"warplanes" poems
The fierce looking man entered my home
Taking my baba, my mama,
My life
Continuously kicking, spitting on us..
I hold my brother close,
Whispering God's words
As warplanes return above our heads,
Darkness, light, explosions, destruction, screams, sirens,
One more, ten more, hundred more
Souls taken,
I squeeze tighter,
Continue to whisper
Allah please save us...
with hardship comes ease ,
One day soon,
The new green, white, and black
Will show his face no more;
I will bring home my gold medal
To a Syria free, free, free
May 17, 2013
May 17, 2013 at 7:03 AM UTC
During moments I yearned for forests grown for me alone,
Caressing them in a dream,
I could sense the throbbing of the heart
Hidden beneath my ribs to bless my journey.
Summoning me with a pulse that he recognizes in me.
I heard the noise of abandoned smoke from a moment of care
Join with me,
Forcefully traversing desires to the hidden-most one.
My spirit swung toward him,
Creating a tingling
On lips that devour breaths alive.
I felt ashamed,
But the eye,
In moments—I scarcely know what to call them—that took me on another route
Toward the television, saw warplanes . . . spray death on them.
At that moment,
The fire of machine guns raked all the bodies,
And another fire raked my body when I trained my eye on him
Hesitantly inclining his head
Toward a shoulder unaccustomed to the secret of the stars of war
Or to insomnia.
Oh . . . . I leaned on it!
And when he caressed a dumbfounded person
I felt his fingers like coiling embers inside me.
Bashfulness seized the excuse this caress gave . . . and vanished,
Eliminating distance till the two of us were one.
And the eye—he moaned: May love not forgive her the eye—repeated another evasion
Toward a drizzle of men flung about in the air by just the rustling of a pilot penetrating a building
To fall on screens as the debris of breaking news.
But his breaths . . . shattering the still down of the cheek,
And turning their picture into mist as
Eddies of the screen’s corpses . . . varieties of death that they brought them.
The spirit that became a body,
The body that was sold for the sake of a touch,
The eye that was concealed in his image
And that approached the firebrand of conflagrations.
Everyone drawing close to everyone,
Everyone,
Everyone,
Everyone.
But the thunder of their machine guns splintered them:
Corpses piled on corpses,
I mean on me,
The eyes of those in it were extinguished.
They slept in a trench of silence.
My eyes’ lids parted in a wakefulness obsessed with them.
I rose … and embraced the chill
That the screens brought me in commemoration of Stalingrad.
………………………………
Translated by William Hutchins
Apr 6, 2016
Apr 6, 2016 at 10:38 PM UTC
a baby born from a mother's womb
is a father's glory & a father's tomb.
they risk it all
they'd risk what's right
for their sunshine to grow
up a life of light-
"papa! papa? look at me
where is mama? i brood! coffee,"
father didn't budge; he sat uptight
couldn't quell her queries
but she slept through the night.
she then woke up, heard a bang! from the door
saw poor father sobbing on the floor.
"help me up child, from now on.
mother will hear us with the warplanes gone."
Jan 7, 2018
Jan 7, 2018 at 2:19 AM UTC
Trumpets' fanfare, riding, riding
'Neath the Blue and Red,
Gallopped Marshal Jimmy Donald
While the Tunak fled.
Marshal Jim rode off the valley
Down to Tunak-land;
Rounding off the sub-bots and
The Kumars' brutal hand.
Raise the standard, sons of iron!
Charge, ye horsemen brave!
Soar, ye warplanes, into battle,
We've got lives to save!
Marshal Jimmy, our commander,
You direct the way!
Through the dim and crooked darkness
To a bright new day.
Nov 23, 2019
Nov 23, 2019 at 7:20 AM UTC
In your granddad’s bookcase
was a book you liked
with a blue hardback cover
with German warplane
pictures in it
and you loved to study
the photographs
even though
the words
were too big
or long
for you to read
and on that Sunday
you sat
while the parents talked
and studied
the bookcase
hoping your granddad
would get it out for you
if he saw you
looking that way
long enough
but the parents talked
and the grandparents
listened or talked too
and the book stayed put
in the bookcase
and you stared
and counted the books
on either side
taking in
the various colours
and sizes
on the shelves above
and below
and how neat
they were placed
and tidy
and well polished
it all was
but the book
kind of attracted you
with its German warplanes
with the Swastikas
on the wings and sides
and some pictures
had Spitfires
and Lancaster bombers
with red white and blue
on the sides and wings
but that Sunday
Granddad didn’t
get out the book
and hand it to you.
Jan 1, 2013
Jan 1, 2013 at 3:35 PM UTC
Molotovs explode, windows shatter
But to them, it doesn’t matter.
Their sheltered lives are bliss, while little children die,
They sit in their bubble baths and let out a sigh.
They burn their coal to heat their homes,
While warplanes fly from aerodromes.
They clink their flimsy wine-filled glasses,
While the earth rots in a shell of gases.
They talk of truth, peace and love,
While praying to the skies above.
They ask for good things, for themselves.
While kids, teenagers, join cartels.
They “Save The Seals”, but they are blind,
The thing that needs saving is mankind.
A thousand cry out, but they claim to be powerless.
How would they feel if they were towerless?
Mar 2, 2017
Mar 2, 2017 at 12:03 PM UTC
clip god's eagles
they praise god at every single turn
and worship him like an addict high
blessing everyone and themselves
even their aeroplanes are blessed
with god's name on the nose
this applies to both civil and military
the warplanes especially are blessed
with pilots who are adept at killing
what does god think about this?
or should we ask the devil?
ten thousand killed in the yemen war
blown to bits by saudi bombs
dropped by planes with god bless
painted on their nose
tell me is this a wise thing?
what is holy about these heinous act?
i'm sure god has something to say
when he speaks who will listen?
the heathen muslim saudis
who use fakely blessed jets
to **** terrorists and civilians
and further an unnamed cause
in the name of who, god?
Jan 25, 2018
Jan 25, 2018 at 7:54 PM UTC
Tarac Ridge Warplane crashes February 8-10 2018 write up by Nick Armbrister
I have had an interest in aeroplanes and history ever since my dad got me into planes back in 1980. He took me up to air crashes on the Pennines/Peak District/Manchester/Yorkshire/Lancashire area of England in the early 80s. There are over fifty crashes alone here ranging from the war years and later. We also went to wrecks in the Lake District and Wales.
In 2014 in the Philippines I went to more wrecks. I Googled Bataan warplane crashes and found out about the LT Stone P-40 Warhawk and Sgt Kurosawa Ki-27 Nate dog fight and subsequent crashes. This read like something from a Battle or Warlord comic.
Over the coming weeks I put together an expedition there. I talked to Kevin Hamdorf who was one of the group who found the P-40 wreck. He gave me much info and introduced me to the guide, Noel. Without his help the trip wouldn’t have been possible.
We went to the crash area at Tarac Ridge on February 8-10 2018. This was the 76th anniversary of it. We went to the P-40 on Feb 9 and the Ki-27 on the 10th.
The crashes are over a kilometer up altitude wise. We had to hike many hours through the forest/jungle and mountain to the area. We camped at the lower campsite. There is an easier site at the top of the mountain near Kurosawa’s Nate which is less than a hundred feet below the area. Because we never camped there we had to ascend the final hour to the summit each day.
The Warhawk site of Stone is hundreds of feet below Kurosawa’s in the forest on the mountain side. Little remains today but bits of alloy, Perspex, glass and other small fragments. We found these. Lt Stone is still listed as MIA Missing In Action. One of our group, Mike, searches for MIAs. We took hundreds of photos of the area and of our search.
I ventured up to the Nate site of Sgt Kurosawa on the last day of our three day stay. It was at the summit. We had to go through thick brush/jungle to the location. Kurosawa hit a rock face and his plane was fragmented. The engine used to be there but has since been removed. There is less at this site than at Stone’s P-40. We found bits of metal, Perspex and bits. Looking at the closeness to the summit, I realized that Kurosawa almost made it.
Nobody but God and the pilots know who shot down whom and who was on the other’s tail that day. The result is the same: two warplanes wrecked and two pilots dead. Maybe more answers will be found on future expeditions. It was a great experience to go there to Tarac Ridge, Mariveles, Bataan. In time I hope to return. This was my first international warplane trip. I want to go to a Grumman F-6F Hellcat at Capas next.
Mar 4, 2018
Mar 4, 2018 at 2:51 AM UTC
Tarac
We busted our *****
To get up there
Over a kilometre high
Where the warplanes live
And die a violent death
Meeting their end up above
On towering lonely slopes
As did Lt Stone and Sgt Kurosawa
On the same day seventy six years ago
To the day we went there
As others before had
For we had a job to do
The missing answer to find
To locate the remains of a lost pilot
Named Stone from America
Who flew a Curtiss P-40 Warhawk
In mortal battle with his nemesis
Kurosawa from Japan
With his Nakajima Ki-27 Nate
Both died that day
February 9 1942
And both haunt those inclines
One is angry and lost
One found wants to go home
One likes Hello Kitty
But not the one you think
For my drink tumbler fell
And the guide missed it
It stopped where Stone said
And there we dug dug dug
And found his airplane
Or what was once his warplane
In pieces that were scrap
But had meaning to our group
For it was this plane
That brought us here
Many hours of climbing
Swearing and sweating
To touch the clouds
And be where both hit
At what cost?
Two planes smashed
Two pilots dead
The American protecting Villamoor
The Philippines' best pilot
Who flew his biplane
A Boeing Stearman
On a recon mission
The same type that flies today
With **** English wing walkers
From Clark in Bataan
The same field Kurosawa flew from
Yes synchronicity is here
Eagle Has Landed style
What does this mean now?
In 2018 right now
Is it the pilots' ghosts
Or God or fate or karma
That brought me here
To Tarac Ridge to look
To try to find Stone's bones?
When so many have looked
And failed to find him
Did we really find Lt Stone?
So he's no longer MIA
And captive here
This beautiful mountain side
Where the sky and sea become one
Where Bataan and Corregidor
Are visible
The old battlefields
Where hell occured
Where there are more MIAs
From both sides
Both pilots hunted here
And both became the prey
Paying the ultimate cost
Bent metal and broken bones
Telling a story
Their story
If you listen
You will hear it...
Feb 13, 2018
Feb 13, 2018 at 12:22 PM UTC
Tarac (for Stone and Kurosawa)
We busted our *****
To get up there
Over a kilometre high
Where the warplanes live
And die a violent death
Meeting their end up above
On towering lonely slopes
As did Lt Stone and Sgt Kurosawa
On the same day seventy six years ago
To the day we went there
As others before had
For we had a job to do
The missing answer to find
To locate the remains of a lost pilot
Named Stone from America
Who flew a Curtiss P-40 Warhawk
In mortal battle with his nemesis
Kurosawa from Japan
With his Nakajima Ki-27 Nate
Both died that day
February 9 1942
And both haunt those inclines
One is angry and lost
One found wants to go home
One likes Hello Kitty
But not the one you think
For my drink tumbler fell
And the guide missed it
It stopped where Stone said
And there we dug dugdug
And found his airplane
Or what was once his warplane
In pieces that were scrap
But had meaning to our group
For it was this plane
That brought us here
Many hours of climbing
Swearing and sweating
To touch the clouds
And be where both hit
At what cost?
Two planes smashed
Two pilots dead
The American protecting Villamor
The Philippines' best pilot
Who flew his biplane
A Boeing Stearman
On a recon mission
The same type that flies today
With **** English wing walkers
From Clark in Bataan
The same field Kurosawa flew from
Yes synchronicity is here
Eagle Has Landed style
What does this mean now?
In 2018 right now
Is it the pilots' ghosts
Or God or fate or karma
That brought me here
To Tarac Ridge to look
To try to find Stone's bones?
When so many have looked
And failed to find him
Did we really find Lt Stone?
So he's no longer MIA
And captive here
This beautiful mountain side
Where the sky and sea become one
Where Bataan and Corregidor
Are visible
The old battlefields
Where hell occurred
Where there are more MIAs
From both sides
Both pilots hunted here
And both became the prey
Paying the ultimate cost
Bent metal and broken bones
Telling a story
Their story
If you listen
You will hear it...
Jan 6, 2019
Jan 6, 2019 at 5:59 AM UTC
Last night I could hardly sleep a wink my kitchen sink went “tink tink tink” with water drops on metal, “Stop!” I cried and tried to settle back into bed and off to sleep, and then, just then, I felt a wind cold at my feet—it was the fan, I left it spinning, I pulled the chain to end its sinning, it was Too. ****** Cold!
I snuggled back in and shut my eyes, not two more minutes ticked on by when I heard the buzz of a little fly, I thought: “why, oh, why does this remind me of warplanes up in the sky?” I fought not in war, but more in slumber, I need to upgrade to a sweet Sleep Number! Or some kind of bed that doesn’t creak when I lay me down to get some sleep! I pray the Lord my soul to keep, but if I cannot get this rest, He’ll have to take it when I’m dead, like this fly who just Won’t. Stop. Buzzing!
I smack the fly out of the air, scratch my head, run through my hair, now all is silent throughout the lair—until my cat, out of nowhere, pounces my belly and shoots a glare as if to say “I do not care,” he meows and growls just like a bear—at least to me it sounds as such, but then again, I’m losing touch! The clock tick-tocks, I’m still awake, I lie back down for my own sake, my eyes shut slow, it’s going great—and then, just then: It’s an earthquake! No—it’s just my cat running around on the bed chasing his shadow on the wall, because somehow, light still finds a way into my room at night to entertain this creature. Cat. Please. Stop!
With curtains closed and all gone pitch, I scratch the light right off my list, same goes for that one last itch down on my back—and it got violent, but I got it—now the room is silent! So one last time, I curl on up and drift away, I’ve got to say, it feels great! I thought my soul was about to break, I fall asleep and claim my stake, my dream is—wait, I’m awake!?
It was all. A ******* Dream.
Nov 2, 2016
Nov 2, 2016 at 4:25 PM UTC
I return a hero,
but the victory
is buried in my skin—
cold sweat,
thick as blood,
as a grave.
3:47 AM,
The door creaks open,
the old hinges groaning—
boots pounding closer,
each step like a drumbeat,
bringing a cold shiver
that claws down my spine.
Then—
silence.
A scream cuts the night,
the daughter,
the mother,
they want me—
drag me back
to that blood-soaked hell,
where nothing survives,
where life is torn apart.
Warplanes split the sky,
tanks rumble in my chest—
the taste of rust,
the heat of gunfire,
the smell of flesh burning,
of metal tearing through bone.
l open my eyes,
and I'm surrounded—
the bodies of my brothers,
their faces smashed into the earth,
eyes wide,
mouths frozen in screams.
The stench is choking,
the blood thick,
pooling like a dark sea around us.
The Nazis—
they don't stop—
shooting the fallen
to make sure no one rises.
I feel the shot in my gut,
but I'm still here—
I wait my turn.
I close my eyes.
And then—
l open them.
Still here.
4:01 AM.
I survived.
Barely.
Jan 31, 2025
Jan 31, 2025 at 3:09 PM UTC
**** Heap
Round and round they go on a merry go round
Chasing one another in high performance warplanes
Trying to blow one another's ******* heads off
Madness over Belgium World War 2 style
**** Messerschmitt 109 and Yankee P-47 Thunderbolt
Armed to the ******* teeth read for war and battle
Just waiting for a shot shoot **** die death!
Here we ******* go guns guns guns!
But he missed and so the dance continues
German and American going round like Devils
Each as good as the other and both expendable
In the high tech no mercy duel where violence rules
Shortly one or both fighter planes will be wrecks
Burning fiercely on the frozen ground
January 1 1945 New Year’s Day battle style
Did you have a good New Year's Eve party?
Your hangover will be the death of you
Making you a second too slow
Then the **** will nail you and claim a new ****
Adding to his list of Allied and Soviet pilots
For he fights not for ****** or the Nazis
But to survive as two dozen of his comrades die
Killed by American guns while hitting their base
This is war where there's no glory just death
Oct 28, 2018
Oct 28, 2018 at 7:32 AM UTC
from my new anti war book Eventful War
Nick Armbrister
Toy Box
To build an empire you need the right tools
And Imperial Japan had those in abundance
Armed to the teeth with skilled warriors willing to fight
Advanced warplanes like the Zero, Val and Kate
The best torpedoes in the world the Long Lance
The Bushido fighting spirit of never surrender
Outlawed explosive bullets won an empire
A wicked tool was the ‘Assault No 1’ standard military-issue ******
**** as a weapon of war with Comfort Women the prize
Fighting spirit blooded from 1931 until 1945
When the Divine Wind was unleashed
Ravenously fighting till the Imperial Empire fell
Mar 9, 2019
Mar 9, 2019 at 10:13 AM UTC
Helen said
the woman
in the flat
above hers
(Mrs Knight)
had a new kitten
to replace the one
that got run over
on the road.
It was a tabby
and when Mrs Knight
lets it out
it rubs
against my legs
Helen said.
I can show
when you
come round
next time.
We walked
to Jail Park
went on the swings.
I'm going
to get a kitten
when I'm older
she said
a tabby
like Mrs Knight.
We rode
the swings high
rising up
into the morning air.
I pretended
I was in a Spitfire
shooting down
German warplanes
tat-a-tat-tat
I went.
Helen talked on
about how the kitten
drinks the milk
she puts out
on a saucer
but too often
or it'll want to live
with us
she said.
I shot down
half a dozen warplanes
the invisible pilots
falling dead.
Jun 29, 2017
Jun 29, 2017 at 3:16 AM UTC
_(A poem for the map that burns)_
In just three days, the sky grew teeth,
and bit six nations into grief.
Palestine, already ash and ache,
was struck again, as if to break
what’s already broken.
__Six Names in Three Days__
Lebanon’s hills, where cedars pray,
shuddered under warplanes’ sway.
Syria’s night turned siren-red,
its wounded cities counting dead
in silence, again.
__Six Names in Three Days__
Tunisia’s coast, where boats set sail
with hope and aid, now tells the tale
of fire on deck, of drone and flame,
a flotilla struck, without a name
for peace betrayed.
__Six Names in Three Days__
Qatar, the voice of ceasefire talks,
was bombed mid-sentence, mid-diplomats’ walks.
Smoke rose over Doha’s glass,
where leaders met to end the past,
but war arrived first.
__Six Names in Three Days__
And Yemen, long a battered drum,
was struck anew, its people numb.
The desert weeps, the mountains moan,
as missiles find another home
in hunger’s cradle.
Six names in three days.
Six wounds on the map.
Each one a prayer interrupted,
a child’s sleep shattered,
a border crossed without consent.
And still, the world spins.
And still, the ink dries.
And still, we write poems
because silence is complicity
and memory is resistance.
Sep 11, 2025
Sep 11, 2025 at 6:40 AM UTC