THE REBEL ARTIST Why do you paint pictures of silent days?, Lonely roads, lonely streets; of beggars groping their way, holding hands to each other, making beggarly music to awake crushed passions. Is this your country? Once flowing with milk and honey! Now a beggar, begging from those he once fed! Independence Day? In those days, we trekked far from hinterlands to freedom square, expectations high against odds to receive golden salutes from heroes past...Those days of innocence, when civilization slapped us in the face...when euphoria of this treacherous sovereignty beclouded us not to see this end that comes... Why, Rebellious Artist, why do you paint pictures of baby-strapped women saddled with loads, why images of riotous youths, corpse-Iittered streets. Paint pictures of these green-white flowers, adorning our great country. Paint him, our man, the president. Oh! It was beauty last night glistening all over the Aerodrome as he beaded farewell to his countrymen, boarding the air to Saudi Arabia!
On rows of chairs
heads bark orders at invisible underlings,
sharp suited mid-level execs
power into conference calls.
The more gleaming the sky-palace
the skuzzier I feel,
the duller the yellow
of my crumpled paperback.
Air-miles accrued,
I bumped myself up to business class.
I should have worn a tie.
I imagine earlier times,
wind-swept form
standing beside a bare runway
trench coat flapping, fedora pulled low,
as I prepare to leave an aerodrome.
In a darkened faraway hanger,
beneath a solitary wind-sock,
a black wall-phone waits
for my natty,
even stylish arrival.
People in the terminal
who drag their traveling bags
fall in line for their tickets
and passports as well.
Sleep Baby Sleep
Little baby let me rock you to sleep
Angels will watch over you, do not weep
Visit places you've never seen before
Lots of adventures for you to explore.
Meet Dinosaurs, they have wings and can fly
They offer rides right up high in the sky
They're enormous and fly supersonic
Hold tight, they shoot off spry as a rocket.
You’ll be seeing stars with a bird’s eye view
And the man in the moon’s face, up close too
The Dinosaur will bring you safely home
And fly himself back to his aerodrome.
Dream of all things wonderful through the night
Awake in the morning refreshed and bright.
15th March 2021
Nursery Rhyme 2 Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Eve Roper
~ ** ~
A mighty fortress is this venerable plane!
A flying fortress indeed - the adversary's bane!
Though she groans as through the celestial dome she flies,
There's no sturdier old queen ruling the skies!
Though badly battered by bursting flak and shell,
She limps home from missions having flown through hell!
Mission completed, her tires gently kiss the aerodrome,
Once more bringing her valiant crew safely home.
Ground crews patch the old warrior to fly another day,
And load her belly with fuel and ammo without delay.
The crews who proudly wore the Eighth Air Force Patch,
Will argue there's not a plane yet built to meet her match!
The old veteran served faithfully during the Second World War,
But very few of these elegant birds grace the skies anymore.
Some rest their weary wings displayed in museums here and there,
To be admired by future generations. tended with loving care!
Painstakingly I gathered shrapnel from grandpa’s fields,
sold them to the metal man who came on horse & cart.
Alas, disaster struck...the sixpence, fruit of my hard work,
slipped through my fingers, forever lost in the soil!
A young entrepreneur’s euphoria evaporated into thin air.
My heart painfully shattered beyond repair by the shrapnel
of irremediable loss, anger and bitter disappointment.
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
Contest: Unsayable (7 lines)
Sponsor: Nette Onclaud
Placed 2nd
© 24th November 2017
Years after WW II ended, shrapnel from exploded bombs
was still to be found in all the area where my grandpa’s
farm was - in the vicinity of Hal Far military aerodrome.
A man used to visit from time to time, with horse and cart,
buying anything made of metal; we called him the metal man.
I am not alone, I got Jesus
on the phone, on the phone He's on my phone
I am not alone, I got Jesus
He's in my home, in my home He is my home
If I travel in my mine, He's my roam
On top of my root beer float He's my foam
He ever covers me under His dome
Oh! and He's never ever, never leaves me alone
I am not alone, I got Jesus
on the phone, on the phone He's on my phone
I am not alone, I got Jesus
He's in my home, in my home He is my home
He's my chromosome, and
He's aerodrome
He'll never, ever never leaves me alone
This I'm sure and this I know
I am not alone, I got Jesus
I am not alone, I got Jesus
on the phone, on the phone He's on my phone
I am not alone, I got Jesus
He's in my home, in my home He is my home
I am not alone, I got Jesus
09/18/17
written by James Edward Lee Sr.
~David The Gnome~
(Rhyming Couplets)
Hello there dearie, my name is David the Gnome
And this is my home, Sweet Home
And you're most welcome to roam
Around, and read each and all of my poems
My library as you can see is built just like a dome
With the finest wood that came all the way from Stockholm
I read a lot, but I prefer that chap Sherlock Holmes
His detective stories make me feel quite at home
My dear wife just left to get some sweet honey-comb
Last year we traveled all the way to Rome
That was so cool, we also visited the Catacomes
And we went to see also our dear friend Jerome
I got the most wonderful and historical tome
About all the living world's Gnomes
And I am David the Gnome
One of the oldest of all the Gnomes
So please feel free again to visit my home
Don't be afraid of those nasty trolls that roam
Or landing anytime you want at my aerodrome
My friends the birds have wings built stronger than chrome.
Dorian Petersen Potter
aka ladydp2000
copyright@2009
January.2.2016
Swaying
undulating
like bouquets from heaven
so gently descending
in white waves
the flowers of youth came down.
They kissed the tall trees
and church spires
as they made for the village green
and the roads
and back gardens seen
on the way
to the aerodrome
It was blue sky above us
white clouds with no motion
Sunday bells ringing
as we watched from the windows.
Peace all around
soon to be shattered
As the parachutes landed
we saw soldier men
and guns to the fore.
They missed Biggin Hill
but we caught them
on a quiet Sunday morning
when a vision of flowers his death at our door.
grassy Aerodrome
landing white cranes flap wings
with fishes take off
Stow Maries.
Wings of war like paper butterflies
once floated down upon this grassy plain
war machines of moments gone
honeysuckle and wild rose
now cling to silent buildings
empty shells of ghostly past
listen and hear within the broken walls
voices of those who came
to serve..to fly..to die.
a gentle breeze sings songs of
soldiers who sleep nearby
in churchyard graves
time passes and the horses hooves
race along the fields
primroses, snowdrops and bluebells
rejoice in a better time
but soon the dark days of another war
return and bring the iron machines
from out the skies
as drone of planes
fills the springtime air
black gases and polluted wrath
bring death to flowers
while buildings come alive
with sounds of fowl to feed a hungry nation.
the winds of war retreat and
memories are brought to life
revived, restored,
and the airfield of Stow Maries
like a phoenix lives again,
a different time and light
its past to never be forgotten.
In memory of those who died in WW I and II and used this aerodrome in Essex, England.
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