We were flying back
after flattening Coventry,
all of us cheerful,
confident young men,
all heroes.
On the return landing,
amazingly
we saw that the airfield was deserted -
strange,
for we had left with many aircraft,
the mission a great success.
Then from the ruins of a hanger
they appeared,
people of all ages, families,
all wore gasmasks;
their torn clothes smoldering.
Bewildered we raced back
to the bomber.
Aboard once more
we lumbered into the night sky,
where later
we were shot down
as we fire-bombed Dresden.
September hues of school day smiles and bran new leather bags
creative minds as young as baby figs with eager hearts of lore
My days were full with mischief makers and bragging scalawags
but as the evening fell it was dad and I and paper planes galore
Lined creased papers pressed against father's smoky fingers strong
a wide tooth grin that said it all, while folding them in Ludwig style
Symmetrical wings shaped at the edge to fly through standby throng
inside a backyard airfield 16x24, .. we launched then bridged a mile
One was shaped like a prayer mantis one was fashioned like a jet
homework waited as we glided through a glide-path then a runway
Aerobatic landings that were much more thrilling, then a Lego set
oh the wanders of those days when we both knew, how to play.
August 13, 2022
Sponsor John lawless
Contest Name PAPER AIRPLANES
Between Iraq OEF and Afghanistan ISAF I did about 120 months OCONUS..
A peculiarity about Bagram Airfield which housed about 40,000 people, mostly US enlisted soldiers from all 5 groups and the off shoots.. Well, obviously there were a bunch of horny kids with high testosterone on both sides of the fence and sleazy third country nationals .. It was no secret that some of the fat s.kanks from the US Army were there to make a buck.. Most US enlisted person in uniform had to wear a reflector belt at all times, pigs that were selling it wore 'pink belts'... no one else would be caught dead.. These ' women ' made a pile of money.. From what i heard, $150 USD per throw.. these skanks, and there were hundreds, easily raked in five times there take home per day, minimum.. frankly i cant the blame them... good lord they were hideous..
Bagram airfield the Ugandans handled the bomb dogs.. heading back to my CHU after a mission i would see them for their morning walks.. one dog famously wore motorcycle goggles, story is he took a blast of rocks in the face and survived but was partially blinded.. apparently his sniffer still worked and he could see well enough to do his job.. cool doggy
There were 40,000 people on that base and most armed to the teeth. several thousand were local nationals. Trucks in and out all day.. those dogs were a necessity, god love em. i played with them as often as i could. The Ugandan dudes were cool as f' ...
bagram airfield july 2010
hushed ether of morning
huddled guardian warriors, arms aligned
early call to prayer sounds the blood to chill
arrives the entry check point white linen under issued desert garb
a steely eyed airman quick witted and quicker with sidearm
all hell breaks loose and all age 30 years in one hot minute
beneath circling clouds
in the depths of the ocean
with little nearby
lies a speck of an island
of but thirty-five square miles
green mountain rising
from which hot lava once flowed
most toward the west
where the people live today
in modest isolation
not quite as busy
as during the Falkland War
a remote haven
for whale and turtle watchers
and those not easily bored
the Two Boats village
an airfield called Wideawake
the days are long past
when lookouts stood chilly watch
so 'Lil Boney' wasn't freed
amid the high seas
and the bluest of waters
a little island
not so much as forgotten
as never really known
The night was dark, in the park when I heard a bark
then a ringing bell, blood curdling yell straight from Hell
A loud clunking sound from the ground had me spellbound
by the ploys of the noise, but still maintained my poise.
I shed a tear from fear, but there was no one near.
No hand to hold, when I felt so cold, then behold!
Revealed, what had thus been concealed, an old airfield
Two ghostly planes and blood stains, wings secured by chains
The thump sound was a pump used to clean out the sump
The barking ceased. Time to feast, or a brew, at least!
August 20, 2020
Keen Observation I Poetry Contest
Sponsored by Funom Makama
Oh banish from the dim lit moor
barren windswept cold and more
the untamed nagging beast and boor
Oh darkened sky above the fire
smoke rising from the pricey pyre
signals where my hopes retire
Oh twisted wooden frame remains
wreckage of some airborne gains
lock my airfield gate in chains
Oh welcome summer shifts of breeze
warmer winds from warmer seas
shafts of sun to ashes tease
Oh see it rise, oh spark of life
bird of wonder born of strife
free to wander, free to fly!
Oh transformation of the moor,
dappled by the sun and more:
no untamed beast, no nagging boor.
-Dedicated to all the pilots who, in practice or competition, have lost a plane this year, or in years past. Precision aerobatic planes represent a significant investment of time and money. Their courage to rebuild and compete again was an inspiration to me. Here's to renewed hope, rising from the ashes.
Poets,
poems,
are birds that seek
spaces to rest ...
The beloved heart
it's a safe haven,
an airport,
an airfield
for poetry
(love)
land... !
I found John today.
John died yesterday.
I read of John today.
I vibrate now to his pinch.
Somewhere by a poisoned river
a dead man was born...
Somewhere by a noisy airfield
a pre-writ obit finds me -
The news can still be news.
My future in writing has
been torn and reborn,
today. By George, by John!
A minced oath
of mint stuff.
John left in order to
be found and I surround
myself with his words -
Speaking aloud a baleful
cento of his wordings.
A funerary recitation
lofted into the bitter air
as I read to myself and
some phrases go
burbledy out -
smoke in the pines.
What else, who else
might next die that I
will find it?
Plane
Flies
Higher
Inverted
Air show on Sunday!
Crowds of people line the airfield
Watching in excitement as coloured smoke fills the sky.
Sabre Jet
I pulled up outside an airport, and she sat there, on display,
On a little pad of concrete, like a grounded bird of prey.
I was carried in an instant by that bit of happenstance,
To an airfield near a village in the fields of northern France..
Once again I hear the bellow of the turbine's mighty song
As the waves of rolling thunder drive the sleek war-birds along...
Down the runway; ever faster, till they bid the earth good-bye,
And the gear locks into place as they leap headlong for the sky.
Rising like four homesick angels to their home among the clouds,
All around; ...reverberations of their passing; ... long and loud.
Four small specks far in the distance, vanishing into the blue,
Now there's nothing left but echoes and the scent of Turbo 2.
Blaring horns of angry drivers pull my mind back to to-day,
...From forty years back in the past, and half a world away.
The traffic lights have turned to green during my reverie,
For both of us are obsolete;
The Sabre Jet and me!
Frank Halliwell
While walking through the store I caught your scent,
A lady stood beneath the neon light,
She held a bottle of perfume in hand,
And memories returned into my sight.
Outside the school gates waiting for the bell,
I saw my mum; she’s standing, waiting there,
With me running out ready to go home,
The essence of Charlie kissing the air.
I see the old man stop all of those cars,
In his white mac with his lollipop stick,
Of course it was magic in a child’s eyes,
Like Paul Daniels performing a staged trick.
Past the airfield and rails, Blue on her lead,
Over the bridge to check the lizard hill,
Were they bathing in early summer sun,
Then on home where Peter was lying, still.
Sweet memories that I have in my heart
You may wonder on the what, why, and how
My mum will always be my ‘Charlie girl’,
Although it is me who wears Charlie now.
Form: Sicilian Quatrains
waiting at airfield
I salute my brave comrade~
welcome sweet sorrow
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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