I wrote a little 'solo poem'

[cburg]

“Everywhere I go I find that a poet has been there before me” - Sigmund Freud

[Francis Meyrick]

I gaze in rapture
At a thin gaseous layer
With which our home
Fragile and small
Is blessed by Forces
slightly understood
And by a Great Cosmic Kindness
Whom we, noisy and unseeing
Barely acknowledge.

 

 

 

 

(from "Beauty and the Wind")

[aeroscout]

2, 4, 6, 8,

Who do we appreciate ?

 

7, 11, 64,

Who do you think we're rooting for ?

 

Moggy,

Moggy,

Yay !

[brian74]

Ease up the thrust
What a rush, for you know and trust
That an empty Boeing tandem at 95% torque
Will climb as fast as a champaigne cork

Those Eurocopter engineers were clearly selective
See, they don't call it thrust; they call it collective
Wasn't thinking that over the Anacostia river
As I pulled up slightly, and the 145 delivered

As I scanned down, I quickly gathered my thoughts
FLI was in the yellow at 115 knots
I'd committed the sin that they spoke of in training:
Contingency power range, with no time remaining

No flashes, no beeps, no noises, no warnings
Only predicated assumptions of my boss's scornings
We returned to base to evaluate my error
"No biggie" said maintenenace... "Wanna go back out in the spare?"

To my relief, they explained that using that power
Means a filter inspection at the next 50 hour
Lesson learned, either way:
BAD POWER MANAGEMENT WILL RUIN YOUR DAY.

[cburg]

"No matter what people tell you, words and ideas can change the world." - Robin Williams

Rest in Peace Robin

July 21, 1951 - August 11, 2014

>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>

Ed Ames - Who Will Answer

From the canyons of the mind,
We wander on and stumble blind
Through the often-tangled maze
Of starless nights and sunless days,
While casting for some kind of clue
Or road to lead us to the truth,
But who will answer?

Side by side two people stand,
Together vowing, hand-in-hand
That love's embedded in their hearts,
But soon an empty feeling starts
To overwhelm their hollow lives,
And when we seek the hows and whys,
Who will answer?

High upon a lonely ledge,
a figure teeters near the edge,
And jeering crowds collect below
To egg him on with, "Go, man, go!"
And who will ask what led him
To his private day of doom,
And who will answer?

On a strange and distant hill,
A young man's lying very still.
His arms will never hold his child,
Because a bullet running wild
Has cut him down. And now we cry,
"Dear God, Oh, why, oh, why?"
And who will answer?
If the soul is darkened by a fear it cannot name,
If the mind is baffled when the rules don't fit the game,
Who will answer? Who will answer? Who will answer?

In the rooms of dark and shades,
The scent of sandalwood pervades.
The colored thoughts in muddled heads
Reclining in rumpled beds
Of unmade dreams that can't come true,
And when we ask what we should do,
Who? Who will answer?

'Neath the spreading mushroom tree,
The world revolves in apathy
As overhead, a row of specks
Roars on, drowned out by discotheques,
And if a secret button's pressed
Because one man has been outguessed,
Who will answer?

Is our hope in walnut shells
Worn 'round the neck with temple bells,
Or deep within some cloistered walls
Where hooded figures pray in halls?
Or crumbled books on dusty shelves,
Or in our stars, or in ourselves,
Who will answer?

If the soul is darkened
By a fear it cannot name,
If the mind is baffled
When the rules don't fit the game,
Who will answer? Who will answer? Who will answer?

[Francis Meyrick]

@ cburg

 

Nice, honest tribute.

 

Poor old Robin. That is beyond sad.

 

I've been trying to write my feelings on that one, and I just can't seem to get it down the way I want.

 

After all the good he did. After all the laughter, and the gags, and the sensitivity, it seems such a waste that this man, this feeling, sensitive soul, should die such a lonely, pitiful, unhappy death.

 

I would have wished him to grow old gracefully, suck the cup dry, drain the last dregs, and slide sideways into the grave, giggling hysterically, and making us laugh right along with him.

 

All things are born, all things mature, all things decay, all things die. It is only change.

I truly believe that what I call the Great Cosmic Kindness, that surrounds us, welcomes our feeble efforts at understanding. We should never despair.

 

Poor old boy.

 

Farewell, Robin Williams. Thanks for sharing. Thanks for making us laugh.

 

My Dance in the Clouds

Edited August 16, 2014 by Francis Meyrick

[cburg]

Given angel's wings, where might you fly?
In what sweet heaven might you find your love?
Unwilling to be bound, where might you move,
Lost between the wonder and the why?

 

Nicholas Gordon

[Francis Meyrick]

@ cburg

 

that's a beautiful poem.

 

Couldn't sleep too well, so after reading your poem, I found myself scribbling, the way I doodle. Slea Head is a wild, rocky cliff off the South West coast of Ireland. (see 'The Little Bird off Slea Head')

 

This was my creaky effort this morning...

 

 

Slea Head Dreams

 

Backing far out into space

Gazing down upon this place

What farewell thoughts ply your mind

As you contemplate Mankind?

 

Did you wander soft and true

Around our fragile white-and-blue?

Or is there hardness in your eyes

The embers from a thousand lies?

 

I know a lonely, rocky coast

That is where you loved the most

That is where you longed to fly

Across the ever changing sky.

Edited September 21, 2014 by Francis Meyrick

[cburg]

Francis,

 

Excellent! Thanks for sharing.

[tradford]

New term - aerial-literarians. Our version of 'singing cowboys'.

[Francis Meyrick]

 

 

New term - aerial-literarians. Our version of 'singing cowboys'.

Nice ring to it. That's kind of clever. Aerial blogger? Aerial Mogger?

Okay, I don't mind being an aerial litt....litter.... littering.... litterarian.

 

That's it. New genus of homo artisticus:

 

"homo aerial litterarian" Outstanding. "Homo aerius litterarius"

 

A note of caution how-ever, respectfully+++

 

"Cowboy".... (uh-huh...)

 

"singing"..... ( )

 

Are you SURE....???

 

 

Mogster

 

(aerial litterarian)

[tradford]

My rationale behind analogizing 'singing cowboy' rests with the fact that it's a well-recognized skill-set that exists as a unique and intrinsic element of the silver screen. In order to capture both the essence and significance of 'Pilotage-Poetry', we must appropriately label it for the fly-guy fraternity,

[Francis Meyrick]

 

 

My rationale behind analogizing 'singing cowboy' rests with the fact that it's a well-recognized skill-set that exists as a unique and intrinsic element of the silver screen. In order to capture both the essence and significance of 'Pilotage-Poetry', we must appropriately label it for the fly-guy fraternity,

 

That's awesome. I don't quite know what it means, but I'm wholly awed.

 

Can I send you my boss's email address? Maybe you could explain it all to him. I don't think HE has recognized any "well recognized skill set" where I'm concerned. In ANY arena of human endeavor. In fact, he is on record poking fun at "Moggy's Wars and Pieces". Actually, my "TWO-FINGERED Wars & Pieces"....

 

Now, your phrase "Pilotage-Poetry", which shows a brilliantly creative labeling talent, reminded me of the first and last posh wine tasting event my wife dragged me to.

 

I was supposed to savor the "bucket" (except they spell it different, b-o-u-q-u-e-t) and roll it around my palate, before swallowing. And it was hardly a bucket. Just the bottom of this expensive looking glass. And everybody was oohing and aahing and saying how nice it was. Of course, trying to be polite, (and please wifey), I tried not to think of a decent pint of Guinness, and I said it was nice. Well, quick as a flash, here's this dusty old bottle being pushed at me, with the price tag from bloody hell.

 

"Oh, argh...", I said. (dammit)

"Errr.... have you anything cheaper?", I asked. (my wife glared). (everybody raised their eyebrows)

The guy proffering the expensive bottle asks:

"What range did you have in mind, Sir?"

Me, (without thinking) (situation normal) "Well, how about some Vin Ordinaire? Like, basic plonk?"

And my wife NEVER forgave me. She said she was MORTIFIED.

 

Anyway, ergo, when I contemplate your truly fine phrase "Pilotage-poetry", I am reminded of trying not to swallow this super expensive wine, that I knew I probably couldn't afford anyway. The same base emotion unfortunately grips me when I try and swill "Pilotage-poetry" around my cavities.

 

Might I suggest more basic plonk? How 'bout:

 

"Pie-lot doggerel"..?

 

It has a more honest, working class, irreverent appeal?

 

yes? No?

 

No?

 

(Okay, back to my kennel...)

Edited September 22, 2014 by Francis Meyrick

[tradford]

I think my head is going to explode.

[Francis Meyrick]

Yesssss...... SUCCESS....!!!!!!

 

Another one driven crazy++++

 

 

Ho-hummmmmmmm.........

 

 

PS: not quite poetry, but.... "Sensual Overload - The Snowstorm"

Edited September 23, 2014 by Francis Meyrick

[aeroscout]

I too am being trans moggy fried.

It's a takeoff on transmogrified.

That could be easily interpreted as being driven crazy.

In Moggy's case he gets your consciousness spinning like the harsh english put on a cue ball, or even the spinning and flapping of a rotor disc in motion.

[cburg]

Flight of Youth

by Richard Henry Stoddard

There are gains for all our losses,

There are balms for all our pain:

But when youth, the dream, departs,

It takes something from our hearts,

And it never comes again.

We are stronger, and are better,

Under manhood's sterner reign:

Still we feel that something sweet

Followed youth, with flying feet,

And will never come again.

Something beautiful is vanished,

And we sigh for it in vain:

We behold it everywhere,

On the earth, and in the air,

But it never comes again.

[cburg]

Winds of Change

by Beverly M Miller

To ride a painted pony

across a wind swept hill

Imagination’s our guide,

to be called upon at will.

Drumming beat of horses feet

summon voices from the past

"Dare ride out this storm,

our challenge may be your last!"

Multitudes slap their steeds

as thunder rolls ore' the land.

Angry souls spit lightning bolts,

fierce winds rage from waving hands.

Floods of tears from generations,

appear as torrential rain.

All races sharing like emotion,

each tears color is the same.

We kick our ponies harder now

to gain distance from the strife

Hands clench reins with knuckles white,

we’re holding on for life.

Then as fast as it all started

the winds begin to die

Swirling clouds above our heads

hold sunlight in the sky.

Their gentle laughter outlines color

in a picturesque rainbow

All sights and sounds softly fade,

disappearing with the blow.

Exhausted ponies slow,

it’s time to bid them farewell

With knowing winks,

They dismount the carousel.

[cburg]

That money talks, I'll not deny.
I heard it once, it said 'Goodbye'.

Richard Armour

[cburg]

No one can feel inside
How deep the oceans, heartaches hide
So stand on me, I'll catch you falling
You can stand on me and I'll help you find a way
Stand on me, I can see our ship is turning
Stand on me, we're sailing on the wind of better days

And they accuse you when you're over and out
Ulterior motives, that's what it's all about
It's just human nature, they try to make you flinch
But we're takin' the higher ground inch by inch
No one can feel inside
How deep the oceans, heartaches hide

Emerson, Lake & Palmer...Better Days

[cburg]

You're the crop to my rotation
You're the sum of my equation
I'm the answer to your question
If you follow my suggestion
We can turn this ship around
We'll go up instead of down

Brand New Day - Sting

[tradford]

You guys are killing me!

 

Bottoms Up

An hourly clerk on a Friday at work,
was the last place she wanted to be –
putting up stock while the hands on the clock
seemed to stick on a quarter-to-three.

 

A typical day filled with minimum-pay,
that would start every morning at eight
made her less than a fan of her parents’ demand
that she get out and pull her own weight.

 

Amber was young and the burden that hung
on her shoulders was stinging a tad –
that car that she bought really cost her a lot,
and she owed quite a bit to her dad.

 

The hours would crawl – hardly moving at all,
until finally the time would arrive –
to close up the store, make a dash for the door
and get home at a little past five.

 

When night rolled around, she’d be out on the town
with some friends at a local saloon
for spirits, some dance, maybe passing romance –
and it just couldn’t happen too soon.

 

She slipped on a skirt with a tight-fitting shirt
and she wolfed down a small plate of grub –
then she picked up the key to her new SUV
and she hurried on down to the pub.

 

Her friends were all there, in addition to Claire,
who was sporting a new diamond ring –
her man had proposed and she said she supposed
they’d get married come early next spring.

 

They rendered a toast – maybe five at the most,
as the drinks and togetherness flowed,
then the group would disband with their purses in hand –
after one or two shots for the road.

 

A few were concerned when the party adjourned,
about Amber’s material shape –
but she pushed them away, saying all was okay,
and her temper insured her escape.

 

She started her car and she hadn’t gone far
before everything started to spin –
the markings on signs and the dual yellow lines
were distorted by tonic and gin.

Blind of her state, the internal debate –
to continue or pull to the side,
had too meek a voice to result in the choice
that a cognizant mind would provide.

 

She came to a turn and was destined to learn
that a ‘left’ really should have been ‘right’ –
that the taillights ahead were supposed to be red,
but instead they were larger – and white.

 

She came to a curve and the semi that swerved
hid a car that was right in its wake
and the blistering pace of the vanishing space
left her only one option to take.

 

Though brakes were applied, they were bound to collide
in a gnashing of metal and glass –
then all you could see was a pile of debris
and the odor of coolant and gas.

 

The crash was severe and it seemed pretty clear
that the big SUV brought her luck –
but the same wasn’t true for the driver and crew
of the oncoming car that she’d struck.

 

An active Marine was the first on the scene
with the hope he could render a hand –
and the first thing he’d see was a family of three
who were trapped in a mangled sedan.

 

The man at the wheel had survived the ordeal,
but the woman beside him was dead –
the cause was disclosed when her brains were exposed
from a serious blow to the head.

 

The driver was trapped, but the baby that napped
in the back was his biggest concern –
he was stuck where he’d be and unable to see
what the others were saddened to learn.

 

The seat in the back was no longer intact
and the child was nowhere to be found –
but a search of the site in the dark of the night
found her body outside on the ground.

 

A chopper arrived for the one that survived
and the girls rode a medical van –
they were zipped into bags that were labeled with tags
and then placed onto gurneys by hand.

Amber was cuffed, read her rights and then stuffed
in the back by the Highway Patrol –
she’d failed every test and was under arrest,
but attrition had taken its toll.

 

The way she was built left her riddled with guilt
when she witnessed the scene with dismay –
the penitent bite of a chopper in flight
and an ambulance driving away.