Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
Ianthechimp Sep 2020
Paragliding is a matter of maths.
You launch, fly, land, bash or crash.
How you meet the ground depends on maths.
Maths is key to survival.

Allowances for maths out of your control, will drive your fun.
Wind, heat, thermals and other pilots in the sky.
Unforgiving ground is gravity's final aim.
The wind will blow, thermals will lift, but gravity's maths will always win.

Your time in the air, and possibly life's end, will depend pilot error.
But gravity's maths doesn't care, he is all.
Gravity is annoyed with paragliders aiming at the ground with miss.
Gravity has calculated it's maths.

He spies those who fly forever, and wishes them on the ground.
With silence and invisibility, he draws those pilots in.
Some follow the maths and land with ease.
Some ignore the maths with peril.

Gravity's maths will always win.
Joseph C Ogbonna Oct 2023
The Paragliders like ravenous vultures flew
to southern Israel to predate on soft targets.
Like swarms of bees, they snuck, *****, maimed, shot, burnt and slew.
Terror did every man's fragile conscience becloud.
Hate made their embittered hearts to mercy forget.
Abductions followed, having to terror avowed.

Then came the IDF's genocidal intent,
having intended global laws to circumvent;
Children, women, all consumed by mighty vengeance.
A disproportionate response beyond balance.
Homes, hospitals, Mosques, Churches and schools are levelled,
as Gaza is by torrents of bombs bedeviled.
I do not with a livid Israel sympathize,
nor do I with a besieged Gaza empathize.
With humanity I have my affinity,
for my deep love for it, tends to infinity.
The raging Israeli-Gaza Conflict
Ianthechimp Aug 2020
It’s as though Filey Bay with its east-facing rifts and cliffs were visible;
as though the full-bodied gusts that blow over it, freighted with lift, sea thermals and the bloated bodies of over-ripe chimps, were thermals, sideways tracking and printed with spirals that mark a slow convergence of warm and nutrient-rich, cold air.

What rides this marriage of elements
does so with a paragliding wingspan
hammered from great distances,
its leading edge containing worn emblems and fading lines, such as might be found within the pages of a flight log from a time when travel was slow, when destinations involved a leaving of land based friends and tidal lines while crossing of Bay of Filey.

Soaring and gliding are this flying chimps only reasons, in all type of weathers and seasons cold, for flight. Reighton in from the south, it angles away and down, almost wetting the tip of his leeward wing before braking alternative, for upswell of Ian's wing, missing the cliff and sampling his own reflection, where he brays a holler, from missing Micks tree, so this long-range survivor.

And when, after days of gliding, its Ians bones take on the ache of flying high above sea, Ian will follow a fellow wing, inspecting it for a fellow chimp pilot, a friend or foe, for anything upon which to follow.

To find a paragliding mate, the female paragliders gather on barren Speeton cliffs surrounded by suitors, each one expectant and competitive in the sleek, highly coloured wings of their kind.

Flying chimps having found each other, they remain at the centre of flying weather cycles, expecting to fly, remain in company and lack separation for up to eighty years (Eighty YEARS!), despite some absences, despite their differences.

See them coming in – multicoloured gliders with harness gear and boots that paddle for purchase on the stones of slippery landings and wet beaches where their paragliding friends are waiting, alike
and yet unique, their singular wants and call to flying, dividing a raucous field with welcome.

One paragliding want. One life, together. And for every chimp that crashes and breaks under terrible weather, a fledgling pilot will emerge to test his wings and stand its ground after 2 long weeks training, and then leave the paragliding school to circle the globe, solitary in its preparations for flight, #Ianthechimps flying in thermic air made manifest in his I love to fly chimp brain.
Ianthechimp Aug 2020
I've seen paragliders you people wouldn't believe.
Race D wings on fire off the shoulder of Le Saleve.
I watched C wings glitter in the dark near Troinex landing.
All those moments will be lost in the summer of 2019, like… farts in wind.
Return to the UK. Time to fly.
Mateuš Conrad Mar 2020
i forget who's who and a me in tow,
who's in the baggage of i...
and there's no blocked toilet
of grammar - there's no sun
coming up from above the horizon
come tomorrow -
there's the mother losing
her plotlines when she's not being
a housewife...

and the son - sort-of - steps in...
you search for a song
of the ol' juke... and it's not
the celtic paragliders...
   because ol' mama is not ol' enough...
and she's about to return to
the sort of everyday hell
i farm, i allow chickens to pluck
feathers from into
a gear that's
just about kippah tight...
15 minutes past
the 11 that would
be willing to don a tonsure...
i am the most...
self-evident faithful towing along
an evil...
drowning with a breath...
drowning with a trumpet...
chet baker or miles davis...
i never know which hand
is left or which hand is white...
or which hand is right
or is black... lefty towing elephantiasis...
and that's the anything and all
that's supposed to be "new"?
came a donkey...
with a libido of a goat's harem!

in between porky skinned
and mr. cinnamon from the raj...
boy-oh boy-up and swing
that cowboy scrutiny wheel
of dental floss:
a chance you come across
a bull full on charge
000000000000000000000
and the 0.01% of: if battery life...
is to be even smiled for:
to subsequently gain a turk
for a shave...

chess: jesus! yet another cherry bundle!
i'm torn...
is it better that i visit a balkan brothel
of romanian girls and bulgarian
girls...
or is it better...
that i visit an ottoman barber?
does it matter that i am the one thief
stealing kisses...
love lust forlorn...
and she was the elder daughter...
she had two twin younger sisters...
and she was my first kiss...
when i was a nancy sinantra song...
i was 6 she was 5...
i had a ****** surname to come by...
and she was... *****-and-bouting: KOT...
her daddy drove a truck full
of milk-bottles...

hard to imagine... but all i ever wanted
was to become a bus-driver...
now psychology and all those
mini-me psychopaths having pontous pilate
arguments for staging...
anything beside
the first attempt of dancing an argentinian
tango... or... sending a balloon
into the thinning of air...

dusty springfield - spooky...
tells you enough: run forrest run!

oh but i remember my first kiss...
i remember and it's not exactly
a catch-up catch-on pop song sing-along...
psychology and in that deity...
the mini-me psychopaths...
all those with a...
               pathology of the immaterial
concept of soul... base unit no ergo
no ego...

and we continue to love...
and we continue to love...
before... it becomes a tragedy of having
to learn into an inquest of
solispsism... that's must later when
the schematic of the atomised man...
the man under the scrutiny of
dissection... is ever fulfilled...

right now this world is not worth
the remains of what surprises
it comes up with;
am i to be subdued... waiting for a culmination
of failures?
i've come to expect the casual oops
and dross of a existential formality
that would never wager me with
a status: winner!

                     ****** argumentation...
the lesser father of the ****** son...
and skittles and all that's...
good-hope for the "forever alive"...
this... a hindering of base: thus begun,
thus bicycle racing...
and shadows to be solely left
with an arithmetic...
              pristine lady madonna...
to forgive, to forget...
                     as long as she toys
with a daddy-long-legs
and an attire of spandex...
                         and all that behaves
like a stretching of dizzy gillespie's hornet's...
when the canvas of the tights
would wallow in cobweb punctures.
Ianthechimp Aug 2020
The Paragliders Wish

High in the sky a paraglider does soar, fast and swift asking no more.

It beckons wing lift, as the thermals drift.
With majestic breath, and avoiding Death.

Flying is so free, he doesn't agree.
For he who is Death, beckons all those fools drawing last breath.

I wish those failing, choosing to ballot.
Land safely without break, avoiding sadness and forsaken pilot.

— The End —