"paragliders" poems
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.
Sep 8, 2020
Sep 8, 2020 at 8:29 AM UTC
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.
Oct 23, 2023
Oct 23, 2023 at 4:37 AM UTC