Long Pilot Poems
Long Pilot Poems. Below are the most popular long Pilot by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Pilot poems by poem length and keyword.
Do you know the movie “Catch Me if You Can?”
DiCaprio stars as the perfect con man.
His exploits of impersonation and fraud
had me - as I watched the film - feeling awed.
In this film, DiCaprio’s character is Frank,
a teen who makes fake checks to cash at the bank.
A pilot this young man pretended to be
who worked for Pan Am. A montebank was he!
Frank Abagnale also pretended
to work as a doctor; when that job ended,
he was a lawyer and with riches blessed.
The FBI came; he evaded arrest.
This movie (of Spielberg’s) made money I guess
for Frank Abagnale. Nevertheless,
more than a con man was Frank; it appears
Frank was in jail during all those “con” years!
He’s more than a charlatan and swindler. Now,
Frank’s book as a movie has been a hit. Wow!
But his best con of all – every claim that he made
was all hype or big lies; and for that he got paid!
Music is the wine that fills the
cup of silence,
A liquid luxury through
shadowed space,
An effervescent, auditory
guidance,
Distilling rhythm into tactile
grace.
The void dissolves beneath this
rich libation,
As resonant vibrations start to
bloom;
A grand, invisible choreography,
Embellishing the contours of the
room.
No optical illusion guides the
motion,
But symphonies of pure, kinetic
art;
The soul navigates a breathless
ocean,
Illuminated solely from the
heart.
This endless, non- visual
expanse awakens,
Where echolocation drafts a
secret map;
The tyranny of shadows is
forsaken,
Escaping every optical trap.
Through somatosensory valleys,
currents glide,
A choreography of phantom
beams;
The sightless voyager, with
internal guide,
Illuminates the geography of
dreams.
The universe becomes a vibrant
chord,
A tapestry woven in velvet hues;
Where inner luminescence is
restored,
And darkness pays its iridescent
dues.
Beyond the threshold of the
sighted realm,
A sensory synesthesia takes
command;
An unseen pilot stands at the
helm,
To chart the tremors of a
shifting land.
The atmosphere becomes a
physical weight,
A canvas painted purely by
sound;
The spirit transcends its ocular
state,
Where gravity is lost and
freedom found.
No ocular lens could ever
capture this,
This intricate, internal ballet;
An absolute, monochromatic
bliss,
Where midnight dances with
the breaking day.
The pilot formally announced
the desired cruising height was reached.
At three hundred and forty knots
the plane flew like a cruise missile.
As I peered out of my window
above cotton cumulus clouds
such stunning sights of serene scenes
within my musing mind did meld.
Blue-grey clouds created an ocean
of tranquility and beauty
in which islands of snow-like clouds
reared up like Matterhorn Mountain.
Frosty formations of forests
blessed with Amazonian beauty
with canopies of white for green
punctuated the placid landscape.
Like a giant anaconda
a waveless river wound its way
through the wispy white cloud forest
which lined its lush banks on both sides.
Towards the West, the setting sun
showered smiles of satisfaction
on a stunning snow-covered strand
stretching out to the horizon.
I saw a lofty mountain range
Of fluffy white cumulus clouds
overlooking a vast ocean
with a bow-shaped beach at its base.
The images that each one sees
as they look down from up above
are vast and varied as the sum
of grains of sand upon the shore.
They are the figments of our mind
much like the biases which blind
our eyes to those not of our kind,
and who in thought we have maligned.
If we would only take the risk
of getting close to different folks,
and learning who they truly are
we will very soon discover;
that the biases which so blind,
and confine us to our own kind,
like the images, we soon find
are only figments of the mind.
Rainbow in full view, dawns within
Bright red, Muladhara chakra
Aliveness we feel, on our skin
Next step orange, lust enigma
Manipura, seat of Rudra
Rainbow in full view, dawns within
Plexus yellow, cleansing stigma
Heart abode green, here all souls win
Force of free will, choose love or sin
Pure of heart, rise to Vishuddha
Rainbow in full view, dawns within
Hue blue; we discard all dogma
Head zone, indigo-violet
Moment to moment, we begin
Bliss throbs heighten, God our pilot
Rainbow in full view, dawns within
19-August-2021
Kaleidoscope Poetry Contest
Sponsor: Chantelle Anne Cooke
Everything Makes You Cry
Everything stops
When death grabs your family
Words, smells, sounds, music, and laughter
Can make you cry.
Laughter comes back slowly.
Smiles make you feel guilty.
You do not eat, for your loved one no longer can.
You are on auto-pilot but....
You are also on hyper-alert, full out
Screaming, wailing, keening,
From one minute to the next.
Grief is like nothing else you will ever live through
Grief has a mind of her own.
She has her own brain.
She has her own ways to do things.
You are no longer in control.
Everyone else is going on with their lives.
Their today is the same as their yesterday.
Their life has not stopped. Yours has.
Give yourself time.
Everything makes you cry.
Grief has got you in your clutches.
The only way out of it is to help someone else.
I have spoken to many who always tell me this.
Not yet. You are not ready yet.
Grief still has you.
She is not letting you go any time soon.
Everything makes you cry; it is okay.
Red blood courses through my veins
I've written my will, I pay my bills
The currents of the day reach me too
I am a poet, not a hermit
At the sight of blood, I do not swoon
Nor do I ever sleep in 'til noon'
I'm a hardworking, fun-loving bloke
who appreciates a cold beer and a good joke
Married with kids, I encourage them in
math and science, for that is the future
Better that they can program computers
than study Latin and Greek with a private tutor
I am a poet, not a recluse
I have morals and values, I'm not 'loose'
I want my kids to pilot jets, not sit in a caboose
to be proud descendants of Theodore Gisell*
~ not Dr. Suess
________________________________________
'Dr. Suess' was Theodore Gisell's pen name. A
graduate of Dartmouth College in the 1920's, Gi-
sell was a man of action and adventure. Among
other gigs, he reported on WW2 as an embedded
reporter in the trenches with the troops. ~ gw
“We’re cleared for takeoff,” the pilot announced, “settle in, our flight time to Atlanta will be 9 hours.”
The Gulfstream roared down the runway and in a moment the tops of trees flashed by. We climbed quickly, and banked. Paris dwindled, the Seine became a string of blue, the world a patchwork of colors before we punched through a layer of hair-like cirrus clouds.
My roommates and friends were all a-chatter as we lined up on the runway but as we ascended, they grew quiet.
Thoughts of Peter ran through me and gripped me like a serpent. The last time I saw him he was dressed in a summer outfit I bought him - a short-sleeve, pale-pastel-plaid, seersucker shirt, kentucky-derby breaker shorts, pop color flip flops and a straw fedora. His sweet-face was all grin, he looked like a deck gillespie. Meow.
When I think about Peter, my skin tickles, my pulse accelerates, I’m confuddled. I think about the disturbance that moved through the air between us when we met. We were strangers, but a magnetic flux seemed to roll off him and break against me.
I didn’t let it show. I drew in, looked away and became quiet. What else could I do? Later, when I described it to Sunny, our meeting seemed like nothing. When I described it to Lisa, it sounded like too much.
Of course, my choices must be consistent with my ambitions, but I want Peter to come to Athens, so badly. He was a human placebo, for me, in otherwise stressful times. Now I want to be with him without school pressures - to see what that’s like - and get closer, a lot closer.
I don’t want commitment, but I’m saturated with desire. All I want is a fun July or August - with him. I seldom reveal the businesslike hardness I have buried inside. I want this and I’m ready for derp.
Peter worries - about money, about gender roles, social positions and what’s apposite. I don’t care about any of that. I want to give him a free month, like an amazing gift. He’s so male, so deceptively complicated, fragile and intoxicating.
I really need to think about this, and work it out - HA! - like I can think of anything else.
.
Slang
deck = cool
gillespie = hipster
meow = I want
confuddled = confused and befuddled
derp = anything and everything
My uncle went to West Point Military Academy,
Was the second US citizen to be a licensed pilot,
So I thought my knowledge would help everybody,
So I became an Eagle, an American RAF pilot.
We all signed up September 1940, keenly poised,
But did not attend school at Glendale until December,
In California where we flew in formation, noised,
And did some night flying and acrobatics, I remember.
Then we went to England, a very big adventure,
You were pretty pleased with yourself, I thought,
I felt obliged to do my part in this conjecture,
And I just hoped I could do it, ‘cos I was bought.
We didn’t feel that we were serving England only,
Just everybody, it was for everybody, my piloting,
But I got much guts and courage from old Blighty,
‘Cos the British people were resilient in suffering.
They would work all day and quench fires at night,
And sleep in the London subways, not embarrassed,
And brought me breakfast if I landed with a plight,
Away from home, they’d send me back harnessed.
The first mission was pretty scary, but you’d get it,
And then you’d be proud doing what you knew,
But in the summer of 1941 we lost 9 pilots, were hit,
And I went back for another, gave the Nazi’s a cue.
I was hit, over water which I hated, was scared of,
But I tried and tried to open my canopy, couldn’t,
Until at the last when the plane was near the shove,
My friend Gussie pointed to the corner, was prudent.
So my glass covering opened and I escaped glad,
Parachuted down down into the sea to be picked up,
By a German boat, they sent me away as a man mad,
To a concentration camp, for over three years, yup.
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
A Memorial Stone
Today I have been in the graveyard, for looking a tomb
Interesting this memory; but why so clean that old stone?
I don’t know, but the tomb has a little square stone
A name, the mom of the soldier, for the pilot of an army,
… he is forgotten gone
A sad fate, a sad fate from the past. Praying for them. Amen
Hmm. I have a question. Where is the flower? Where is the present?
Hmm. My praying is flies, the past is my life. I always deleted life
Mary Ann, in a war, died your son. He loved you, your life gone in the past
A cemetery walk for me always a teaching, from the death of love
Hmm, I don’t understand the people, the present castle came from the past