Best Piloted Poems
That tiny pause to skirt the truth, half-reals you'd paraphrase,
The subtle softly spinning gyre of cunning in your gaze,
Vague reflections from your skin - a shedding, sheltering plaque,
All concerned syllables sent swiftly bouncing off your back.
Ever adrift on fiction's lost sea, never blown to shore,
Too late I saw your hidden thirst - too easy to ignore
Evasion and avoidance - thus was piloted your ship,
You'd dance around, not run aground - you gave us both the slip.
I failed your buried, rooted pain, I missed the reddened tracks,
All facts would step aside your rime of displaced parallax,
I slighted each secluded wound, the false-trod thoroughfare,
So ends a life of wary silence, cloaked mutely in despair.
No one knew you as I did, my reward there sadly sure,
I'd like to think away now, yet the hard truths are too pure,
Blinded, perhaps, by my own fear, I let out line for years,
And all my stock of forward time now fills with bloody tears.
Upon my closing sight of you, muzzled words within your eyes,
Your final hour released you not - you'd walked too long on lies.
There's a Train
Going to Peace Station.
Christians, Buddhists,
Hindus, Atheists,
Each occupied a Compartment,
But never Bothered one another,
Just like the Two Rails of the Track
That Travel Together but Never Meet.
Everyone's Ticket is to Peace,
They traveled in Communities and
Their Compartment Number
Never really mattered.
Then came budding Islam,
Who wanted their own Engine, Though
They are Destined to the Same Station.
They made an Exact Replica of the Train,
Their 'Fight' for Peace overshadowed
Their Destination and they Launched
Their Train on the Same Tracks,
But in the Opposite Direction.
Compartments filled with Innocent Followers,
but Engines Piloted by Terrorists
And Religious Leaders.
They only Focused on Increasing
The Number of Compartments
To gain Strength and Accelerated
As Fast as they Can.
But One Thing They Failed to Realize is,
No matter how Long the Train is,
On Collision, Whole Train Derails,
Killing Innocent Passengers, on Both Trains.
Butterfly wing door vestibule builds anticipation
Shuffled, carpet muffled greetings, familiar embraces
Piloted by Holy Spirit, seated hushed congregation
Ritual of ornate cathedral thanks hidden crypt rib cage
Enduring centuries, pliable sandstone testiment
God's following holds time proof tenacity
Flared proud corners, pyramid reminiscent
Honour continues amidst shifting society
Solid oak panelled door on wrought iron hinges
Greets round barrel key bearer with ominous groan
Down four slouching stone steps from street edge
Solo visit in sacred space never partaken alone
Curved bookcases cater for leather bound learning
Volumes of theology define best ways
Nook with desk lets liturgist imbibe God's word
Tall back chair, acorn emblems engraved
Beneath majestic vessel, clay damp chamber
Rhubarb velvet curtain, tassel tied to sides
Strongest entity relies on the Lord as Saviour
With worship's dedication, faith survives
In expansion, searcher emerges at alter, cleansed
Hive of etched arches tribute precision architectural
Vibrant robes, sashes draped, silken beacons
Of preparation, celebration of overcoming, renewal
Pulpit's ingrained memory both daunting and welcoming
Deep set lead light showers sombre pews in intimacy
Haloed Christ holds baby, shares parables with children
Crease covered hymn books strum procedural symphony
Written July 2020 (no previous submission)
Submitted for : Brian Strand
Completely New Volume 23
on 18th August 2020
RISKS
Scarred hills, risked mine shafts, dark and deep.
The plonk of a stone, dropped into water, far below.
Kids drifted to sounds of the gold-rush, pick and windlass.
But inside our school, Sir recruited afternoon classes into
battle. We piloted Spitfires, strafing Messerschmitts. Bingo!
The plane aflame, out of control. Drifting down, down. A spiral
of smoke.
Our teacher paced, face aglow. Alive to the tremble, the thrill,
in distant summer skies.
Windscreen hit, the scatter of shattered
glass. His odyssey of courage and blood …
At three thirty, older boys reminded Sir,
Time to go home.
Surprise in our mentor’s eyes .
His Spitfire hadn’t even landed.
It's Raining.
Come on my beautiful lady its spring showers
let us fly with the rain knowing how much you
love the raining season,living next to the ocean,
my promenade on the sand hand in hand with
the rain always allows me to regain my strength,
it gives me the power to share my deep feelings
& emotions.
It hit me tonight to run quickly after the rain,
and that is only the beginning.
Oh! let it rain again & again,let the thunder start
singing a song with the strong rain drops vibrating
like the echo of music from afar.
Walking alone by the ocean I felt heavy drops
of rain flowing down my cheeks mingling with
my tears whispering,its me your friend the rain
again,I haven't much time,I am passing by to
listen to your heart beat & wash away your
fears to run under your feet warm them
with a hug,and hear me convey a message
to your thoughts that i love you.
& decided to carry you away out West,deliver you
to pass sometime with your children,hug them,
love them,talk to them,share with them,sit with
them until I come back to fly you home again.
Here I am back from this memorable panoramic
journey while piloted by the pouring rain,
love the rain,an eternal friend as long as I live.
Therese Bacha
21/5/2013
Merging of hearts, solemnized as one
Cruising darts, piloted by the Almighty One
Scents of Chrysanthemum, crowned in leis
Glade of momentum, sweeping for deis
As you renew your vows
There are no buts or hows
Cling to each other without noise
Sing for each other with poise
As years go by, love will grow more
Teach yourselves to be meek
With trusting reliance to seek
Love will never appear short or small
In God's name nothing will fall
when both of you stand tall
We are victims
Tied with common fetters
Loosed in thoughts of varied choices and desires
Loosely searching to make ends meet:
The meeting at this spot,
Either to go or stay, is a choice.
We are victims
Of the policies of pain
Emitted to drive us crazy,
We are on the street , though not crazy.
Destroying our common patrimony.
In futility, our sweat squeezed and
Mixed with our hot blood,
Spilled on the street’
The rampage against the policies that police our lives.
We are victims
Caught in the web
Of a cruel nation
Piloted by scoundrels
The apostles of destruction
Who roused our emotions,
Taking the only broken cup
Left for us to scoop
The dirty water in the pond:
The beggar’s choice!
Out of pain, we have heaped mud
To cover the pond.
Yes, we are victims.
Our pain boldly inscribed on our skin
Our thick skin, the archive of servitude .
And every effort to initiate freedom,
The beginning of futility.
We are pushed to the wall,
The dog must bark.
While it barks,
Its kennel is sacred.
Let us not destroy each other, our lots and more.
Let us not engage the street to loot,
Though we remonstrate ,
Let’s not pull down our commonwealth,
The acreages of government,
They belong to us.
We are victims of a beautiful nation stressed with stench politicking.
Piloted masses
Invasive sharks in the sky
Cloaked ebony
Inspired by Raul's Mareno's "Tattered wings contest"!
His sister said to Johnny
“You’re going to go to war
The draft board called your number
They’ll be knocking on your door”
Johnny said “I don’t like marching
And I’ve never loved the sea
That only leaves one option
It’s the Army Air Corps for me”
So he dropped out of his college
And joined the Army Air Corps
He learned to be a pilot
And then he went to war
He was not a fighter pilot
He didn’t fly a jet
He piloted the transports
The biggest you could get
He was flying in the South Seas
When he met an Army nurse
Then something clicked inside him
It was love right from the first
They had to wait the war out
Till the Army nurse went home
They married in her hometown
Then the Air Corps made them roam
In October then of forty-six
They had themselves a daughter
In the Panama Canal Zone
Then he’s flying off over water
Then they lived in Puerto Rico
Where they had themselves a son
September then of forty-eight
They were proud of what they’d done
When they moved to Massachusetts
Johnny’s hometown state
He transferred to the Reserves
Still flying that airfreight
They had another daughter
January – Nineteen-fifty
They were settled into a quiet life
Till Korea got too shifty
Johnny said “I am a pilot
And I was born to fly
I’m going back to full time service
I belong up in the sky”
So he’s back up in his transports
In missions he did live
He said “I’ll do what I must do
And I’ll give all I can give”
In July of nineteen-fifty-one
Another daughter’s born
Then Johnny’s off and flying
His heartstrings all but torn
Then October of that same year
On a quiet home bound flight
Out among the Azores
His plane dropped out of sight
No activity in the area
No SOS last call
He said “I see the Azores”
That was it – that’s all
Despite a massive air search
The biggest one to date
Not a piece of plane or personnel
Nothing known yet of their fate
They searched the sea for weeks and weeks
The airwaves – this and that
He left behind a loving wife
Four kids, a dog, a cat.
Captain John Francis Dailey, Jr. USAF (1918-1951)
It was 60 years ago this October that we lost our Dad. We never really got to know him but miss him just the same.
Mdailey 10/15/11
Adieu the king,
Long live the king:
The crown was in the grove
Where his forebears dwell
In their majestic transfiguration;
There he would inherit the fiat,
The power to say and to be;
In the grove of royal tutorial
Where prince became king
Where ancient secrets were learnt
The tryst of the dead and the living
Forest of rite of accession.
There fortune anointed me,
Made venus’s heart my portion:
The royal heiress smiled at me,
Her eyelids blinked and blinked,
Like fire fighters’ ambluance,
Her boby moving ups and downs
Like a piston of new brand auto
As she nailed her eyes on me
She made my spot her path
By my side she offered me wine
In a royal calabash of symbol
And laid her hand on me
Like a bed spread on yielding matress
Instantly I woke from my slumber
Like a chameleon rewinding back its tongue
And she piloted me to the chamber
In the interior of the royal
Where many games were offered;
Ludo and chess I did not play,
But played love with my princess;
Sure the gods are wise:
A night in the royal grove,
Remains love of my life.
Ratings War
By Odin Roark
His trembling fingers press remote buttons
Finally pausing on…
The News Channel.
Breaking News – Many dead.
As ordered by chests of ribbons and medals,
Faces covered by executioner masks,
Crusaders of jihadist-style black gowns
Man’s all-encompassing human ant hill
Frantic with hate and holiness.
The Feel Good Channel
A stoic President speaking reprisals,
The ghost-piloted drones
The magic answer to hostilities.
The Re-Run Channel
His despondent fingers traverse his face
Where annals of imbedded scars pulsate,
Like shrapnel shards once removed,
Repressed memories refusing to die,
Reminders that combat remains forever alive.
The History Channel
So many mirrored yesterdays,
Smiling neighbors once happy like him,
Knowing all too well how history truly repeats itself,
Its legacy forever ready to lick the corners of its bloody lips,
Even when there is no blood…temporarily.
The Pay-Per-View Channel
Battling for fame and fortune,
Caged bare-fisted men and women
Pounding one another in between hungry kisses,
Ripping off each other’s clothes
As hordes of spectators scream “Get it on!
Get it on!”
The Dark Channel
His finger presses the final button.
Inviting the opaque screen of assurance,
That super natural attestation,
Where without sound,
Picture,
Or Network Sweeps,
Heaven is always an offering,
That other make-believe promise of peace,
Forever vying for ratings.
He dozes off.
Imagine that
You take me where imagination
knows no boundaries,
to vanilla sherbet snow capped mountains
and warm sugar cookie sandcastle beaches
Reaching for stars in our favorite constellation
and chasing the tide as it turns in for the night
Floating on a blue florescent dragonfly piloted
by fairies with neon pink paisley wings
Cruising on winding country roads,
counting mosaic sunflowers from the back of a Harley
in the middle of nowhere, happily lost,
your black leather biker jacket looking chic
Swinging from kite tails of multi-fabric bows,
our feet skimming the surface of
gin and tonic streams lined
with lime slice lily pads
Dancing on moonbeams to the sweet melodies
of crickets and hummingbirds harmonizing
with twilight sighs as firefly ushers
show you and me to our seats
Yes, you take my mind on magical
imagination fueled journeys, but,
when I see your beautiful smile,
feel your luscious lips touching mine,
hold you tightly within my arms
and know the love that resides
in the center of your wondrous heart…
I can imagine nothing better
The Federal Ministry of Poetry (FMP) has just
exquisitely taken off into the moon; at
approximately 10:001:AM, in search of diamond
originality. The spacecraft is been Piloted by Mr.
Style Boldness. And It is been made know to
planet brain; that their rocket, has just detached
it's first shell release, and Ambassador Knowledge
and President Inspiration; are fully hoping for their
safe landing on sky book. While the noble citizens
waits poet-fully for their safe arrival.
I’ve relished the view from mountains so high
that I could have touched the crest of a cloud.
I’ve measured His stars while I wondered why
no earth bound splendor was burnished as proud.
I’ve been accosted by scented flowers
their petals perfuming my humble sighs.
I’ve been mesmerized for many hours
by changing hues in a pair of green eyes.
I have heard the choir of a cooling wind
as it chased through the leaves of Sago-palms.
I’ve been forgiven ever now and then
for my vulgar taste, and social cons.
I’ve suffered the chill from the Arctic North.
Braved desert sun so hot it could kill.
I’ve piloted through life’s miss-mapped course
to feed my passion and find my thrill.
I’ve cradled newborns a son and daughter
and helped guide them too maturity.
I’ve cherished both my mother and father
and will grieve their loss for eternity.
I’ve taken note of my many mistakes
for all I’ve hurt, goes my apology.
From the depths of my soul this vowel I’ll take
to forgive each one that discouraged me.
SLOW POKES
by
JOHN M. ARRIBAS
A gut wrenching sight I witnessed this morn
A tragic encounter that left me forlorn
I saw stumbling wrecks of what was strong
Bent over and lame not much time to prolong
They are seniors that once were young
There bodies and minds becoming undone
All at the mercy of changing days
Slow to react in so many ways
Time moves fast and they move slow
Most marking time with no place to go
These are the folks who in previous days
Shouldered the weapons, made incredible plays
Its hard to accept its just history now
She was a riveter, he honored his vow
He piloted a fortress over enemy skies
She sang and danced for a thousand GIs
His fingers froze at place called Chosin
She tended his wounds without and within
He spent a thousand nights as a guest of Hanoi
She packed supplies for search and destroy
These are the stalwarts we’re all about
They did their duty with a winning shout
They’re now suspended in the twilight phase
They keep on serving til the end of their days
It’s a blessing to come from heroes like these
They still say” thank you” and” excuse me please”
Times have changed but they remain loyal and true
Their courage and fidelity made it easy for me and you
So have patience for these slow women and men
Cause its an honor to be in the company of them