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I wrote a little 'solo poem'


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Solo Flight


The day is just right for companion-less flight,
winds are calm with no clouds in the sky,
the critical gear has received the “all clear” –
now she’s fueled and deemed ready-to-fly.


The mixture’s full-rich, I confirm that the pitch
will adjust as I move the controls –
and the tach isn’t fazed as collective is raised,
since the grip automatically rolls.


I pull it up slow – wonder which way she’ll go
until finally she’s light on the skids –
then I counter the yaw and correct for the draw
that could lead to what safety forbids.


She lists to the side as collective’s applied,
‘cause the fuel weighs a bit more than me –
but the wonderful gift of additional lift
makes the earth set the two of us free.


It’s hard to describe what it feels like to ride
on a cushion just feet from the ground
in an aerial sled – as the blades overhead
beat the air with a thunderous sound.


The pound of my heart when I’m cleared to depart,
makes me wonder if all that I’ve learned
will ensure I survive, that I’ll get back alive –
still intact when my flight is adjourned.


I know I’ve progressed and that leaving the nest
is a ritual all must transcend,
but I find it profound that there’s no one around,
if I panic – that might be the end!


I start on my roll with the cyclic control,
get in trim with the help of a string,
then I push for the shift to translational lift
and I climb like a bird on the wing.


I’m really content with my rate of ascent,
it’s much faster than any before –
the reduction in crew makes this R22
fly a lot like an R44.


I’ve reached AGL in my flying gazelle
and the tower has cleared me to land –
I’ve already seen that the gauges are green
and the cyclic is firmly in hand.


I reach by my seat and I pull in some heat
so my rotors continue to spin –
then I pilot my coach onto final approach
and the two of us softly descend.


I try to be neat with my hands and my feet,
keep her straight ‘till we come to a stop,
and I’m back to the stand where my journey began –
the experience – over the top.


My memory’s tossed to the hurdles I’ve crossed
and the times I was ready to quit –
the tasks I assailed and consistently failed,
and a few that I hate to admit.


This tunnel has light that is barely in sight
and there’s no turning back now for me –
I’ll stay on this course if it leads to divorce,
but a pilot – I’m destined to be!

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  • 3 weeks later...

Thanks, but non-pilots wouldn't understand much of it.

Did you contact Trevor Janz at EAA yet? I sent a PM to you. He was trying to contact you.

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Yes, we did connect and I gave him rights to the poem for posting. Thanks for making the intro.

Glad to hear it...simply too good not to share it!

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  • 4 weeks later...

That's very nice. I'm emotionally moved. Really. I feel a real....

My poetry is different, maybe. Nowhere near as good as yours. Elevating? Nope. Lemme see....


Flame Out

The lowly pilot quickly learns
every time the rotor turns
that the mighty works of mice and men
often enough flame out again.
When rotors slow and turbines yowl
when things go klunk! and bearings howl
there's little can be done but shrug
just give yourself a little hug
smile sickly sweetly at the pax
tell them all just to relax
you know damn well you're outta luck,
it's going to be a cluster f@#!!k...



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Over the hills and far away
I beat my thoughtful, burbling way
no ground bound man will ever know
how much I love the road we go.
To soar above the daily grind
and look down -kindly- on Mankind



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Hey Francis - good stuff! I spend way too much time in a few of the Linked In poetry groups and trust me, rhyming poets are a dying breed! Just go to a Hallmark store and try to buy a rhyming card.


Here's one I wrote the other day while snowed in. I know I'll get snubbed by some of the anti-Robinson crowd - but hey, I'm enjoying 'em!


Helicopter Evolution

Da Vinci’s design was the first of its kind,
when the concept of flight was a dream,
was the first to imply that a person could fly –
with the help of a splendid machine.

A craft for the sky that could not only fly,
but could hover – suspended in place,
with a rotor on top, it could come to a stop
and then land in the tiniest space.

Viewed as a gaffe, the naysayers would laugh
at a jester’s ridiculous spew –
that his sketches and words could turn men into birds,
was a dream that would never come true.

Centuries passed and the challenge would last,
just to prove that Da Vinci was right –
inventors ensued with designs that were crude,
but not one of them ever took flight.

Some were refined by the brightest of minds,
then constructed and shown for review –
but all were in vain ‘till a man from Ukraine
built a chopper that actually flew.

Thousands would soar in the Vietnam war,
where performance went better than planned –
and a wave of recruits sporting helmets and boots
would return to take cyclic in hand.

But ships of the day took a bundle of pay
to procure and to keep in the air –
there was no place to go for the average Joe,
those without a small fortune to spare.

That soon caught the ear of a young engineer
who would also be feeling their pain –
so Frank would come through with the R-22
that was simple and cheap to maintain.

They came off the line back in ‘79
to a market with heated demand –
with a price that’s on par with a luxury car,
they would soon be the rave of the land.

Built by the rules, they were perfect for schools
and were hailed as the trainer of choice –
for a nominal fee, many pilots-to-be
became students with cause to rejoice.

His ship was designed with consumers in mind,
on a pair of expendable rails
that are structured to spread if the engine goes dead –
so the life of the pilot prevails.

But Frank wasn’t through – there was work left to do,
so he gave us a little bit more –
some additional some grit and more places to sit
in the form of the R-44.

So much has transpired since Da Vinci retired
and I’m sure that he smiles from above –
but it’s Igor and Frank that a lot have to thank
for the sport that we’ve all come to love.

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From a Creative writing class I took a few years back………


Superior Pilots


Some see fools

who chase lofty dreams.

Other assume a hero

saving someone’s something.

Most see nothing,

most know no one.

Do you?


Superior pilots fly helicopters.


Like a virtuoso conducting an opus

of a million magnificent pieces

we precisely raise our machines

into the heavens.

Above all for love

though centrally not for money.

With the everlasting desire

to help those from below

we will give all of our own

to reach the end alive.

If not,

death for us would be rather


Edited by Spike
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Damn! A whole clan of flying balladeers! :blink: Anybody else? Don't be shy. We won't laugh! (much) :P


(Ho-Hummm.....lemme see... how else to atrociously abominate the normal flow of the Queen's American...) :rolleyes:



(Mischief Poetry)


"Come into my parlor", said the Spider to the Fly


I looked in the mirror this morning


A streak of Mischief





The Blade of Damocles


I crave a drop of Solitude


Cold Mountain





I miss the darkness of her Light




Into this rushing, cyber world



There is a list on my website (www.chopperstories.com) of t'other "poems" (euphemism) (click here)


Or you can click on my avatar there (The dude blowing soap bubbles of mischievous contempt)

and then click on the icon "View all works"


Rock on! Hummmmmm......





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Damn! A whole clan of flying balladeers! :blink: Anybody else? Don't be shy. We won't laugh! (much) :P


There is a list on my website (www.chopperstories.com) of t'other "poems" (euphemism) (click here)


Or you can click on my avatar there (The dude blowing soap bubbles of mischievous contempt)

and then click on the icon "View all works"


Rock on! Hummmmmm......







Thanks…also here’s a related composite thread…some are quite good (and cross-posted). Please feel free to share your conceptions.



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  • 3 months later...

where did all the poets go...? :(




My hut in the sky

I never did attain
The solitude, the inner peace
Of a hermit's mountain hut
With simple walls
A struggling roof
And blazing windows
That pour my gaze
Into a magnificent distance.

But yet
When I fly
And my thoughts
I realize
I achieved
My dream.

My hut
In the sky
With trembling walls
A vibrating roof
Spinning blades
And polished windows
Of perspex
That pour my gaze
In torrents
Sun whipped and rain scarred
An unfathomable distance.

With the simple wheels
Of my small mind
I grope
Feelingly, yet numb
For Answers
To Questions
I have yet
To discover.

My hut
In the sky
The wind
In my face
The Light
In my eyes
The bounce
In my step

Francis Meyrick

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Limerick is a town in Ireland. Aye. Fine folk. Nuts, but really fine.



"This training pilot from hell

Would scream and holler and yell

Until came the fine day

A tree jumped in his way

And thus the Great One fell."




"Don’t lift off with one engine back

Training will serve you hot flack

Don’t ever ask how

Their leading Brown Cow

Did it out of whack…." :ph34r: (shhhh....)




Quick to sit and judge

Their self esteem won’t budge

It’s all black-white

along comes a fright

and then they bluster and fudge.




''There once was this choppy scout

Who ought to be aero’d out

He haunted the forum

With struggling decorum

Until he got hooted out..."




(Duh. Me bad. Okay, I'll balance it up....)


"There once was a nut called Moggy

Whose mind went a little foggy

he tried hard to scribble

With a dash and a dribble

But left his readers groggy...."



:rolleyes: :unsure: :ph34r:

Edited by Francis Meyrick
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That's not half bad Moggy !

You mean it's ALL bad? I thought so too. I could be sensitive, you know. But I'm not. Not after 24 years of wedded bliss. I promise not to kick you on the shins.


Fundamentally, I think I could be a pacifist. Yes. Turn the other cheek. Smell the flowers.


Here's a Haiku for you. You asked for one. Here it is. A nice, Pacifist haiku.


"Snow white, Peaceful clouds

dream-like, made me sense so much

of Nature's gentle touch..."


(Uh-huh. Merrily-merrily-merrily, etc, etc.)


Unfortunately. Well, I'm not. I like poetry. I scribble poetry. I think the world would be a nicer place if more people enjoyed poetry. But they don't. They're too busy being wrapped around TV zombie shows like "Game of Drones". :wacko:


And further, unfortunately, I'm not a pacifist poet. Nope. My true Nature is revealed NOT when I ponder nice Haiku Oriental landscape paintings like this one:




Nope. It's nice. But this chopper jockey is more defined by this:



But even then... you are NOT really delving into the essential psyche. For THAT, you have to pose this question: WHAT DO YOU THINK OF OUR GREAT LEADERS TODAY, PELOSI-CLINTON-OBAMA-REID-ETC-ETC???








I mean would you?


The answer, my friend is poetically blowing in the wind.


See the next dialog box....

Edited by Francis Meyrick
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HELL, NO...!!!






Errrr..... Peace?



Edited by Francis Meyrick
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