"thunderbirds" poems
Said The Raven
To The Raven
Which Raven are you?
I said The Raven
Am The Raven
Of Samuel Taylor Coleridge.
And I said The Raven
Am The Raven
Of Edgar Allan Poe.
Apparently there's a rave on -
Shall we go?
Yes - let us go then you and I
As the evening is spread out
Against the sky.
But not like a patient
Etherised upon a table.
Let us like Thunderbirds
Not gentle go into this dark night.
So dressed in sable
White gloves
And whistles
They went on their way -
Not looking forward
To conversations about
Michelangelo at all.
For as we all know
Old age should rave and burn
At close of day.
And not just fizzle out.
More big shout...........................................
And rave until you fall.
May 30, 2014
May 30, 2014 at 8:09 AM UTC
Captain Scarlet
Had a weakness for harlots
Who always wore scarlet as well.
This could sound
The death knell
For the show
Thundered Gerry.
It's so deleterious
I'm deadly serious
Less of the hoes
And more Thunderbirds Are Go.
Captain Scarlet's
Favourite starlet
However
Was no harlot
Even though
she always wore
Scarlet as well
But it was quite difficult to tell
That she was not so
Even if one was very clever.
Unlike Bobby Shafto.
May 9, 2014
May 9, 2014 at 2:59 PM UTC
Bobby Shafto
Went to see
Queens Of The Stone Age
Without Me.
With your silver buckles
On your knees -
The Navy's answer to
Dita Von Teese?
And you think it highly likely
That you're gonna marry Kylie
When you next come
Home from sea.
Please.
You are no longer
My Facebook Friend
Bobby down a mineshaft go
Bobby Thunderbirds are go
Bobby HomeAlone on your mobile phone?
You poncy little princess
But I digress.
Have I mentioned
You're no longer my Facebook Friend?
Bobby.
Dobby.
Shafto
Apr 11, 2014
Apr 11, 2014 at 2:49 PM UTC
I walk down the pier,
All sea-salt dreams and hand-spun darkness
The buildings are bent from the wind
As are the people inside them
But it is voluntary,
So they still appear strong.
A man sits on a corner
Wearing only his clothes and half-moon smile
I think he must have been born
Before the flood took Kwakwaka’s voice
And thunderbirds were more than midnight cries
Of feathered laughter on the Chinook
I think he must know that for which I search
He calls me over to his barnacle throne
And says in a black-bear voice
“If its fish you want,
Be here before the rain
That comes on the heels of daybreak
And buy from the man with the golden tooth,
His fish are good
And his hands honest.”
That night I dream of lighthouses
And the way the stairs wind like a promise
Out of the toss and turn of the night
And the way they hold boats and the men inside them
All those tangled strings
In a fist of yellow light
And the way that light becomes a phoenix
To those who choose to give the land a second chance
Or a third, when the sea proves more fickle a friend
Than the women who have given up hope
Of being more a lover and less a lion
Than the blue-dress lady with a red-dress song.
At daybreak there is a black bear at a fish stand
His arms are laden with bodies like silver coins
I know he does not fish for wealth
Besides that of the wisdom brought
By knowing your home and purpose.
I think he must know that for which I search
He calls me over
And says in an old-man voice,
“If its love you want,
Be here before the sun
That comes on the heels of the breaking tide
And watch the one true glory of the earth
Give birth once again to forgiveness.”
I believed what he said because I could still see
The sunrise reflected in his eyes
Like a prayer.
At dawn there are two figures on the horizon,
Hand in hand,
Brothers maybe,
They jump into the breathing chaos
Of the still-dark waves
And become the fish that beat in their mother’s chest
Become her heart and her blood,
Her veins and
Her children
Jan 27, 2012
Jan 27, 2012 at 6:52 PM UTC
Hopefully if you're unfamiliar with that song google will comply and locate it for you.
(sonnet #MMMMMMMDCCCXXXVI)
Blue skies out West look deeper in a sense
Than Illinois e'er knows, clouds in betrayl
'Non floating laz'ly in such vast seas they'll
Assure ye rare pools know, til I from thence
Half ache to be in those dear prairies hence
As childhood fondly knew, swept to avail
Clean of these houses clustered sans aught bail,
And where the Thunderbirds roar through fr'intents.
I said I'd join the Air Force, but Dad fer
All that said: No. And that is better too.
Yet oh! the Rocky Mountains! O those pure,
Unfathomed bluest skies! What is't that'd woo
Me from their depths? I feel it 'non bestir
My soul, just watching from afar. And you?
31Mar19d
Apr 5, 2019
Apr 5, 2019 at 9:45 PM UTC
Shooting stars bloom in the womb of infinity,
**** on the wings of the Thunderbirds,
a trail of fairy dust gracing their fiery tracks
as they sear through the gloom of the night skies.
I amble through the folds of the sullen clouds,
collecting the stars
as they wrap me in their cherubic dazzle.
The champagne flourish
of a Pink Diamond Star
flares up in my soul
livening me like the fireflies
that carry me on their blushing wings
as I saunter through the dusky skies
collecting the falling stars
to brighten up my dreary horizon!
Sep 18, 2018
Sep 18, 2018 at 2:56 AM UTC
Sylvia speaks to me in tongues
That no one else understands.
And the words she whispers
Collectively poison me.
slowly.
She speaks of love songs
And of thunderbirds that
Do not return,
And I wonder if she was
Speaking about you
and me.
But Sylvia, unlike I, did not
Understand that there
Was more to life
Than diaphragms and
Of forgotten lovers -
she did not have you like I do.
Jun 29, 2010
Jun 29, 2010 at 5:47 PM UTC
There is no 'Skippy'
no more kangaroo
it was traded as bush meat
so you kids
could eat.
'Flipper got put in cans
sans flippers,
tasted like fresh
kippers,
they tell me.
TV's responsible for
killing our dreams.
but I still see them when I sleep
'Clarence the cross eyed lion'
is there to keep
me company
another safari
one more
'Daktari'
I'm on a different page
'Lady Penelope and
Parker
are all the rage
watching 'Thunderbirds'
seeing Gilligans isle
while Popeye and olive
give me a smile
and I know it's for me
It's on the TV.
Jul 18, 2016
Jul 18, 2016 at 10:19 AM UTC
Sometimes I wish I had one thousand midnight hours all at once
or better yet,
a wristwatch full of the ticks and tocks of
all of the pre-dawn smallnesses for the next
decade or two.
These could be used to converse
with owls or coyotes,
foxes, hawks, ravens
or
river trout.
Our talks could be remembered
sweetly,
in the heat of a summer day
or
the dreariness of a wet, fall afternoon.
It is wished to not rely
on window sill,
moonlit memory,
mimeographed message
folded in half.
No;
my boots would rather
chew earth,
pebble,
and
puddle,
seeking out strange nutrients.
Monday morning stanzas
are well and good,
yet
Saturday night
sonnets,
soliloquies;
those are the real
meat and potatoes
of a weekend
word ******
Thursday night poems
are pretty ******
impressive too.
The Thunderbirds,
the phoenix of
the composition notebook.
Thursday poems and poets
ask for a sidecar of whiskey…
it shows up on the house.
Words and the working of them
should be fearless, eventually.
The best stories,
poems,
come from shadowed,
pained,
or
pining places
anyway.
***
-JBClaywell
©P&ZPublications 2021
Feb 14, 2021
Feb 14, 2021 at 7:32 PM UTC
Whether you believe it or not,
my original arms dealer was
a Buddhist.
He armed me to the teeth
with a desire to destroy
the darkness
of my teenage thoughts
by firing bullets
filled with ink
into those wretched silhouettes,
turning them into
poetry.
He sent me,
filled past full
with bluster and
********
to the mustiest
den on Felix Street.
But, I couldn’t stay.
I hadn’t quite lived enough;
I’d learned even less
despite being so well
weaponized.
Instead,
I’d find The Black Box,
staying there until
The Paper Moone would
rise above my horizons
and that large sergeant
would offer me more ammo
from the armory.
We fired tracers down those alleys
until the shells were all spent.
We pause now to reload.
The Buddhist’s ordinance
is expended.
Little has changed
despite everything
being different
than it was when we first met.
Now,
the firing range
is nested by
Thunderbirds.
We are well-armed.
***
- JBClaywell
© P&ZPublications; 2017
Apr 6, 2017
Apr 6, 2017 at 1:44 PM UTC
Oh, how I wish
you could see
and hear
what was done.
Today we spoke
of what has become
history, the present
all at once;
of how Thunderbirds
have lined their nest
with feathers of fire,
and decorated nest walls
with leather laces,
strung with beads
bummed from a
Summer-school
Social Studies teacher.
It was the best kind of lesson.
(A history lesson.)
Robert Frost and John Coltrane
were present,
but you were missing,
lost this last year.
However,
you still live
inside of your
Never-forgotten instructions:
“Go down to Felix Street and see a man named Hans. He’ll show you what to do.”
(I did as I was told.)
Neither of us
knew it then,
but what I’d heard was:
…”he’ll show you who you are.”
He did.
And, I still know.
Because of a lesson
well taught.
***
-JBClaywell
©P&ZPublications 2018
Apr 8, 2018
Apr 8, 2018 at 2:25 PM UTC
T'was the day before aluminum.
And all through the towns
Steel fantasies did roam,
All finny at thousands of pounds.
Lots of metal, heavy and sculpted.
No custom kits, just regular Detroit iron,
The Mesabi Iron Range leveled and scalped.
Fins, I say, fin, fins and finny.
You could stab yourself on a '57 Chevie!
Sleek, but massive,
Caddie fins with bullet tail lights
Rare Edsels and Packards
Thunderbirds, killer headlights to match the fins
Remember the Rambler!
Knife edges everywhere, the Studebaker Fury
Corvettes, vruum, vruum, VRUUUM.
Beloved Impalas, Rocket 88's,
Imperials and Mark III Continentals
Where did we go in these steel confections...
Drive-ins, both food and movie,
Down Main Street to be seen,
Back to be seen again, groovy
We had pimples and ducktails,
hoping to meet girls,
but the cars had fins of steel!
And they were the magnets.
Oct 12, 2022
Oct 12, 2022 at 12:53 PM UTC
You're just visiting on the weekends
suffering from lunaphilia and searching for the All-Mother (Purnavasu)
Our Lady Sorrows with the golden chord around her waist and starlet tears begins again
(Achey blue-black Kali knows it)
If I had something to nurture-
A baby being bathed in the kitchen sink and that orphan who becomes apart of the background married to the foliage-Growing ivy all around the room...
Sharp green leaves of palm trees
clinging to a semblance of security
Illuminated by drops of twisting Sun
Kaleidoscopic light spread across insular rooms
Daemonic-feathered creatures dancing on an acid lake
Marble headed and frothy bearded
Chipped-painted
Proportionate forms of fleshy architecture
Chewing gum until it looses flavor
I can’t sit here for forever
Pinning is for the crows
Dusting it off like my old memories in December
Living in a snow globe
The reflection is stained by a Thunderbirds long sleek fang
Sep 25, 2020
Sep 25, 2020 at 9:32 PM UTC