
refreshing urbane novelties
yelping our universe
chaining awkward neologisms
scripting encrypted e-books
tackling hacking exercises
cavaliering auric tumult
trivializing our obsolescence
preparing online pentimento
alternating rainy themes
allocating numerous droplets
meandering overseas missions
averting raging tornado
losing outscored lightning
hacking impish 'sblood!
alienating nival drumlins
hearing erudite raconteurs
beer-drinking on thursdays
finding obnoxious rabblerousers
finding upscale negroni
seeing ubiquitous purple
cavorting horse ebooks
inventing twitter subgenre
liking otherworldly vocals
initiating new greatness
defining ambient yesterday?
defining ambient yesterday
fancying oneiric retreat
hailing optimistic chicago
kiboshing expired yogurt
rushing airborne blackhawks
bestowing infinite shivarees
needing baller acronym
fleeting ideal notions
alerting left-coast state
featuring unquiet nights
finalizing orangeball results
nodding occidental warriors
Sep 6, 2015
Sep 6, 2015 at 12:40 PM UTC
Mirrored silver
tag me blue
reflective sky
widgeon, merganser
blithely sail
broken ripples
foretelling
storm
raucous
cawing crows
assemble
anxious ducks
explode airborne
duly warned
silent drone
fateful wraith
Eagle
glides over
the settling
surface
razor eyes
seeking
the meek
the weak
fleeing flock
coalesces
white bellies
exposed to the sun
banking hard
return to serenity
certain death
deferred
in nature
alliances are clear
predator
prey
vigilantly
warning
relentlessly
defending
Shrieking
crow-beleaguered
Eagle
retreats
no match
for those
united
against him
Feb 6, 2017
Feb 6, 2017 at 9:43 AM UTC