"aviation" poems
This isn't Rome
I'm standing still because of statutes
Stone grill: I a carved marble statue
not a muscle dares,
Near frozen by the fear,
let it go I hear
over shoulder: perfect pass
if I get shot over a penalty
Is it clear?
my arms are arms?
a load chopper; in his shades,
do those aviators make me even darker?
(if I studied aviation I could take off I can hover, I can…)
Wait.
he's moving closer,
every hair strand an antenna,
I can feel him,
The smell of disdain on his glare,
stained blood on his hands,
another brother,
my brother
Guiltier with every pace so
-- show your hands,
foot mixed with concrete
I take this order serious,
my motions are motive
and mistaken for resist,
Wait.
Is it his stare or am I ******
(Why did I decide to go my friends wouldn't believe this…)
limitations to the thoughts;
am I arrested or caught?
I'm cold on the surface,
Erode so slow is my sediment evidence,
A blue god so I'm pacified,
I'm hesitant,
he calls and I say that I'm innocent,
I'm witnessing
the transitioning from eruption to ocean
-- volcanic
Blue Medusa,
can you only sculpt destruction?
(I'm not 3 dimensional, I'm real and I matter, I'm real and I matter)
I'm real,
But I shatter,
Gravel if determined that I'm rude so I can't breath,
Gravel if My license plate removed I don't leave,
I don't speak,
I don't flee,
I'm not free,
I believe,
That this happen to my mothers, mother
mothers' brother,
Brother from another was granite
and granted he's valuable
but only in a home
-- of course
I'm quartz in the making
A corpse still shaking
Cause a wallet was mistaken
Or I.D. was misplaced
So, I'm on the rocks
since the bar says that I'm a criminal,
velvet rope divider marks my life
and a vigil,
a wake,
or a hashtag,
you choose,
glass house,
Cold Stone’s,
rocky road,
Medusa licks his finger tips
same finger which
petrified me in the first place,
Reminded I'm in Rome
as I'm standing there motionless
a statue for display
or a trophy for the kitchen,
this art is not for sale
there will be no shipping,
With solidarity
through our solidification,
It won't matter if I look back,
I Matter and I’m Black.
Aug 20, 2016
Aug 20, 2016 at 10:56 AM UTC
The line didn't move, though there were not
many people in it. In a half-hearted light
the lone agent dealt patiently, noiselessly, endlessly
with a large dazed family ranging
from twin toddlers in strollers to an old lady
in a bent wheelchair. Their baggage
was all in cardboard boxes. The plane was delayed,
the rumor went through the line. We shrugged,
in our hopeless overcoats. Aviation
had never seemed a very natural idea.
Bored children floated with faces drained of blood.
The girls in the tax-free shops stood frozen
amid promises of a beautiful life abroad.
Louis Armstrong sang in some upper corner,
a trickle of ignored joy.
Outside, in an unintelligible darkness
that stretched to include the rubies of strip malls,
winged behemoths prowled looking for the gates
where they could bury their koala-bear noses
and **** our dimming dynamos dry.
Boys in floppy sweatshirts and backward hats
slapped their feet ostentatiously
while security attendants giggled
and the voice of a misplaced angel melodiously
parroted FAA regulations. Women in saris
and kimonos dragged, as their penance, behind them
toddlers clutching Occidental teddy bears,
and chair legs screeched in the food court
while ill-paid wraiths mopped circles of night
into the motionless floor.
10.3k
Blue is not sure where to find the propeller.
The motor boat sent to scotch the shimmer. The waves
break inside a jar, and the little pieces are swept up by the wind and made into mist.
The Jar is shaken, the titanic sinks,
and the seagulls peck at our eyes.
Covered in barnacles, the new-found fish men
wander onto the sand and get coated,
as in cornmeal,
ready to fry.
Infatuated and floundering
they wander
to water again.
Drinking death hand over fist,
they ring themselves out with simply a twist.
The fish flap their fins so forcefully;
trying to
be flying to
a sea called the sky.
With a crumbled-ed crust they say, “motherboat or bust”,
but the navigation of aviation is a compilation of great frustration
for fishes whose function
is on boats, wrapped up
in those silly greatcoats.
Yet they made it, or so they claim, and with only one flounder or flunder who had made a blunder to blame.
If only old skipper had been a bit quicker, he wouldn't have had such a queer story to claim.
Oct 25, 2014
Oct 25, 2014 at 2:10 PM UTC
I'm born
Airborne
Forlorn
In war torn
Discord
My ripcord
I pull for liberation
Alienation aviation
Away from a station
Of no relation
Where their elation
Lies in degeneration
The fright fair
Nightmare
In sight there
Is a right scare
But light flares
From an illuminated theater
I dive into art
To fill my meter
I consume
Darkened tomb
Screen in room
Is where I loom
Inspiration blooms
From a sense of doom
My separation reparation
That will lead to veneration
My artistic fervor
Drifted further
Drifter's murmurs
Lifted learners
But gifted murderers
Shifted girders
Of shame and honesty
To my grave of modesty
Where they prey upon me
This plagiarism
Layered schism
Cratered rhythm
Of great decisions
Now I make incisions
With repetition
And the definition
Of words stolen from me
They're all I can see
And I can't get free
Or just let it be
Consumption disruption
At this junction
I can't function
A plagiarist
****** mist
Grips my fist
Makes me wish
I don't exist
I must resist
Before I miss
My chance at bliss
They're ****** me
By aping me
Making me
Shaking trees
Of bumblebees
With rumble pleas
On humble knees
Drinking antifreeze
Nobody cares
What's fair
They bear
And share
Blank stares
Up stairs
Of artistic compromise
Integrity lost in lies
They're not that wise
I hypothesize
My baby
Caught rabies
From Hades
Now ladies
Flock to a thief
Giving me grief
Beyond belief
In my coral reef
Sword in sheath
I drown discreet
Aug 28, 2018
Aug 28, 2018 at 2:29 PM UTC
Ambush
An azure curtain is ripped in two
With scornful arrogance
Needle-points glow
Weaving the rift with intricate wefts
Of red
Of white
And blue
Heady aviation fumes
Lift us swimming
Skyward
Imaginations looping the loop
Jun 21, 2010
Jun 21, 2010 at 12:26 PM UTC
If only we could fly like
those that tweet or hoot
without aid of jet or
parachute
For I sure don't like
wings that boom and roar
just so they can take off
and soar
Ah, to fly without petrol, diesel
or fuel
Oh, to halt that taloned midair
duel *
Birds they don't pollute
the air
nor need they any airline
fare
So if only I too could rise
and glide
and let the wind be my
sole guide
I'd be happy to fly all the
way to 'em' faraway stars
if I was assured I'd risk
no charring scars.
Flying without aviation
formalities
I could be sightseeing
many more cities
Ah I so wish to fly just
like a jay or jackdaw
Then I'd fly across all and
every border
For I'd know nor follow
no man-made law!
If only we needed no darned immigration pass or visa
We could have visited so many more touristy places
Say even the spectacular and popular pyramids of Giza
And we could have known different cultures and races
Ah, a stylish photo next to the leaning tower of Pisa
And return with exotica like a framed pic of the Mona Lisa
Feb 26, 2019
Feb 26, 2019 at 12:20 PM UTC
Gene and Jenny Taylor
Had long been man and wife
But a heinous disagreement
Took a hold upon their life
For each bemoaned their tackle
It was Gene who started first
He justified why dangly bits
Were easily the worst
“They tangle in your underwear
And twist themselves about
If I sit down in football shorts
They try to wriggle out
They chafe on nearly everything
They’re difficult to dry
And when it’s hot an humid out
They’re welded to your thigh”
Jenny swiftly countered him
“Well ***** are surely worst
For shaving is laborious
And not all lips are pursed
The periods are painful
With a week of aggravation
And we use three times the toilet roll
And cause deforestation “
But Gene had more to muster
“Well the ***** is a *******
And hiding an ********
Is a skill each man has mastered
They lead us into jeopardy
They always take the ****
And first thing in the morning
They’ve a tendency to miss”
So Jenny said “Vaginas
Are a curse between the thighs
And lady bits look monstrous
To anyone with eyes
They’re prone to thrush and fondling
And embryo gestation
***** are only any good
For use in aviation”
Gene and Jenny caught their breath
The stalemate was called
For genitals, the lips and *****
Or **** and hairy *****
Are vital to our species
More useful than they seem
And you’ll see a marked improvement
When they’re working as a team
May 15, 2014
May 15, 2014 at 7:14 AM UTC
October 1968
Strange day away from a war,
in a bubble
with the liar who was my friend
who wore a shirt with
a combat aviation badge
a dead man had earned,
first stolen glory
I ever saw.
We are awol, but nobody knows,
then a doughy white guy with a camera,
asks the liar why we are
in Saigon,
at the zoo, in the middle of a war.
A Stars and Stripes reporter,
gathering
the opinion of warriors ( right, in Saigon) re
Jackie Kennedy marrying the Greek
He took our picture, asked our names,
we were awol,
but what the hell, how many losers
ever see their picture
in the Stars and Stripes?
Lesson
send a boy to fight a war,
never tell him who wins, if he lives.
As an old man,
like that tiger, in a cage,
not San Diego Zoo Eco-accurate Habitat,
a cage, concrete floor, old-time
cowboy movie jail barred
cage,
waiting,
like that tiger in the Saigon zoo, 1968.
Apr 5, 2019
Apr 5, 2019 at 1:49 PM UTC
When the clouds below turn to into carpet
Up there in the cold morning light,
The VFR pilot jitters and frets:
Time to check fuel, to come up with a plan
To search for a hole in the billow below,
And bring the craft in to land.
So it was when a pilot coming back from a lark,
Flew in a circle somewhere over Williston,
Above clouds turning thicker and dark.
In his office sat Phil, across the state line,
When the radio crackled, pleading a break:
"VFR practice," he thought, "He's probably fine."
Phil headed to lunch, had an errand to do...
Drove downtown for a couple of hours,
Returning somewhere around 2:00.
The radio tone carried tired despair
When Phil walked back in from his break
And heard the pilot, still stuck in the air.
Phil knew that the fuel must be drained
In the old Piper Cub overhead,
So he logged a flight plan and ran for his plane.
He flew to the east and banked to the north,
Rising above the gray carpet below,
And spotted the wanderer holding its course.
Coming in fast, cutting his distance by half,
"Super Cub over Williston, this is Bonanza
On your left. How much fuel do you have?"
"About 30 minutes," came a despondent reply,
Standard answer, but gauging the hours,
Phil calculated the response was a lie.
"I am going to fly by your side.
Follow me and dive when I dive;
Keep contact and enjoy the ride."
The planes in tandem turned around;
Phil flew by IFR to find the runway end,
Backed off the throttle, and led them down.
The tail dragger followed, did not complain,
Dropped into the soup gliding blind
Except for the strobe on the faster plane.
The old Cub flared when Phil said, "Land!"
Settled onto the runway end as the propeller stalled,
And Phil had saved a desperate man.
On the hangar wall now hangs a plaque,
Though Phil himself is gone,
The Governor's gift for bringing a flyer back.
--------------
My brother once watched Phil Petrik of Sidney Aviation fly off the Sidney runway, disappearing into a pea soup fog, carrying our father and mother on an emergency flight to Billings, to save my father's life.
I lay this poetic rose upon Phil's grave as a slim tribute to a man who earned my admiration and life long gratitude. Rest In Peace, Phil Petrik.
Mar 8, 2016
Mar 8, 2016 at 11:18 AM UTC
Azzurro
The boots were blue in colour
Painted to look like the sky
And worn by a gal with other things
She was aged 18 to 45
And looked timless ageless
It was the blue painted ex army boots
That she used wore to gigs
Pubs and clubs when she was free
Not working as a programmer
In the Italian civilian aviation industry
The job was boring but paid well
She'd done it for 8 years
Was a legend at the plane factory
The lady who wore her blue boots
Even in the office a different pair
She got results delivered the goods
Had worked on 36 different projects
They simply knew her as Azzurro
The blue booted gal
Aug 27, 2022
Aug 27, 2022 at 5:43 PM UTC
You have always dreamed of aviation,
cellophane wings glued to your heartstrings--
my marionette lover of hopes hanging high
enough to abolish the air from heavy lungs.
I watch your cavern chest rise but never fall,
tsunami tides engraved permanently airborne,
intertwining hands with time as suspension
silences destruction.
Time does not exist here--only periwinkle
veins illuminated by morning light,
wispy eyelashes beginning their ascension.
You are all light, and altitude, and grace.
I am grounded, tethered to comfort, but
the curvature of your spine breathes sanctuary.
Your shoulders-- broad, significant--
as if to fingerpaint the alpines you will ascend
once the wrath of gravity is conquered.
When your parachute soul finally gathers
enough strength to pilot the destined flight,
I hope you remember to save
a window seat for my heart.
Feb 1, 2017
Feb 1, 2017 at 8:57 PM UTC
why my poetry is as if a heilig schrein?
teutonisch schwarz auf weiß -
kreuz imitieren zunge -
Preußen war etabliert pre Weimar:
verloren ein Verstand mit Jagiełło;
die punkt auf sein?! nichts zu hinz,
unless electorate Hector
and that Trojan vigil to mind,
with aviation of Ottomans deciphering
the gallop and sneeze of the Arab breed -
more racehorse and less dummy of carpenters'
excess.
Jul 17, 2016
Jul 17, 2016 at 11:31 PM UTC
as one famous founder of a site
citing its demographic as:
poor girl seeks a sugar daddy
to get a university education:
'love is a concept invented by
poor people,'
i agree, and also invented by
the one who was crucified,
but i might add: insanity is a
concept invented by rich people...
esp. those people who's
children are ready to embark
on a career in intellectualising
stiff psychiatric nouns without
clear verb examples of behaviour,
and the public en masse dilute
"serious" psychiatric investigations
of mood swings et al. with
poetic elasticity of metaphor -
it's no longer: oh i'm so sad...
it's oh i feel so depressed... that would
make perfect sense in aviation
history - given the 80th anniversary
of the spitfire (spuckenfeuer) over
the skies in Southampton -
subtler and more positive expression
of alcoholism? just a different type
of metabolism, water (adam's tonic)
doesn't exist because it's all contaminated...
aviation depression compression,
high in the altitudes of 16,000 feet,
then looking down at ants on the pavement
with their labyrinth rivers of blindness
and then buckle **** it hits you,
the sea of humanity.
Mar 5, 2016
Mar 5, 2016 at 2:02 PM UTC
' A Circulation is a tremendous situation,
because it's aviation is not to complete with the true relation,
between the up and downs, round n rounds, tap in or tap out, strike through or blow a fuse,
to avoid the way straight back to 'a circulation.
It hurts sometimes when things
bypass aviation.
Well truth hurts.
It hurts so bad that you won't except,
yes I admit I can't except the fact that dignity and infinity are both equal to
'a aviation that leads you sometimes right back to 'a dismissive life's situation.
Get me out of this conjunction.
Oh yeah a' circulation is really a tremendous situation.
Jun 29, 2015
Jun 29, 2015 at 6:14 PM UTC
Away from the ways mapped to shackle slaves
outside of the sign through the door
as you search and search you find answers more
in a distinct distant distance as you become indistinct
you soon find that you exist
you soon find that you live outside or beyond matter
...
Constricted by the golden ring
you feel the strength of the serpent
you learn of its trickery and deception
You soon begin to see that you are beyond these things
as leaves fall from trees
flying away into the wonder
searching for shade, finding it under
the azure pompous cloud
...
That you too as the leaves wish to know more about the tree
away from these things,
civilization and doctrine
you find the true Laws of Creation
That you are one in the many of The One
The more you separate yourself from the Universe
you learn just who or what it is that composes the Verse
It is at this time that you will see through the prism
The Prism of One
Serving none but the balance of the sum
Judging none but healing some
Making mundane creation fun
A keyboardist or guitarist who would masterfully strum
Sounding the bells of the temples that have souls come
come to place where music is not ever undone
The selves of one self soon multiply
The spine keeps one supine
we crawl, walk, run and soon learn to fly
defying the laws of aviation leaving scientists unable to concoct a reason why
A life a life of lives, gravitating to higher levels of Consciousness
A student grading earning graduation
Evolution of the mind where thought and heart are intertwined
The prism in itself of itself revealing its face to its selves
The dawning of wisdom and liberty
where all answers will be revealed
and all dark forces healed
where death will be a stepping stone as we teleport
when we soon learn of home
Where we will be learned of how we ruined it all
When the all or many becomes the One,
and the prism sleeps
until creation of a different order is softly sung.
Feb 7, 2014
Feb 7, 2014 at 11:08 AM UTC
~
*An aviation sleight-of-hand:
Random flight plan
Strange admission
This war of attrition
No friendly skies
No wings of hope
Flagship wanderer
High above the clouds
Gliding like a phantom
Holding its place in line
By sailing incognito
Without a stitch of cargo
Or living company
No laughter
No banter
No bag of nuts
Nothing for the flight recorder
To remember
Only a lonely figure
In the cockpit
Throttling down
A descent into madness
Keeping slots warm
And bodies cold*
~
Nov 12, 2022
Nov 12, 2022 at 12:15 PM UTC
There is a place in my mind
But oh, how time flies
So I'm left to think
I’ll never get there
Been feeling this lame winged way
Since I first heard myself say
“Move at your own pace,"
My face sits against the window pane
There’s that bird,
Perched on the other side of the glass,
Worm in mouth
How is he going to figure this out?
Trapped with the fear of losing his dinner
Hopping from one branch, back to the other
My insatiable heart sings, sun shines through
We see the world beyond the trees, nest in view
I'll never get there
The feathers fall
He’s ****** too.
Nov 1, 2011
Nov 1, 2011 at 7:42 PM UTC
Swiftly so much to sweep
Helsing so deep the love hard to keep
Her words were off balance
Poem stanza Mama Mia all formed
Like a ballerina 575 Japanese Haiku
Designer Pucci Sochi releasing
so piercing garden jailed away
I begged I needed to feel guided
Maid hard-love of slavery
to the requiem the chariot of horses
Jumped like eyes of the demon
She pleaded with what corruption
Planes fired with struggling
Hearts became stronger
The taste was the different side
wicked fun animation
The men were changed
cruel love aviation
Needing the right ammunition
Prince Zar became 666 Stalin
Leadership of blackmail
Lips got sealed with more
love friction
Make your poems roll in
The Trump Tower polls in
Holy Gods Italian Collisuem
Every hour Poem maid
Requiem
The maid she had his words
Less communication so
***** what transcends
Your life depends?
"Delicious" Monsterous"
Only words "Devious"
maid Beauty and the beast
to digest
Destiny short poems of ecstasy
Oh! My She-locked
No heart or morals all locked
He wanted to steal her poems
Being conned into the heist
Higher walk with the rest
Poem Requiem palace
Hannibal Rising test
Watching her movements in
her lipping
She was home "Cruella" sweeping
Willow tree weeping new maid Priscilla
The Reign suffering minds of madness
Being ruled sweeping tears to clean up
Such wicked dirt Damon the ***** work
knowing to shut up what a ****
Feeling moved around "UHual"
Choked upon on my I-pad appalled
The masquerading social media mind
of Jekyll and Hyde poems
Her getaway poems not to be fooled
Terraced thousands of poems died
All betrayed upon with more deep lies
Important words to keep them alive
Saturday night poems stay alive
Stakeout Apps Presidency
Like a heart snack breakout
This was far from democracy
The "Quickie Requiem" for a
poem tricked over taken away
My best dream
Gripping love slightly in between
Doctor words to heal the King
his beeper the right timing
Save the poem not the Queen
Jun 29, 2018
Jun 29, 2018 at 8:31 AM UTC
Damp, dead.
Springing to life under muddy soil,
The flowers will be here soon.
Skeletal branches claw the milky blue-purple sky,
Green mist beginning to coat their splitting fingers.
Biting cold and wisping wind,
The smell of wet earth and greening grass
More welcome than a smoking, fiery hearth.
Spring is coming, spring at last;
I had almost forgotten the taste of rain in the air.
Stone beneath my fingers, rough and smooth,
A rock in a field to rest against with a beautiful view.
The wind whispers the calling of birds
And the echoing cries of their mates,
The aviation coming north for a long stay.
My hair is whipped by the wind,
And flies from my face;
Fly away far,
Find your own flowing, rippling, grace.
Ice is cracking and rivers rushing,
Freed from their frozen imprisonment;
Fish are swimming and fishermen soon to be rowing
Across still waters clear and cold.
April has come to Michigan once more,
Breaking dawn in morning's cool air.
April returned to drive back the snow,
And Spring Break rides on its dove grey wings.
Apr 1, 2014
Apr 1, 2014 at 8:52 AM UTC
and he always thought too much
but he really didn’t mind
it helped him when he was alone
it helped him pass the time
then she came along
adding and aiding in his
cognitive aviation
the two entangled in
limitless skies of lucidity
and clouds of
thought and sedation
and like the clouds
she too had vanished
leaving him alone with
clear skies and confusion
realizing all that was damaged
immersed in static thought
from drought-induced delusions
Apr 15, 2017
Apr 15, 2017 at 11:06 AM UTC
What do I do with this longing?
no bags can carry it.
I grab at the mist
it floats around my head,
clouding my vision.
Outstretched hand returns with nothing.
An inkling of wetness, or something.
Waiting for the vibration in my pocket
a sensation
as close to aviation
as I can find.
To a dragonfly's wings.
Mar 17, 2023
Mar 17, 2023 at 11:53 AM UTC
we were making this by the campsite
the night before the battle of
grunwald ('groonvald'),
we were united, the tartars joined us
and brought the following recipe
for the fish we caught on the river:
preready mayonnaise,
gherkins with a bit of gherkin brine,
white vinegar and some capers...
we omitted the chives and parsley
because there were none, the day before
we slaughtered the teutons.
years later the same thing happened,
although in suburban enclosure,
and with perfectly running trains,
and all seashores tamed with foot,
and the aviation traffic,
the new adventurers had to embark
not with astronaut gear but
with their egos, crafting shipwrecks
and glaciers with their minds from
the most apparent mundanities
turned into sour spark tingles
of colours turned into tastes on the oyster's
nano tentacles in the saliva sea.
Sep 25, 2015
Sep 25, 2015 at 11:17 AM UTC
He took to parachuting because it, along with sailing and aviation,
is one of the more reasonable paths to self-destruction.
The bottle, the pistol, poetry; all vices.
Diseases, in fact.
But passion, it’s the stuff of living.
Besides, hurling oneself toward Earth and family is the clearest loyalty.
Who can hate something that, after clawing its way toward the heavens,
throws itself back toward the less perfect?
Who can hate something that fights its way to the verge of Eden,
a breath shy of immortality,
and instead reaches and jumps toward the lower, screaming atmosphere?
Fighting for life has become the only virtuous path away from it.
Living is the only proper way to die.
So, he took to hurling.
Feb 15, 2012
Feb 15, 2012 at 6:38 AM UTC
Howard Robard Hughes
Famously rich recluse
Dreams led him to the lap of luxury
Followed by nightmarish mysophobic OCD
Rich ******* aviator Howard Hughes
With movie starlets kept himself amused
Dated Katherine Hepburn
Bette Davis took her turn
And still more, which kept the tabloids confused
Born Howard Robard Hughes to a rich family
With English, Welsh and French Huguenot ancestry
Enjoyed a successful multi-faceted business career
But aviation and aerospace were his favorite frontier
Oct 19, 2019
Oct 19, 2019 at 11:55 AM UTC
Violating personal rights.
Airport security....absurdity.
COMPLETELY charming.
Defenses disarming.
Misdirected aviation.
Unmasked faces.
Innocent places.
A senseless structure making perfect sense.
Relentless courage.
Knows how to add & subtract zero's.
Equations with a sequel.
So you know what that equals.
Multiply & division.
Escape from the vision.
It's simple, right?
Like TIRED EYES, at night.
Misconscrudes as offendingly rude.
Guys too demanding.
Shields the inner core.
Protecting more.
© Harmony Sapphire . All rights reserved,
Jan 12, 2015
Jan 12, 2015 at 2:14 PM UTC