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Best Pilot Poems

Below are the all-time best Pilot poems written by Poets on PoetrySoup. These top poems in list format are the best examples of pilot poems written by PoetrySoup members

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Poems are below...


New Pilot Poems

Don't stop! The most popular and best Pilot poems are below this new poems list.

A Poem From a Japanese Pilot in WWII by Andersen, James
Auto Pilot by Mac, Quincy
Hotshot Pilot by Hinshaw, Robert L.
Drunk pilot by Grushco, Russell
Oh Pilot Me by Ronnow, Robert
Stone Rose Pilot by Lamoureux, Richard
State Port Pilot by Horn, James
FIGHTER PILOT by jimmy boom semtex, nick armbrister
A Blinded B47 Pilot by Horn, James
This Is Your Pilot Speaking by Caliri, Matt

View all new Pilot Poems

The Best Pilot Poems

 
Details | Pilot Poem | Create an image from this poem.

In the bed they make

And when will the tides turn against confident indifference?!

When will humanity cease
To throw cats against curiosity’s silver coated dagger

Another played out song
Another dramatic lyric
Shifting embellished overtones
With deteriorating tact

They spit posthumous awakenings
As divinity laced smiles, wither under a convoluted moon
Shedding retina waterfalls
Misunderstood

Pretentious anger becomes Aphrodite mediocrity
Wisdom, they never “put out”

Crippled tears
Become self-important struts within olive tinted reckonings

Lambasted butterflies
Stirring hornets’ nest
Uninvited

They dream for better days
While double-knotting gang colored bandanas
On eagle’s achromatic foreheads

Another Woody Woodpecker band-aid pulled from condescending hypocrisies

…

And when will the tides turn against pilot light’s mal-intent?

When will the flinty sheep 
Stop wondering how these charring, orange fires began

Forgetting the 115 octane gasoline can
They hold quietly in their hands

©Drake J. Eszes


Copyright © Drake Eszes | Year Posted 2013

Details | Pilot Poem | Create an image from this poem.

Warriors' Hymn

Lord, place Thy Hand on the yoke of those who fly,
And guide them through the vast reaches of the sky.
Bring them safely through their perilous flight,
And may they ever look to Thee as their Guiding Light.

Lord, protect the sailors who sail the treacherous seas.
Calm the roiling waters that they may cruise with ease.
May they always look to Thee as their Pilot for support,
And with Thy guiding hand, bring them safely home to port.

Lord, protect the soldier with Thy mighty sword midst the battle.
Give him strength to press on despite the muskets' rattle.
Hear his fervent supplication for Thy protection from all harm,
And provide him with courage as he leans on Thy eternal arm.

Lord, shield the brave marine as he storms the dangerous strand.
Strengthen him with fortitude and provide Thy protective hand.
Surround him with Thy angels as he strives to overcome the foe.
Bring him safely through the conflict and upon him honor bestow.

Lord, bless and provide comfort to his family, for they also serve.
Until that day they are one again, give them hope and steady nerve.
Hear their prayers O' Lord, for the safe return of heroes dear,
And from their trust, hope and faith in Thee, may they never veer.

Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
(c) All Rights Reserved


Copyright © Robert L. Hinshaw | Year Posted 2014



Details | Pilot Poem | Create an image from this poem.

How much do I love thee

How much do I love thee
Let me tabulate all the ways

I bought you a new Mercedes
	With gold plated tire rims
I bought you a humongous diamond ring
	The size fit for all Royals and King
I bought you a store of the finest lingerie
	Secrets still held at the door by decree
I bought you a garden of roses so red
	My love was surely in bloom, or so they all said
I bought you a ticket to heavens pearly gates
	So that in paradise you’d have not to even wait
I bought you your very own private Lear jet
	To see the world through champagne eyes
My love was a vault and you emptied it dry
	My heart has now learned to never cry

How much do you love me?
Your lawyer seems to know

You claimed mental duress
	Suffering under such stress
The Mercedes was the wrong color so I am told	
	I should have known, pink, not gold
The diamond ring was too heavy to wear
	Your back injuries caused you painful despair
The lingerie didn’t cover you just right
	So medical ailments kept you up many a nights
The roses in bloom where not the right flower
	Your allergies they caused, thus making you sour
The ticket to heaven you plain out refused
	Said it was one way, and that just wouldn’t do!
You had no issues riding my Lear jet 
	You rode the pilot as well, a mile high kinda bet
My love you tossed into the bin out in back
	The divorce lawyer smiles at me, saying she sure is great in the sack 

The moral of the Story is this!
If you are sitting at the table, and
You see a few beetles scurrying about
Maybe even whistling a tune or two
Listen carefully to what they say


Copyright © arthur vaso | Year Posted 2015

Details | Pilot Poem | Create an image from this poem.

MEN YOU DEFINITELY WOULDN'T WANT TO DATE - PART 1

I once dated a pilot … We both had our head in the clouds Our relationship lead to a lot of turbulence - I guess it never really got off the ground! I once dated a glazier… He thought I would be putty in his hands But I could see right through him… He was constantly smashed I once dated an undertaker… He knew he had stiff competition I couldn’t cope - he was always ‘coffin’ when he picked me up in his hearse He had no sense of humour in fact he was dead boring I once dated an angler The thought he was a real catch… But the scales soon fell from my eyes As he was obsessed with his flies I once dated a footballer He thought he could score with me Told me he had great tackle… But it was just a load of balls I once dated a fishmonger… He thought he was cod’s gift to women He invited me back to his plaice… Where I found out he was really a cold fish Submitted to 101 poems in a row Sponsored by PD Linda:-) 15th April 2016


Copyright © JAN ALLISON | Year Posted 2016

Details | Pilot Poem | Create an image from this poem.

WHAT'S IN A NAME


We boarded a flight to Hong Kong Our pilot was called Sum Ting Wong I’d a smile on my face As his flying was ace - His parents sure got his name wrong! 09 04 17


Copyright © JAN ALLISON | Year Posted 2017

Details | Pilot Poem | Create an image from this poem.

Death becomes art


There, on a sill of contentious decisions Glass shards sit waiting a wavering hand Reflective the memories wrapped ‘round the curtains Lost in a pane that she can’t understand Chilled calls the breeze through a jagged eviction Scenting the air neath a ceiling now stained Dampening dreams behind oven doors gaping Finding the pilot light has not complained Ripping out pages of scribbled delusions Day becomes night in the depths of her mind Chasing the echoes when no one will answer Begging each shadow for something to find Setting a table of rounded persuasions Watching fluorescents fade fast in her eyes Turning the knob towards a sorrowed direction Why is there none who react to her cries Loneliness peels back the layered condition Voices of reason have fled to her past Fearing the worst will come visit tomorrow Sensing the hour shall now be her last So many days and the roses need pruning Nary a movement is noticed inside Caught in his thoughts that her words had intentions If only those moments ignored would confide Desperate ink found in fingertip writings Penned by the demons left roaming her head Still haunts the question of fear never listened Death becomes art in the stanzas unread


Copyright © Chris Green | Year Posted 2016

Details | Pilot Poem | Create an image from this poem.

My Pilot Light

My Pilot Light

In a hidden crevice
between soul and skin,
there is a flicker, 
a tangerine flame
blazing through black abyss;
illuminating infinite veins of strength 
that light like gun powder;
a thousand volts of survival 
searing through my core.	

There is a whisper in that flame,
ripples beyond discernible sound,
that directs me to take solace
in the unwavering knowledge 
that my dreams are already realized,
waiting on life’s top shelf;
I have only to climb up and see
that they were never out of reach,
only temporarily out of sight.

I know this more securely 
than I can be sure of anything else:
love, marriage, children,
are rolls of a roulette dice
that tumble around in a risky blur
chancing to settle on snake eyes,
but desire, aspiration, ambition and execution
are coordinates on my internal map
and I will never lose direction.

Spin all the cobwebs of doubt
that you believe can trap my will,
but what I have you can’t touch
or break, or steal, or burn out;
such is the radiance 
of my inextinguishable flame
burning on a wick of passion,
feeding on a fuel of might, 
and guaranteed to burn the hand 
that comes too close
to touching 
my pilot light.


Copyright © Krystal Cochrane | Year Posted 2009

Details | Pilot Poem | Create an image from this poem.

Who am I

I am black
I am great
I am the father and mother of great Kings.

I am John Love the sharpener inventor
I am Mae Jemison the astronaut
I am Martin Luther King the peace maker
I am Tomi Morrison the contemporary novelists.

I am Muhammad Ali the boxer
I am Wilma Rudolph the Olympic track and field champion
I am Tiger woods the golfer
I am Lucy Laney the educator.
 
I am Jack Johnson the heavy weight
I am Rosa Parks the segregation leader
I am Jesse Wilkins the physicist and mathematician
I am Serena Williams the tennis player .

I am Issac Murphy the great through bred jockey
I am Bessie Coleman the first licensed African American pilot
I am Chester Burnett the blues singer
I am Eleanor Holmes the polictian and civil rights activist.

I am Thomas Dorsey the father of gospel music
I am Will Smith the famous actor
I am Barack Obama the  forty four first black afro American president, we are the future.
We are hope for the lost and forgotten generation.


Copyright © Patricia Garcia Howard Bramble | Year Posted 2009

Details | Pilot Poem | Create an image from this poem.

Vacation Disaster

We arrived at the airport quite late
My passport was months out of date
My husband was snappy
The baby filled its nappy
I just stood there and got quite irate

The pilot had been on the pop
On the runway he couldn't stop
He just missed a tree
Stopped off for a pee
Now his career is facing the chop

Our hotel was two star not four
Cockroaches crawled on the floor
We got a terrible fright 
In the middle of the night
A tornado blew off our door

Written for Vacation Humor Contest Sponsored By Carolyn Devonshire
07~23~14


Copyright © JADAZZLE UNITED | Year Posted 2014

Details | Pilot Poem | Create an image from this poem.

Drip, Drop

Drip

Drop

Water drop cascades under sapphire afterglow
Undoing 4 month deprivations

Muffled moans surround crimson fireplace

Crackling of fire
Thrusts of skin
Retinal vibrations shutter her pilot light deep within

She ascended to blue moon heights
As embers of his inferno
Bow in collective unison

Maddening grips

His fingertips draw triangular markings
Hugging curvature’s hip

Gentle bites on lower lip
He tackles her wanton hands against waterbed foundations

Her strengthened pupils reach out for 3rd eye clarity.

She asks for his dance under aggressive whisper
As he dips
Inside

Slow motion Salsa bends of her will
She crosses legs marking “X” against his spot

His relinquished hands
Slalom her vocal chords toward accentuated heavens

He exorcised her trembling inner thighs
From collapsing octaves

With eloquent, muted exhales
His hand reaches her cheek
His mouth descending towards her breast

“My lady, put that lighter down,
Let me be your cigarette.”

Drip

Drop

©11/19/2013
A Scorcher for Charlotte's contest. (Update: Tied for 2nd place. Nice!)


Copyright © Drake Eszes | Year Posted 2013

Details | Pilot Poem | Create an image from this poem.

The 'End' in Friend

I, treasure you.

But, would you stay if I ever said goodbye?

Would inferno’s pilot light succumb to your tears
Knowing tomorrow’s uncertainty
Is our greatest fear?

Would my ill-timed laughter
Make you cringe in disgust
Changing your perception against my heart?

Would you
Hold me
As we wade through baptismal waters of sin
Without bruises from cedar scented crosses?

Can I count the ways
You would be my exhale
When insanity chokes the living within

The living, within!

Within cracked glasshouses
Covered by umbrella’s demise

Would you come to despise
My true colors
Shaded in blues & violets?

Would I need to come to your rescue
After you’ve kicked me when I’m down?

I WOULD!
I WOULD CRAWL WITHOUT YAWN’S FATIGUE!

I would sacrifice my Agnostic flesh
To become a new believer
Born-again
Within YOU!

I would remove my 3rd eye to present what I see in you!
I would become your contact lens that you’ll never have to remove!

I would taste degradation
Simmering in a gentle broil around my arms
And season you with my smiles
Just to make it through choke-holds of a Winter solstice!

I would become your handsome error
Hoping we can write each others wrongs!

I, treasure you.

But,
Would you be there upon last dance’s syllabic end?

My friend, 
I’ll wait by this stainless steel chair.

Embracing the “never-say-never”…

…because, with you, my humanity is willing to believe in forever.

© - 4/22/2013
Submitted for the “What a Friend really is” Contest, sponsored by Becca Lucas; Won 5th place. 


Copyright © Drake Eszes | Year Posted 2013

Details | Pilot Poem | Create an image from this poem.

THE SILENCE OF STONE


Hard is the rock, yet it does roll, beneath the oceans
Swift currents its rough edges become smooth, rounded
But it makes no sound; it is the silence of stone.
Gray is granite, as markers grave marker, yet in times
Harshness the names that speak for a life lost, is vanquished
Do to erosion and the elemental tides of nature, thus is the
Silence of stone reinforced.
Cast down are the mountains of greatest beauty, due to
The ravishing of time, natural monuments reaching upwards
Unto the very heavens themselves, yet these are divine alpines,
Remain left in the shadow of the silence of stone, unable to speak.
Burn does not the eternal soul of our world, a cores heart of flame,
Heating our inner desire to thrive and survive as a species, but if it’s
Fiery furnish pilot light flickered out, turning our planet inside and out.
Would we be able to cry out for helps support, nay behold the true silence
Of stone.
Ideal statues of forbidden deities, stand covered beneath the
Rain forest canopies of the past, nay forgotten by their idol
Worshipers, vanquished, crippled they do crumble to the ground,
Banished Gods, in the silence of stone.
Grinding, cutting humanity tries in vain to leave its eternal
Mark, for generations in the future to know that we existed,
Carving epic figures amongst the rocky tops most high,
But we are the dinosaurs of our own mortality,
And in this venue, behold the stone remains
Silent not revealing our existence.
As the thundering asteroid giants of heaven, cascade
Ever closer to us from above, the world still casts
Rocks of ignorance against their kindred brethren,
Denying that the collision is due to happen no
Matter what.
But stone never shatters, it’s solid,
And it weighs heavy on the intellectual mind,
But stone ears remain dual of sound, again
The silence is deafening.
Hard is the rock, yet it does roll, beneath the oceans
Swift currents its rough edges become smooth, rounded
But it makes no sound; it is the silence of stone.

BY: CHERYL ANNA DUNN


Copyright © cherl dunn | Year Posted 2015

Details | Pilot Poem | Create an image from this poem.

Rough Roads To Roam

The flames of the furnace (well-travelled by wind),
slowly glazing the rags of gray women chagrined
by the sight of a hair fleeing tresses now thinned, 
sometimes flicker like waves through the naves in the night
as pink lightning peeks in when the tension hangs tight
and the lanterns, alarmed, appear fulgent with fright.

Having lost both his arms and now dancing for dimes,
Captain Hook haunts the alleyway's rivers of rhymes,
sometimes singing or prancing to mimic the mimes
with white faces contorted in pity or pain
when the ringmaster murmurs we're all the insane
while the inmates dunk donuts, drink droplets of rain.

Above boulevards, battered with bundles of bricks,
flys the Duchess of Dawdle on waxed candlesticks;
while she watches, debauches, her Gigolo ticks 
as he talks of the walks in the summer day park 
(where the parrots are praying and parakeets bark)
and he buffs brazen beaks at the ends of the arc.

Hoary goblins glow gruesome, they leap from the loft
to the hard-hearted rues, shedding tears that they've quaffed
through the night of the dead as the clarinets coughed
and the keepers kept watch so that no one escaped
dingy dungeons where priests and their puppets hide caped
behind walls lined with tulips and justice hung draped.
 
In the Garden of Eaten, where apples once grew,
lie the bones, somewhat blanched, from the last barbecue
and the snakes strut like stones down the long avenue
filled with cracks like the tracks on the face of the moon
all alight with the shadows that seep down a dune
as the firefly crawls from its crimson cocoon.

Unshorn sheep in the meadow are lead to the bay
to be brainwashed and fleeced, trusting donkeys that bray
of the virtues of demons that haunt yesterday,
while the vultures inhabit green turtle dove lanes
where the blood trickles up and the blue scarlet stains
empty eggshells and feathers and other remains.

Phantom trains travel tunnels (dispatched in all haste),
voiding tickets to nowhere, it seems such a waste
to see roadblocks with red lights at dead ends misplaced
at the base of the bowels of the bottomless pit
where reflections of life seem so damn counterfeit 
from the back of the eyes of the blind hypocrite.
 
Chanting cockroaches, camped in the Countesses' beds,
are commanding the pilgrims to shit in their sheds
at the ends of the bridges suspended by threads 
of red thongs of diminutive bald balladeers 
taunting Toby, the two-headed dog, serving beers
to the pagan disciples of bold puppeteers.
 
The buffets lay barren with garbage dumps filling
with fracking and cracking and lead water spilling,
for milling and drilling are thrilling but killing
the birds and the beasts and the tea leaves, soon falling,
while gurus roast chestnuts and can't hear the calling
while mauling and brawling on knees while they're crawling.

With their hammers in hand, in their plum pinafores, 
Satan's soldiers of fortune wield powers of Thor's
leaving blood on bent bodies, the tombstones of wars
lining highways and byways  with manna and gold
for the mastermind movers, survivors consoled 
with some pie in Valhalla (or so they've been told).

One eyed bees pilot lines through electrical storms
and blind hornets hum hymns when they're swirling in swarms
while the rest are repressed as the blue marble warms
(regent Queens losing sight that the end has begun)
and for eyes of the ewes, veils of wool have been spun  
and the wasps fly their flags from the butt of a gun.

Seven trumpets (attempting to echo the horns
of the Siamese goats and the three Unicorns
giving birth to the mirth in the temple of thorns)
sound the bugles of sorrow inside of the sea
of crazed lies of the wormwood afloat like a pea
in a pod of dark dolphins that can't disagree.
 
Often bellowed by barkers, to crowds with no faces,
are words (in their aftermath, leaving no traces)
of picnics and parties in limbo-like places
on paths to perdition where pundits are preaching
and sirens belch bullets while pirates prowl, breaching
the shadow's barbed branches, with whistles blown, screeching.

They're dissecting dissenters that dare to annoy
and then trample with jackboots sent in to destroy,
at last taming the toes of the last Gypsy boy
finally caught in the craw of their cold catacomb
with no rescue by running nor staying at home,
and no freedom to breathe, only rough roads to roam…


Copyright © Terry O'Leary | Year Posted 2016

Details | Pilot Poem | Create an image from this poem.

Strolling Through Evergreen Cemetery

I was strolling through Evergreen Cemetery the other day,
Glancing at epitaphs etched upon various stones along the way.
Some flowing verse was out of this world but I can only assume,
That the authors were forthcoming in how they met their doom!

"Should an inconsiderate bird upon my stone alight,
Please do me a favor and remove the blight!"

"Here reposes a dude who tried to rob a lady teller,
But she was a keener shot than this unlucky feller!"

"Here sleeps ace pilot Captain Cletus Cole;
His wings were clipped attempting a barrel roll!"

"Here reclines butcher Clyde who cheated on his wife.
Unknown to him she was also adept at wielding a butcher knife!"

"Here lies Hank his mortal shell riddled with lead.
He was nabbed rustlin' steers and the sheriff shot him dead!"

"Here is deposited the corpus of Eddie a top-notch baker.
He is now serving assorted donuts to his beloved Maker!"

"Please relay your regards as by this way you pass,
But for heavens sake, keep off the cottin' pickin' grass!"

"On a banana peel the dear departed slipped and fell.
We pray he landed in paradise and not in hell!"

"He didn't know his Volkswagen had all that power.
He met his doom head-on doing 90 miles per hour!"

"Fer nigh on 40 years old Hank rode this earthly range;
Now he rides in that final roundup on that heavenly grange!"

"Gambler Jim has left very few friends behind to grieve;
He was caught with a couple of aces up his sleeve!"

Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
(c) 2015 All Rights Reserved



Copyright © Robert L. Hinshaw | Year Posted 2015

Details | Pilot Poem | Create an image from this poem.

INDIGNATION




No, my Lord,

Mercy, for their wretched souls, I could

Never ask

Let them burn into eternity for their atrocious crimes,

Committed against humanity 

And

Against the law of Thy infinite love !*




© Demetrios Trifiatis
  07 FEBRUARY 2015

*After burning a Jordanian pilot alive, decapitating two Japanese 
journalists and killing a woman for not wearing shoes, yesterday the 
fanatics decapitated a father and a son in Iraq. When all this end?


Copyright © Demetrios Trifiatis | Year Posted 2015

Details | Pilot Poem | Create an image from this poem.

Hidden Mountains

A solo pilot, lost in snow,
in a jagged mountain pass.
His eyes are trained upon each tree,
and the shape of each crevasse…
In an open-cockpit time machine,
the winter wind does howl,
but a mighty fire’s burning bright,
inside the engine cowl.
The fog and flurry blinding him,
he searches for a trail,
running late, and miles behind,
he’s employed to fly the mail.
He looks for clues to lead him back,
like ancient, sunken wagon tracks.
A mumbled cuss, then shouts out loud,
he’s heard that mountains hide in clouds…   
Now’s the time to pay the toll,
for conversations with his soul.
One way in, and one way out,
it’s true that mountains hide in clouds.
 
Copyright © 2013
 


Copyright © Cole Banner | Year Posted 2013

Details | Pilot Poem | Create an image from this poem.

Tullys Automobile

Over the top of Tammy hill came Tully’s motor car, Tully never drove it very fast nor ever very far. In his youth he’d taught us all How to pilot our ride, It was a job he did very well And in it found his pride. But now Tully was an older gent approaching eighty-three, And he was a pretty good driver still for a man who couldn’t see. So when it became known to all that Tully was on a drive, It was best for them to stay inside If they hoped to stay alive. Whenever he detected movement in his line of sight, He’d steer his car right for it and do so with delight. He’d assume that he’d happened upon some traffic on the lane, It didn’t really matter to him at all if it was an auto or a train. All that ever mattered to Tully was that he found his way to the pub, And he was about to spend an evening of Guinness and Irish grub. Then one night I’d had enough and was in fear of poor Tully’s life, The thought of the blind old man behind the wheel added to my strife. So I lifted the bonnet on his ride and removed the distributor cap, When I was done I was greeted by some locals as they began to clap. When Tully finally stumbled out he found that his ride was no longer game, He took out a pistol and shot it dead As if it a horse that had turned up lame. Now Tully has moved to town And can walk wherever he goes. Off in the direction of the wind And follows wherever it blows. And when a car comes down the lane, To the side he’ll frantically dive. He’ll shake his fist and yell at them, “Who was it that taught you to drive?”


Copyright © Tony Lane | Year Posted 2011

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Silence

(SILENCE)

Illusive silence---
evaporating in noise
at rest in one’s peace.

(SILENT SUNSET)

The tranquil sunset---
in skies of sunlit silence
waits for the morning.

(GLIDER PILOT)

Within sun-split clouds---
one inhaling scenic grace
immersed in silence.

For  Paula's Breathe in the Silence Contest


Copyright © harry horsman | Year Posted 2010

Details | Pilot Poem | Create an image from this poem.

Sept 11,the day the world stood still

It was a day like every other day, sunny and warm they said
New Yorkers smiling and happy, looking for their daily bread
Taxis were darting here and there, planes flying everywhere
Children were going to school, parents laying down the rule.

Plans were made for later that day,
Meet you at 7, no, make it 8. I'll do my best not to be late.
Don't worry baby, I don't mind at all, Just please, remember to call.

Who could have known that waking up that day,
that things would happen in an unusual way.
To change forever, the way we think and feel
The events we saw, yes, they were real.

No way to deny it, it was on the news,
With our own two eyes, there were hundreds of views.
over and over we watched, hard to believe,
what we just witnessed, what did it all mean?

What an unusual sight, that plane in flight,
just before the ninth hour, when it hit the tower,
How terrible we thought, answers we all sought
Like, why did that happen, how could it be?

That a plane hits a skyscraper, in plain sight,
In broad daylight, not the dark of night.
Was it pilot error? How could that be?
The tower was right there, for him and all to see!

That moment was special, that moment in time,
when the whole world was watching, yes, stopped on a dime.
We saw the flames burning, our hearts they burned too,
would there be any survivors?... Who knew?

Calls were made, to say I love you,
Life's been good until now, it's been good loving you.
Say goodbye to the kids for me, tell them be strong,
Tell them daddy loves them...goodbye, so long.

We saw a man falling, from way up above,
Who was that man? Did he not feel loved?
or was he just desperate, to escape the heat?
We all watched in horror, as he fell to the street.

So many were dying, it was too hard to bear,
Many just couldn't get down the stairs.
Some just stayed put, thinking help will come,
What they didn't know was, the damage was done.

The bravest ones, I saw that day, firefighters, on the way,
into the fire they would run, climbing higher and higher,
To save others lives...from that raging fire.
They did not know then, it was a tragic mistake,
All they knew was...lives were at stake.

Many escaped from the tower, running for their lives,
we saw them running with terror in their eyes.
So many people were running just like the others,
They were their fathers, mothers, sisters and brothers.

...And then suddenly another plane appeared!
Was it coincidence, orjust something weird?

When it hit the second tower, at that very hour,
it became crystal clear, that it was just as we feared,
It was not a mistake, someone asleep at the wheel,
It was an attack! that one and all, we would feel.

From that day forward, everything would change,
The world was unrecognizable, suddenly so strange.
Innocence was lost, and war came at great cost,
We learned that terror, was more than just a word,
It was what we all saw, felt, and heard.

So now here we are, so many years later,
Is your pain, grief and fear, lesser, or greater?

Only God can help us now, with all of our fears,
It is he, who promises, to wipe away our tears.
And pain, death, and all of our sorrow,
Will all be gone, in what will seem like tomorrow.

Yes, God will surely help us, I know he will.
But, still it's hard to forget, Sept 11

The day the world stood still.

John Derek Hamilton   
December 20,2012 
Final revision October 13,2015






Copyright © John Hamilton | Year Posted 2015

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Mugwump

A bird/bee with head-mug, on one side of fence, tail/wump on other.

A mugwump sitting on a fence,
smug as he can be.
His mug was writting a reference,
and his wump was hanging free.

When mugwump would lift his head,
a flight he tried to make.
When he flapped his wings o'lead,
his wump got stuck in the gate.

Mugwump is a mighty mess,
hanging from that rail.
As a pilot he forgot to test,
the windsock for the gusty gale.

If a situation should arise,
where you think he's gotton free.
It wouldn't be good to surmise,
that mugwumps are great big bees.

If you consort with bees and birds,
the words should set you free.
But, if you don't watch your words,
a mugwump, you will turn out to be.


Copyright © Sharon Fallis | Year Posted 2005

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Twenty Quid Is Twenty Quid

Bill and Blanche set off, to the 'Yorkshire Show' they did go
T'was a yearly trip, and they would always show.

Each time Bill says to Blanche ‘On that elicopter I’d like to ride.’
Blanche always replied’ but it's twenty quid Bill’ and then she and Bill sighed.

'Twenty quid is twenty quid Bill, you always told me that'
‘Tha’s right me old love,’ and he’d give his wallet a pat.

The next year Bill looked, at the elicopter, and he tried once more
‘I’m seventy-five Blanche, there not much time left for me to soar.’

‘Bill, it’s twenty quid, and twenty quid is twenty quid.
So we’ll not go on the elicopter ride, of that idea you must get rid.’

Bill looked at the elicopter and agreed twenty quid was twenty quid
Of that one idea though, he could never really get rid.

Bill was desperate to ride on that elicopter whirring thing
The pilot overheard the couple, and then he made Bill’s heart sing.

I’ll take you on board, but not one word must you say
If you keep TOTALLY quiet, not one pound or penny will you pay.

Bill and Blanche climbed on board ,for the ride of their life
Not one word did Bill utter, nor his terrified wife.

The pilot looped the loop, he dived and twisted and turned
Not one word did the pilot hear, yet even his stomach churned.

He landed and spoke to Bill and he said ‘I am impressed’
I twisted and I turned and I really tried my best.

Bill said to the pilot ‘Well I nearly gave in lad, and I nearly spoke’
‘Twas when the wife fell out, but you know us Yorkshire folk.’

I watched her spiral down; I nearly shouted, but thought that’s absurd
‘And tha knows twenty quid is twenty quid lad, and you said NOT one word.’

©~GG~17/11/2012
Taken from a joke sent to me by Jack Horne and continuing the theme Harry uses of Yorkshire Humour.
Quid Slang name for pound sterling
Yorkshire folk drop their 'h's



Copyright © Mandy Tams The Golden Girl | Year Posted 2012

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DREAMS FROM PAPER AIRPLANES





We fondly strolled through languid ways And rambled on without goodbyes; On cool and moonlit autumn days That held a glimpse of paradise . Bewitched by evening's lucent beams He told me I was ever fair-- That mirrors all our lifetime dreams While tucking ribbons in my hair. Time lit love's candle in my heart, Although I vaguely heard his sighs Enkindling flames that we won't part; Retracing oceans in my eyes : Yet journeys he had known, afar Unsure of betrothed vows, our plan: This oath circling on his lone star But wait I must, dear pilot man. ..................................... Premiere I - Open: Rob Carmack's Contest Resubmitted 12/26/ 2016 Inspired by the Line 'Vapor Trail Dreams, From Paper Airplanes' Title Of Poem Shortened--- Pic included


Copyright © nette onclaud | Year Posted 2016

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Delphinus Nights

I have flown on wings of dreams, but I never could land well
I've never been to the end of a rainbow and I've never talked to an angel
I could never reach the fleeing horizons and I could never catch the wind
I have never caressed a sliver of moonlight until it touched your skin
When I first saw the beauty of your silhouette standing before the sun
I was the pilot of a new dream landing in your love
Then my tears reflected colors of a rainbow and I could talk to God
I could finally reach the horizons as you woke up in my arms
And I dont care where the winds blow as long as I'm with you
We could float into forever where Delphinus stars may bloom
Where time is never the difference between nights and days
We could cast our shadows from moonlight as we let our hands play
Plucking beautiful flowers from heaven until the end of times 
Planting new celestial gardens beyond our endless skies


Copyright © Jesse James Forster | Year Posted 2013

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The Spirital Womb

The tragedy of a Miracle started today
Our Lord’s brutalized body passed away 

Of all the tragedies in the history of man
This is one I try to grasp, but never can

For some reason I find it impossible to see
We crucified the greatest man in our history

Through all of the gain and all of the loss
It was a predestined coin man had to toss

I wonder how Pilot must have felt that day
He washed cowards hands in a cowardly way

Beaten and tortured, his skin ripped to shreds
As a thorny crown dug holes into Jesus’ head

While nailed to the cross he had one final goal
Through the mercy of love he saved another soul

He saved that soul and then our Lord Jesus died
Can you imagine the countless tears that were cried?

As we all know Jesus' body was placed into a tomb
To my minds eye it was no less than a spiritual womb 

And from inside that womb salvation was born
For the tomb was found empty come Sunday morn

This is not how the story ends it is only how it starts
The Lord now lives up inside each one of our hearts

Even those lost in Prison, the ones like I used to be
Can turn to the Lord and then they will be set free

Freedom is a thing that I think we all strive to find
It is etched in our heart and engraved in our mind

I was locked up in a cell nestled tightly away
Facing several years that I would have to pay

Up inside of that cell I made my own decree
A true miracle was taking place inside of me

I was a very evil man and I was so proud to show it
In the wink of an eye I was transformed into a Poet

I learned there is only one way to truly be free
Ask of the Lord, “ Jesus please come unto me”

And just as the Lord Jesus Christ rose up out of his tomb
We can all live with-in the comfort of his spiritual womb






Copyright © Michael Jordan | Year Posted 2009

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MEMORIES OF MALTA

We’ve recently been to Malta and had an incredible time I met Paul, Charma and Victor. Meeting soupers was divine! The memories I have of our time together Will stay with me forever and ever In Malta there is so much to do, so many places to explore It was our fourth consecutive visit … Malta holidays I adore! Soon the time came for us to say goodbye And home in the airplane we’d have to fly I climbed on board the airplane (I’ll try to be discrete) But the man sitting next to me was also taking up MY seat I couldn’t put the arm rest down it was covered by his back He needed a seat belt extension to give him a bit of slack Fortunately I’m petite and don’t take up too much room I wasn’t squashed for too long .. the pilot sure went zoom! 11~02~16


Copyright © JAN ALLISON | Year Posted 2016