"glider" poems
If you were the saw to a magic box,
I'd be the one inside.
If you forgot the spell to make me whole,
I'd be fine just with you alone.
If you grew tired of my half-self,
i'd conceal it somehow,
long as you smile.
Because you,
you,
are the love of my life.
If you were gone,
I'd chase you.
If it seems too dramatic,
I beg of you,
notice the truth in these lines.
Look in the mirror,
and gaze as I do,
at the light you shine.
Because you,
you,
are a mystery,
even with all I know.
Apr 11, 2014
Apr 11, 2014 at 8:28 PM UTC
His wife is as
assiduous as
a mother bird.
She keeps
the windows
clean with rags
and buckets
of vinegar and
steaming water.
What happens here.
He sweeps
the ceiling
and ponders
the meaning
of the word
perspicacity.
There are
mornings
spent fussing
over underused
demitasse sets.
What happens here.
There are
afternoons
side-by-side
on the front
porch glider,
watching clouds
attenuate across
a porcelain sky.
What happens here.
The smallest
sounds never
fail to surprise
them.
How sparrows fold
like feathered paper
below rectangles
of polished air.
*What happens here,
happens over there.*
Jun 16, 2017
Jun 16, 2017 at 2:28 PM UTC
Southern Icarus
by Michael R. Burch
Windborne, lover of heights,
unspooled from the truck’s wildly lurching embrace
you climb, skittish kite ...
What do you know of the world’s despair,
gliding in vast solitariness there
so that all that remains is to
fall?
Only a little longer the wind invests its sighs;
you stall
spread-eagled as the canvas snaps
and ***** its white rebellious wings,
and all
the houses watch with baffled eyes.
Originally published by Poetry Porch. Keywords/Tags: Icarus, flight, flying, hang-gliding, kite, glider, wind, canvas, South, southern, truck, unspooled
Note: The following poem unites Icarus with Tom O'Bedlam in a final, magical quest ...
Finally to Burn
(the Fall and Resurrection of Icarus)
by Michael R. Burch
I.
Athena takes me
sometimes by the hand
and we go levitating
through strange Dreamlands
where Apollo sleeps
in his dark forgetting
and Passion seems
like a wise bloodletting
and all I remember
—upon awaking—
is: to Love sometimes
is like forsaking
one’s Being—to glide
heroically beyond thought,
forsaking the here
for the There and the Not.
II.
O, finally to Burn,
gravity beyond escaping!
To plummet is Bliss
when the blisters breaking
rain down red scabs
on the earth’s mudpuddle...
Feathers and wax
and the watchers huddle...
Flocculent sheep,
O, and innocent lambs!
I will rock me to sleep
on the waves’ iambs.
III.
To Sleep, that is Bliss
in Love’s recursive Dream,
for the Night has Wings
pallid as moonbeams—
they will flit me to Life,
like a huge-eyed Phoenix
fluttering off
to quarry the Sphinx.
IV.
Riddlemethis,
riddlemethat,
Rynosseross,
throw out the Welcome Mat.
Quixotic, I seek Love
amid the tarnished
rusted-out steel
when to live is varnish.
To Dream—that’s the thing!
Aye, that Genie I’ll rub,
soak by the candle,
aflame in the tub.
V.
Riddlemethis,
riddlemethat,
Rynosseross,
throw out the Welcome Mat.
Somewhither, somewhither
aglitter and strange,
we must moult off all knowledge
or perish caged.
VI.
I am reconciled to Life
somewhere beyond thought—
I’ll Live in the There,
I’ll Dream of the Naught.
Methinks it no journey;
to tarry’s a waste,
so fatten the oxen;
make a nice baste.
I’m coming, Fool Tom,
we have Somewhere to Go,
though we injure noone,
ourselves wildaglow.
Apr 14, 2020
Apr 14, 2020 at 3:57 AM UTC
Moonrise
when the sun should sink
and the dry desert cry would ring
through the night
and you will soar
You will soar,
as if the wind must ask
of more
And a cracked tulip may shrivel
from the rasped breath
of your flight
Yet, it's you alone in your might.
And none would know of
your plight,
none other than the moon.
That laughing moon....
If only to pluck it out with talon-ed finger...
But you, with clever eye,
will see that so long as your sole arch
carves the sky
perhaps could quake even the shadowed backs of devils below and
still
always
you will soar
Night glider, sing
Sink, or take wing
Dry wind on feather
Earth and bird, together
Jun 19, 2015
Jun 19, 2015 at 9:32 AM UTC
her grandmother stood at the window in the kitchen
the corners of her mouth turned up into
an unconscious slight smile
at the sight
of a spinning yellow blur
under the big oak
in the middle of the pasture
surrounded by green grasses
wonderous hues of wildflowers
she quietly called out to grandad
come see this
the lanky cowboy sauntered in
from the breezeway
with his umpteenth cup of coffee
peered at the blur of yellow
opened the side door
stepped out on the deck beside the metal glider and
called out in his smooth baritone voice
sheeeeeelllllliiii...
sheeeeeelllllliiii lllllloooooooooo...
she might have
been 4
or perhaps five
precious in the way
innocent girls that age are
dressed in smocked yellow lawn
white lace
patent leather
up to her shins in spring grasses
slowing her spin
she turned toward her name
her face radiant she took a wobbly step or two
then broke into an off kilter run
arms stretched out before her
he took a few long strides
bent his tall body low
offering a bent knee
wide open arms
she flew into them with all her might
knowing she would be caught
rough housed with
and given a wickereye
from the window her grandmother took it all in
sighed
said to herself
hold this dear
hold this snapshot of the soul
for. ever.
Apr 30, 2019
Apr 30, 2019 at 9:15 PM UTC
Fullsome she maketh me, mine fere, mine lair in the onuppan Zion. Betwixt the dust of the belt of Orion, Mine Astronomer gape's the light-year's we shalt trek; The luminosity sparkle's from Sirius, the flake's of shake, disambiguation. We seeith galaxie's, nebula's, a parallel universe standing on it's hind leg's. She spread's her snowy pearly glider's, inviting she is when her flight's on fire; like a comet, blazing the black hole edge's, her cloak smoke's with her Asian hair, that leaveth **** fairy-speck smidgen's. To the sun, O' to the sun, I am warmly wrapped by her embracing spaceship; she taketh me by teleportation, to the kingdom of God, where she doth reside.
©Brandon nagley
©Lonesome poet's poetry
©Earl Jane nagley dedication
Aug 28, 2015
Aug 28, 2015 at 10:03 PM UTC
The sugar glider sits perched on my shoulder,
Chirping soft songs in my ear,
Each new syllable making me warmer,
Taking with it my fear.
Though quick I may move,
Still there she sits.
What have I to prove?
"Nothing more" She admits.
A quick sigh of relief,
I take us to the room.
Sitting there an emphatic sloth bearing teeth,
Smiling feeling no doom.
"How goes your day?"
He asks the purring cat and chirping glider,
"And wont you please stay?"
Both nod to agree hardly saying a word.
The time passes quiet,
Till slowly the sloth leaves,
"Stay here while breakfast I get"
As we concur wider more his smile weaves.
I cross my paws in front of me,
And lay my head down to relax.
The glider crawls slow into my neck,
Taking joy from the warmth she collects.
So soft her movements they comfort you see,
The sweetest of lullabies her touch.
"Anything better has never been dreamed,
So simple a thing is so much!"
Enter the sloth with morsels in hand,
The sleepy scene he permits.
He puts on some music to help us two rest,
Of this he never laments.
Dreary eyed we wake the cat and the glider,
Purring and stretching the same.
Never more happy that to wake up beside her,
Those moments they keep me so sane.
Sep 26, 2011
Sep 26, 2011 at 10:36 PM UTC
No...more...bickerin,
your eyes flickering you're nickering
your nit pickin' lost it quick as the Dickens
My tracks a hell of a kickin'
you're just the next feckin victim,
of the flow bound Hurricane of sense and rhythm,
The Sensemilla Sensei Kempei of verbal Kempo's home,
Like Alladin and Saladin mixed with a Party Boobytrap a Paladin of Palindrome...
The Storm rider glider blasts you through the other side of the Thunderdome
My - Spitfire drips Ire as ********* ***** fire Surprise in your eyes quick blast from the past from a .50 Cal Microphone-
Fiend in me soul under control you failed your roll,
will check failed-I check wills,its a Checkmate mate you-best quill your will and will to build some soul
Its a dill of pickle you're in - you're a nickle worth of Nickleback stickleback sticklebricking best Lego
I let go last, I'm the Legolas of the fast pass in the underpass stick you fast now you're stuck fast I buck fast at your glass of Buckfast
the Truculent, ever vigilant-words are Succulent got you diggin' in
diggin' out a liddle bit of Lidl in a stolen digger,move quicker stop the friggin' in the riggin' little Pigpen Pigeons time to drop the bridge in...
Mar 17, 2018
Mar 17, 2018 at 6:08 PM UTC
One is the glider,
And one is the gust,
And the cliff is the question:
Trust land or trust ******
It depends on the wind,
And the wings,
And the rider:
Not their skill;
But their union -
One was built for the other.
But if the plane was built wrong -
Built wrong for the breeze -
(For the breeze it was built for!)
Then here's our message for the air:
For the love of your nature,
Give the glider to the sea!
Let canvas rip on water's flame,
And writhing currents cut
And fracture frame.
For you were conjured to fly higher;
And the pilot isn't fooled;
The pilot's watching other lovers
As they escape into the sun!
Grateful to be in flight,
But always with an eye
To greater, warmer height...
We know it's hard to let them fall,
For an airman dropped amongst the waves
Is left to die or swim to shore,
And if they make it to the beach,
You know the tattered remnants
Of their aircraft's waiting there,
Waiting to be built renewed
Built stronger on a memory
Of the time they flew on you
But let them fall
You must or you die
For the waters are coming
And also:
Death can fly.
Jun 22, 2017
Jun 22, 2017 at 1:58 PM UTC
~~~~~
"Sorry seems to be the hardest word."
I feel your wonderful eyes.
He was a greating glider
Knowledgeable, nice and
Sweet. Had a nasty divorce
Flooded with ***** accusations
Nailed and tortured by himself
For the things he wouldnt do..
He was clean.
~~~~~
Tears within us turn to ice. And they should burst.
***I've never cried over you.
I don't know you.***
Perhaps. I did.
Once upon a time.
For real.
He is a quick thinker
A worrior with an ancient
Soul and a progressive
Hardness.
A Black pearl.
Shelly aboard
in disguise.
Soft as a kitten
is his heart.
I love him.
~~~~
"Let love rule"
***Rise and shine.
A perpetual creation.***
Monsoons and many moons
Have passed like a metaphor
Core. A divine traveler.
A colourful world
It is.
He reads thankfully
Astonished.
And humms songs
Of devotion. And he
Writes perfectly.
~~~~~
Harvest moon
***He loves modern music and dancing.
He writes.***
He dreams about another tattoo
across his heart. We share air.
She was touched
Today. And there
Were sparks sizzling
through.
One long frozen
Moment. Reaching
The most intimate
Awareness.
Not uncharging the potential.
There was a simple question:
"How did you spend the day?"
"With the beautiful artist
In bloom. Drawing."
Shyness. And the
Realization.
He glows.
Jan 20, 2016
Jan 20, 2016 at 12:23 PM UTC
wake up and go
blue sky
puffy clouds
me
floating
wandering glider
slightly above
surface
ocean abyss
water reflecting
flickering dreams
lucid moment
thistle seeds
floating around
leaves have fallen
rolling green hills
plethora
sweetmeat
straddling the way
amber leaves
forgotten from landscape
beautiful memory
dreaming of wings
Dec 5, 2018
Dec 5, 2018 at 5:10 PM UTC
Standing beside you, I ponder...
...was the grass always this green and lush?
...has the baby blue sky seemed this vast before?
...where have these infinite possibilities arisen from?
...is my hand too sweaty to hold?
...have the stars forever shone this brilliant?
...where does time go?
...how does her smile warm me like the radiance of the sun?
...will my face crack from smiling this hard?
...is it possible to love her any more?
...how can I prove it to her?
I'll figure it out, I'll find a covered porch and a glider or a pair of rocking chairs. I'll count the cars and admire her hair in the breeze blowing between our knees as the future unfolds itself out of thin air.
A love I've never felt before,
a beautiful pair...
"what're you thinking about?"
Oh! Me?
I'm just thinking about...
May 15, 2017
May 15, 2017 at 5:24 PM UTC
fill me with your ****
until its running out of my pores
**** I've always wondered what that smell was
drown me in pity and kind verses
until my countenance is beautiful to you
because spaghetti knows!
I can't be complete unless I'm beautiful
to you
and all this time I've been running
broken pottery quotations up your
shivering spine
without thanks for the cold stares
you pierce through my fingertips
hold my hand and drag me through
the cosmic playland you soar your
broken hang glider
without regard for the fact that we
were always the center of the universe
and globally has constantly been flatlands
I want nothing less than the very cells
composing each and every cancerous tumour
exploding through your veins
because Allah knows your breath freezes my neck
solid when you lick down my..
OOH that tickles, you gotta avoid my funny bone
or I'll squeal without worrying about your parents
right outside my door
much less the police stating overbearing bricks
cemented around your walls
break them down and expose your innards
to the outwards and lie reposed in the vulnerability
of your last breath.
Nov 18, 2013
Nov 18, 2013 at 4:18 PM UTC
You can't hear them coming....
those avian creatures-
that stalk in darkness
"Owls.........they are!"
It's their "wings"
designed by natures science...
to soar in silence
waiting
watching
undetected
unexpected
From them, they got their name, those U S Air Force glider squadrons of World War II. After being released from a "tow plane", they silently descended toward a landing target behind enemy lines, with a cargo of supplies, gasoline, etc. Some, carrying a small cadre of troops, even a vehicle. The gliders couldn't be retrieved, the crews were on 'their own" to find their way back to any Allied force that could get them back to their units. Some didn't make it.
"God bless each and everyone of you!"
copyright: richard riddle 05-09-2016
May 9, 2016
May 9, 2016 at 2:18 AM UTC
En tom stol, forladt, ensom og itu
ligesom det kys der er blevet gemt ovre i hjørnet
et kys der aldrig vil blive samlet op igen
Du fortalte mig at det føltes som om
at livet glider igennem dine kolde hænder
men det eneste der bør glide gennem dine fingre
er mine fingre
Jeg går rundt med et kort over himlen
ikke én eneste sky at se, ingen syngende fugle
eller hurtige flyvemaskiner
Måske er dit hjerte ikke det eneste der er tomt
Men hvorfor siger man så
at der er mere mellem himmel og jord, spørger du
May 26, 2015
May 26, 2015 at 10:15 AM UTC
A skater lone soars on new ice.
I hold my breath as I observe
His every pirouette and swerve.
Yesterday, the water lapped a chilling shore;
Today a brilliant skin holds sway.
Thickening hourly though it may,
I wonder at the nature of the glider there;
Does he consider life and death,
Or think beyond exultant breath
To be the first upon new winter's ice?
He sails along an ice-blade track,
Never falt'ring, never looking back.
Oh, I was young upon a time and flew
The way this skater now does fly,
But fear and "wisdom" hinder twice
While others soar above thin ice.
Nov 30, 2021
Nov 30, 2021 at 11:19 AM UTC
kolde fingre,
der glider over den kolde skærm
skriver, hentyder,
prøver at få dig til at give mig mit fix,
opmærksomhed, kærlighed
og som de kolde fingre,
hurtigt glider over den kolde skærm,
i takt med de snavsede høje hæler virrer sig fortabt over brostenene,
så spørger jeg mig selv, om det er for meget
for stalker, for desperat,
men gør det alligevel
gør alt for at få et fix,
opmærksomhed, kærlighed,
et kram, ***
håber på det bliver til mere,
så fixet bliver dagligt,
og ikke bare en løsning,
når alkoholen dunker i venerne,
når spillet er tabt,
når brækken er i toiletten,
og ham den anden i byen
Dec 29, 2014
Dec 29, 2014 at 10:28 AM UTC
Write till your itchy fingers fall off
When the party's over, write some more
Write into the mist, write from the veil
Hand your heart to readers and write while they feel your pulse
Write like you're being chased by dogs
And when they ask "who's side are you on?"
Write like you mean it to their faces
When they're leading you to the noose
Ask for one final request: pen and pape
And write down a moody poem and draw a picture too
Write upside down, write on a rail
Then build yourself a glider with your writing and write while you fall
Write in a wooden house, write poems for louse
Write, write, write, write, write in spite (if you have to)
All in all, no further explanation required
Just write, alright?
Dec 31, 2013
Dec 31, 2013 at 11:06 AM UTC
I decide it's better to live like a hang glider,
to look down at rivers
snaking towards hips.
Better to hold handlebars
like cold lips.
Better to take the tongue to teeth,
than try to guess what's
in her coffee.
I'll be high
in the morning;
still a speck in her eyes,
as she pukes in the Cheerios
and tells me not to look
because it's unbecoming.
But I've seen her puke when
we're watching the Dog Whisperer.
She'll be staring up at me
and I know
that
she'll
be thinking about hanging a motherfuker
with a tight rope pulled
from a trapdoor
hinged by her
lavender *******
Let me fall to the earth
through that opening.
Crush me
with the nails
that hold you together.
Jun 2, 2012
Jun 2, 2012 at 10:26 PM UTC
roundabout poem (another poem, another day)
<>
the notion punches into my mouth when
chilling , deleting and wasting time pro=ductively
(professionally ducking responsibilities)
with no home to go to, but to write with purposeful
meandering, in a roundabout manner,
on a Saturday, luxury~leisurely in bed with runs
for asiago bagels and blue mountain coffee,
and wondering why you would read this, and
losing my debate internal & and infernal if
this is worth my time, nonetheless the urging
is only purging by clicking clacking on a keyboard,
inviting you to join me under my cozy
floral coverlet, and to enjoy my pastoral view,
of water, women and why not, a trilogy of
factorials *(or is it factorals? permutations or combinations) another poem, another day)*
panoramic bleeding view unceasingly changing,
reflecting god’s mood swings or an atheist’s humbuggery)
and women lies beside me, guilty pleasure, mine or hers😉, becoming part, a parcel upon the land/waterscape/escape, with sun rays invisible yet blindingly make me glinting and squinting,
and wet grass, dripping trees, and going round and round, so
stray thots evolving/revolving and thus
this roundabout poem deserves a decent burial,
so I thank it, thank you, thank her, and the sky
and the glisten of a wet drenched everything,
a Saturday~Sabbath on which a poem was delivered
from me within, in a cesarean eruption,
my child blessed, sent to you with gratitude,
a much underrated emotion, but which occupies
me frequently when your days go dimmer,
and the
mind is sharply focused/used on about
what is value,
valuable, and what shall be valued on this damp
rainfall rainfull wordfull wonderful momentary
escapery into being together with…you, silly!
writ pre-noon,
Saturday~Sabbath,
(*on S.I., by the Sound’s calming waters
where the poems fall from trees on a glider
of wet leaves, or fly by on a modest mph breeze,
looking for human sense to grab aholt of for
canning and preservation…come see for yourself….*)
Jul 13, 2024
Jul 13, 2024 at 11:35 AM UTC
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
Oct 16, 2016
Oct 16, 2016 at 6:47 AM UTC
take me to where
streams lie still
asleep in an hourglass
i will trade my glider
for a raft
and go around the world
chase after sea turtles
venture into the Amazon
catch minnows with my hand
swim ashore and walk
barefoot into jungle
scale the Andes
drink molten ice caps
and bask in the beatings of a naked sun
to breathe the fresh
thin air
intoxicated with coca
infused with enough starlight
to turn the equator
into arcs of fire
and build
mi casa
mi pueblo
mi corazon de amor
Feb 27, 2016
Feb 27, 2016 at 8:47 AM UTC
Holiday cheers, the spirits now here to up the downpit moods! Where swinger's go singers, and companionship is far beyond due!
Stringed up longing, stuffed feathered innocent pleasures where the gravy spells of finer of many dinings!!
Bring good tidings you attitude bringer, you dope sick slinger, thine gun has drawn itself to fast!!!! Parties awake the deadened vines, where ghastly projectors contract the powers of unearthly glass!!!
The world moves to slow!, STOP, look ahead fantasizer, the escalated wheels to fast!!!
Sodomatic beauty, input newbie, your thistles are spreading the fences, where trashcans and benches distinguish flawful fate!!!
A fulfillment of vows, a timeless volgate. Proverbial collection's detest the furnaced crucible, where Loophole's are bound and bagged to be stench!!!!
Glider of turbulance, father of remembrance, forget what thine holy teacher has taught you to be???
May 13, 2015
May 13, 2015 at 7:16 AM UTC
I have always felt
like you would be
the one to come my
way and tell me that
you are always going to
come to my side
whenever
I needed it the most and
have always been
my own worst enemy although I have to
hand it to you, you
slided in and have since then been
on my mind a lot from
your point of view but it’s ok I’m a
smooth glider, sailing through
flawless waters just to get
back to you and tell you
that multiple meaning can be taken from everything so be careful how you read things because you never know what is lurking in our first words, my love.
Feb 20, 2012
Feb 20, 2012 at 12:37 PM UTC
Fiona
a beach ball floated on the waves
it bobbed and rolled and went along
if i was fishing that day i would have seen it
- there on the beach
and above
a hang glider left the grassy cliff
to swing his feet in time with
sea gulls who never tired of laughing,
he saw their white wings and the crests of the waves beneath him,
they were one and they were many
but there was only one beach ball
floating and bobbing along. laughing
in many colours
at the fish in their sea
and the birds who looked like clouds
Angie
a happy face floats in the air
it has a curling ribbon tied to it
i think it is a balloon
a bright red balloon
Eliza
crystal jar - tight sealed lid
full - full as you can be
bursting sometimes with colourful buttons
of all sizes
they are names, and when you call them
they dance
like fireflies scattering into dark places
they light the world with campfires
we are warm, apprehension runs away when you
sow these buttons and
we're all well clothed
with garments so richly fastened
Cassim
a feather brushes the nose
of the giant
will he sneeze
or carry the bird?
Kat
excellent tennis is rare
I think of Wimbledon
the best of the best
the court divided
as are the spectators
they cheer, they sit in silence
they see you serve, they see you lob
they see you backhand a winner
they see the choice of the chosen
and when victorious
you acccept the trophy
and the defeated
Kat - again
ok you’re a bird
then fly
fly above the nets but
don’t stop for trees that
look like antennas
and when you pick through leaves on
the forest floor and
find the king of worms,
eat him slowly
he will feed you forever
Sheridan
the sharp sword cuts sweetly
it leaves a cool incision
knowledge is apprehended and
the red well flows over
fields are rich
strength knocking timbers
builds a house,
we live and eat well,
your house prospers
you are graceful
your love is light
and air is for breathing
MChallis © 2014
www.martinchallis.com
Oct 4, 2014
Oct 4, 2014 at 8:14 AM UTC