Long Airfield Poems
Long Airfield Poems. Below are the most popular long Airfield by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Airfield poems by poem length and keyword.
'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.
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' ...
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
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vacant control tower hisses in static~
a Morse code signaling the absence of departing flights.
B-24s dissolve into prairie stars,
fuel streaks fading like old film burns.
Midnight mechanics still roll toolbox shadows
across tarmacs swallowed by prairie crabgrass.
a windsock flaps—empty, always empty~
counting dead radio waves as prayer beads.
barracks hum with old Glenn Miller,
though the record needle’s been stuck for decades.
midnight taxi lights still trace the runway,
guiding no one home.
airfield ghosts wear leather bomber jackets,
not shrouds, sighing at how quietly war forgets.
*“The southwest corner of Kansas was once home to Liberal Army Airfield. For 27 months, from April 1943 to September 1945, the desolate plains of Kansas were alive with the deep throaty roar of the B-24 Liberator. The Liberal Army Airfield trained approximately one-quarter of all B-24 commanders. Residents of the area recall few days and nights in which they did not hear the familiar roar of the big Pratt & Whitney engines flying overhead. What was once a wheat field, a symbol of peace, became thousands of feet of concrete runways used to train pilots for vital World War II missions. To this day, many of the runways and structures of the base still survive. Years have passed since the inception and closure of the base, but its history will always be a part of Liberal, Kansas. (Source: frugalfrigate.com/book/9781467162289)”
The Liberal Army Airfield was also where my father spent his wartime years servicing the B-24 Liberators. My mother was working as a civil service clerk at the airfield. The two of them met in August 1944 and were married in November 1944 at the Airfield Chapel.
you may read the related memoir vignette at poetrysoup.com/short_stories/ill_be_seeing_you_13598
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
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 nissen 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 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.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
vacant control tower hisses in static~
a Morse code signaling the absence of departing flights.
B-24s dissolve into prairie stars,
fuel streaks fading like old film burns.
Midnight mechanics still roll toolbox shadows
across tarmacs swallowed by Kansas crabgrass.
a windsock flaps—empty, always empty~
counting dead radio waves as prayer beads.
barracks hum with old Glenn Miller,
though the record needle’s been stuck for decades.
midnight taxi lights still trace the runway,
guiding no one home.
airfield ghosts wear leather bomber jackets,
not shrouds, sighing at how quietly war forgets.
(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.
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.
Routinely, like clockwork, like every morning,
I walk to my drive way and enter my pickup.
I start the engine and turn on the radio.
Immediately, horrific and unbelievable news.
I head off to work, not knowing what to expect.
I stare across the airfield of an airforce base.
Not the least surprised, airplanes are grounded.
I arrive at work in wonderment.
Our work highly depends on airplanes.
Today is a none typical 911 work day.
We are instructed to perform our normal
duties of pickups and deliveries, except,
'Do not take cargo to airport but report to
The yard at end of route'.