Best Airfield Poems
Old John's birthday was fast approaching, he'd be seventy-two
And his family asked him nicely what he would like to do
"Do you fancy a nice picnic or sightseeing on a train?"
"No thanks" said Old John "I'd like to wing walk on a plane ".
His family thought he was joking, in fun they all did mock
They said "It will be freezing, and you might die of shock"
He said" I have no fear, and everything will be just fine
I found it on a website, and I've booked it on the line".
His family they were mortified and thought that he was joking
But one week from today Old John he'll be high flying
A week later at the airfield Old John was quite ecstatic
His family on the other hand were all starting to panic.
He had his safety briefing and then put on all his gear
Now he was raring to go, Old John he showed no fear
He climbed up onto the wing and then he got strapped in
The pilot gave him the thumbs up and soon they were flying.
Up into the air now, they banked to the left and right
His family they all agreed it was one awesome sight
The pilot signalled to Old John, it was the grand finale
This is what Old John had wanted all his family to see.
The plane it dived then looped the loop, it was incredible to see
Old John was already thinking of what his next stunt could be
The plane then landed safely his family they were all so proud
Old Johns ears were still ringing; the wind had been so loud.
He'd felt the cold biting wind pressing hard against his face
Jokingly he asked his family if it was still in one place
His wife she then kissed him and asked, "How do you feel"?
Old John said, "I'm starving now, I'm ready for a big meal".
His son then asked him, what his next bold venture would be
Old John laughed out loudly and said "A shark cage in the sea
My life I see as a book with pages that are not written yet
I always confront my fears or there will be blank pages of regret".
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
'Twas the night before Christmas and outside blew a gale
Ol' Santa had a brainwave and on his sleigh rigged a sail
He was preparing for what lay ahead, an arduous task
Then waved goodbye to Mrs Claus and put on a face mask.
First he delivered to the all the cities then town after town
But cross winds were now blowing that slowed the sleigh down
He then put down on the highway to dismantle the sail
And the flapping of the sail fabric tickled Rudolphs tail.
Rudolph thought it was Santa and started moving away
But Santa was on the roadside minus his sleigh
The air turned quite blue, ( I wont repeat what he said )
Santa's face was the colour, like his suit a bright red.
He took out his cell phone and dialed nine one one
And told the bemused operator what had gone on
"My head reindeer Rudolph has made off with my sleigh
That's loaded with kids presents for Christmas day".
An all points bulletin was sent out for the runaway sleigh
Santa prayed that the traffic cops would save the day
Cops in choppers were scrambled and to save at any cost
The magic of christmas, that looked like 'twould be lost.
By now Rudolph was getting tired and stopped for a rest
Then the cops in choppers landed, to make an arrest
Rudolph pleaded his innocence and said he didn't know
Then looked behind him and said " where the hell did he go?".
It was all a misunderstanding and everything turned out okay
Sleigh and Santa were reunited and went off on their way
He cracked his whip then from a bottle took a large sup
Told Rudolph to get a move on as the kids would soon be up.
He delivered all the presents and now house lights were coming on
Santa was full of praise for Rudolph, for the hard work that he'd done
He made for home going by the airfield with five crates of elf beer
As a thank you to the chopper cops and to bring them some cheer.
Meanwhile at home Mrs Claus was preparing the turkey
She knew that when Santa got home he'd be tired and hungry
Santa phoned her on his cell phone , she answered "yes dear"
He said "Merry Christmas Mrs Claus and a happy new year".
Written on 3rd December 2020.
Christmas Poems Old or New Poetry Contest
Sponsored by Constance La France.
Plane
Flies
Higher
Inverted
Air show on Sunday!
Crowds of people line the airfield
Watching in excitement as coloured smoke fills the sky.
waiting at airfield
I salute my brave comrade~
welcome sweet sorrow
Something I have long suspected
Might very well happen is in fact
Already moving full-steam ahead
Towards our seeming desolate shore
But this bit I might as well confess
Is way out of the extra-ordinary fare
That the poets had long presaged
Albeit not with appropriate conviction
But when I heard that the French were en route
I knew that the British had already touched base
And when I heard that the Russians were coming
I knew the Americans were lurking somewhere
But now look! Our waters are no longer ours
They are teeming with foreign sea vessels
They have been claimed by mighty powers
That care not that we have a contrary view
Look closely, my friend, and you will be shocked
You see that small floating antenna way out there?
That marks a Russian super espionage submarine
That to the right over there is a French equivalent
Turn, turn this way, my friend, you see that bird?
Why has it not moved since we came on the scene?
Ah, it is because a bird it is not, my dearest friend!
It is a dummy marking the location of a submarine
This one is Britain’s most sophisticated submarine
That patrols and gathers information in this region
Now put on this pair of binoculars, will you, dearest?
I want to show you something that will shock you.
You see that castle that seems to be slowly approaching?
Now that is an aircraft carrier, an airfield, in our waters.
This place is teeming, as I said, with les gens d’espionage
So now, dearest, your leave I must take to rejoin my team.
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?
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.
Form:
A long long time ago
Before digital took over the planet.
My grandfather was n airman in WW2.
He never dropped a single bomb
or even fired a weapon in that war..
He was a bit of a pacifist
live and let live was his way.
Instead he aimed camera lenses
at the Germans snapping their country
on his belly lay on the planes belly.
At the airbase in the UK he printed his photographs.
enough to cover a airfield.
He met an English lady in the darkroom.
They printed their photographs together
mixing fixer and develop[er.
She got used to his crooked smile and big hands
He got used to her being there.
When the war ended he returned to the states
and opened a camera and photography shop.
He built a darkroom by hand
when it was finished he went back to England
on a cargo ship
and found the lady in darkroom.
he asked her to marry him
and she accepted.
when they returned to New York
he showed her the darkroom he built for them.
On the door was a note
held by a thumbtack
It said I fell in love with you
in the dark
but I want you to follow the light
with me for the rest of our lives.
A year later my dad was born
with a crooked smile and big hands
and also his love of photography.
He had the eye for
color and shadow and light.
After I was born I did not follow the
love of photography.
But would get into trouble at school
for writing poems in the margins
of my work books.
I found grandmas note that was
pinned on the darkroom door
she passed a way a few weeks ago.
And I was moved to tell this story.
Follow the light Grandma love.
look for a big man with crooked smile
and big hands hes waiting for you.
(N.A.A.F.I. = universal store, found on
every British military base)
On some bleak airfield on some Cambridge fen
(that awful winter - 'forty-seven, I think)
my mother, novice servicewoman then,
crossed parade-ground like a skating rink
to see the Christmas concert on the camp.
Inside, the quonset hut was black as ink
till airmen lit a feeble spirit lamp.
The snow was driving against one outer wall:
she calls to mind a smell of tents and damp
and stinging fingers, fresh from thrown snowballs,
and gouts of steam, blown out in cloudy spurts
as people laughed. Then lights dimmed in the hall.
She now recalls a curious stab of hurt
to see the Italian janitor of the base
revealed onstage in P.O.W. shirt
when curtains opened. What had been a place
of uproar, now - faced by this threadbare clown -
had undergone some dreadful loss of face.
In dubbin make-up, N.A.A.F.I. dressing-gown,
as solemn as a high priest at the altar,
this patched-up Pagliacci, ear-flaps down,
sang ludicrously well. The keyboard faltered,
and stopped. The singer, weeping now, kept on,
quite heedless, as his clown's nose dripped tear-water.
There's something sacred in the humblest song
(with wretchedness wrought into lasting good
through alchemy of art) and, all along,
the watchers, to their horror, understood.
He sang so gorgeously of going home
because he knew full well he never would.
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
Brave men brought together
To fly the bombers
To hamper the power
Enlistment their will
To serve the free
All humble men
As history will see
Hearts shaking
On this white knuckle ride
Hero's them all
Side by side
Outbound flights
Planes lost
Their families and friends
Count the cost
Target reached
Heavy flak
How many of them
Will make it back
They turn for home
Chased by the Hun
Machine guns ripping
Flesh so young
Wounded they slump
Bullet ridden
Bloodied bodies
Sodden
The coast of England up ahead
Welcomes the live
And will remember the dead
Distant engines
The airfield hears
Crippled planes
Grow near and near
Families gather as they fly over
Did their loved ones
Pass the cliffs of Dover
Ambulance, tenders
Race to the scene
Pieces of man
Their life no longer a dream
Carried in care
Blanketed shroud
Dads and sons
Did their country proud
The airmen who walked out
Turned and looked to the sky
This mission by men
As they wonder why
Pain and suffering
For the right to be free
As the future has thanked
As we look back and see.
Dedicated to all who served, to allow us to write and read.
We can fire our words, but they will never make us bleed.
http://www.thehighlanderspoems.com/war-2.php
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.
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