Long Propellers Poems
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I OPENED A DOOR TO A CHAOTIC SCENE.
THIS WAS THE FUTURE YET MORE LIKE A DREAM.
THE FIRST AMENDMENT
HAD CEASE TO EXIST.
FREE THINKING PEOPLE
WERE ON A HIT LIST.
A MILLION SCREAMING PROTESTERS,
WANTING TO BE HEARD.
ELITES AND POLITICIANS
DON'T WANT TO HEAR A WORD.
MILITARY SPECIALIST,
DRESSED IN ARMORED GEAR.
KILLING PEOPLE LEFT AND RIGHT
HERE BOTH FAR AND NEAR.
A MILLION MICRO ROBOTS
FLYING IN THE AIR.
ANOTHER MILLION ON THE GROUND.
IT SEEMS THEY'RE EVERYWHERE.
SOME ARE FLYING JUST TO SEE,
WHILE OTHERS ARE SPRAYING GAS.
A FEW ARE EQUIPPED WITH AMMUNITION,
UNLEASHING MICRO BLAST.
FREQUENCIES ARE STREAMING,
TO ALTER PEOPLES THINKING.
THE GOAL OF ALL THIS CHAOS,
IS TO KEEP THE POPULATION SHRINKING.
PEOPLE SPRAYING SEAWATER
ON THE FLYING BOTS.
HOPING THAT WHEN IT DRIES
THE LITTLE PROPELLERS STOP.
PEOPLE SPRAYING TREE SAP,
ON THE GROUND ROBOTS.
JUST CAUSING MORE CHAOS
FOR THE PEOPLE AT THE TOP.
Mending
by Michael R. Burch
for the survivors of 9-11
I am besieged with kindnesses;
sometimes I laugh,
delighted for a moment,
then resume
the more seemly occupation of my craft.
I do not taste the candies...
The perfume
of roses is uplifted
in a draft
that vanishes into the ceiling’s fans
which spin like old propellers
till the room
is full of ghostly bits of yarn...
My task
is not to knit,
but not to end too soon.
This poem is dedicated to the victims of 9-11 and their families and friends.
Published by Poetry Super Highway and Poetry Life & Times
Keywords/Tags: 9-11, victims, survivors, sympathy, surreal, terrorism, war, violence, stress, twin towers, knit, craft, candy, candies, sweet, sweets, tribute
We flew through the air on a refurbished plane,
the shakes and the rattles sure gave us some pain.
But we were the ones who fortune had named
to spend years Far East with our dad’s army game.
The journey exciting, we’d not been before
to a place where the winters did not foul our door,
so with overcoats changed for our tropical clothes
we boarded the plane to where God only knows.
With propellers screaming we tore on our way
and rose in the air as the ground dropped away,
though creaking and groaning the plane struggled on
though both the wings flapped as we flew to the sun.
British Eagle, the airline that carried us away,
a turbo prop plane that had long past its day.
But that’s all our army could ever afford
when transporting dozen of families abroad.
Though night time in Turkey, at our first stop,
was not really the place where we found it too hot,
when we landed in India, some time around noon,
I think that it dawned what we’d be facing soon.
As we walked down the gantry to this foreign place
I thought the plane’s engines blew hot in our face,
but as we walked away the hot stream still blew strong
and it soon became clear t’was the wind all along!
But soon we resumed on our creaky old ride,
like sardines in a can we were packed back inside
and as Singapore rose in the sky like the sun
our new life in the tropics had really begun.
From a plane that just made it, next day was a train
with another full day of rough travelling again,
with seats made of wicker on which we would ride
and bunks made of wood crammed with people each side.
The view as we trundled down the track for that day
was worth any discomfort the train threw our way,
plantations and jungle, bananas and palms,
made this glorious Malaya a world full of charms.
Four years in Penang with its warmth, sun and sea
changed not only my life but the essence of me,
though it’s now fifty years since I had to depart
this ‘Pearl of the Orients’ still lives in my heart.
Ivor G Davies
Up at the crack,
the crack of Dawn,
thankful for a new day.
Light peeks
from behind the trees
rubbing its eyes,
yawning, sprightly smiling.
Soaked in the spring
of life-giving yolk -
no ordinary bloke.
The whole world longs
for this daily visitor,
its blanket of support
for growing food, for
getting along with all
mankind. Vampires
hide in the shroud
of black-cape, artificial
flames in their red-coal
eyes. Moon after midnight
often frowns, pinches
the clouds until they cry.
Patrolling blues purse
their lips, flip their lids,
care for the underlid
of the chain gang fence.
Bellies filled with gold,
sour liquor; mangled knuckles
tucked in from sun to sun.
Dayrisers bound out of bed,
surrender to their faith,
prompted to love of sons
and daughters, mothers
and fathers. They are propellers
on their jets at work. Rejects
of night haunts, necks pulsating
with clean thoughts, peaceful
dreams, wired
for eternal serendipity.
8/25/2021
I Am /A Dandelion
I stem out to a beautiful flower dressed in yellow,
with a milky latex that runs in my veins.
Omitting a fragrant perfume of my own.
As the night falls, I close and slumber till sunrise.
Like a caterpillar turning into a butterfly,
I’m standing tall with downy white feathery fine hair.
As a gentle cool breeze whispers with a kiss,
I surrender my fruit to fall into its hands.
Swept away and drifts like little propellers with the wind,
like a thief in the night whisking them away over long distances
Out to their lovers as they mate with the rich brown soil.
©By: Eve Roper 5/3/2015
Dandelion late Middle English: from French dent-de-lion, translation of medieval Latin dens leonis ‘lion's tooth’ (because of the jagged shape of the leaves).
Contest : Picture Yourself as a Flower!
Sponsor: Andrea Dietrich
7/11/23
As a new day comes
Had to find out what I'm truly made of
In a world full of fake love
That's the I hate cuz
One of the reasons I'd take drugs
And always stay drunk
Getting closer to climbing the ladder of Jacob
Already been up eight rungs
All of it paid none
Unsure of what I'm destined
All that's left is butterflies inside intestines
And a pool of water with my reflection
An endless struggle to find connections
Ironic, since there's endless people, it should only take nine seconds
All of it re-evaluted and I question
Just like my life's direction
It often backfired on me, even when having the right intentions
Now I'm learning all kinds of lessons
Dealing with different types of lemons
While the moon dives around seven
Or when the sun starts to rise toward heaven
It all started over a year ago
Here we go
With this again
They say it'll work itself out in the end
I understand the differences
It's a curse, yet a gift to live
Life's not fair just the way it is
Deep down inside I kept hurting
Thought I was a clever earthling
For it all I remember searching
Found what I didn't want, it's been hectic and disturbing
In the grass snakes forever lurking
None of my methods were ever working
Many lessons I was never learning
Until I got all these embers burning
Now the engines purring
And propellers turning
Although I lost sight of the goal
No longer feeling whole
There's a piece missing from my soul
I'm usually a nice guy, but I'm not in full control
I lose it at times because they often pull
The wool over our eyes after putting us through bull
It all has taken its toll
Time I take a stroll
To the North Pole
I no longer deserve coal
Since I'm not doing the same ole'
I got off the airplane as the snow fell,
My work had brought me to the remote north;
I heard the whirling propellers as the plane left,
Leaving me on a lonely cold runway.
A red truck waited,
Beside a man stood,
He was beautiful to me,
I was quite starry-eyed,
We drove into the infinite northern vastness;
Never had snow been so lovely.
This was my guide and protector for the duration,
We met for breakfast each morning at 6 AM;
Planned our day and drove off into the wilderness,
I was under his spell from the very beginning.
One evening we met,
At the only restaurant,
We drank red wine,
And kissed with lust,
His log cabin was warm, dreamy and romantic;
We wrapped our bodies in blankets.
I was in love with this magnetic and charming man,
He had me totally captivated and mesmerized;
Days turned into weeks and weeks into long months,
He was my day guide and my nightly lover.
One morning I waited,
And the waitress said,
You know he is married,
With four kids in Toronto,
I was shattered, heartbroken, a stupid romantic fool;
I never looked at him as my plane took off.
________________________________
April 22, 2015
Poetry/Verse/Love Hurts
Copyright Protected, ID 04-666-142-22
All Rights Reserved, 2012, Constance La France
For the contest, Romantic Fools,
sponsor, Thomas Martin, Judged
First Place
How dare goddamn Laura divorce him
After thirty years arduous pre dawn sacrifice
Menopause made her dismiss marriage on a whim
Told Rod he'd not have true love twice
Victim adamant to prove prowess
To construct his dazzling platform
Marina tower apartment, salesman finesse
Enamour for strawberry blonde, he'd perform
Abattoir visits supply excess meat
Too good to discard, soon crows found
Raw morsels upon sunny balcony heat
Slowly rotting, sixty metres above ground
Pleased frequenting feathered friends
Swoop hungry, hot tiles smeared in grease
While his platonic blonde sidestepping pretends
She's not ready to consummate their needs
Shimmer photoshoot illusion windswept strands
Whip her dazzled face in gold to behold
Pristine boat grid below, his meaty hands
Suddenly clamp her jugular, slowed blood cold
Duck egg irises fear increases, dance shoes slip
Held up by Rod's determination to murder
Strangled finally to submission in his sausage grip
Remote controlled bird saw and heard her
Floating microphone, struggled inhale caught
Quad propellers wing nimble, zoom eye snaps
Amor of flaxen haired dancer he sought
Filmed before her fatty floor collapse
Cocky Rod knows how to remove her corpse
Platonic blonde diced by cow carcass blade
Churns through her chaste, chest flesh warps
Chuck steak beak struck, friends caw unafraid
20th July 2022
Written for Contest: Start Sleuthing
Sponsor: Natasha L. Scragg
The War of Creation
They called them fascists and Nazis, the ones who wrote with blood on walls,
they stood them before the firing squads, the ones who dreamed too loud, too clear,
and bullets found poets in gardens, in Spains that bloomed with death,
for the word is a weapon too dangerous for those who sleep in peace.
Some chose the rat poison, others cut their veins in warm bathtubs,
for warm water receives the blood more gently than the cold air outside,
and others threw themselves from bridges or into propellers and sharks,
choosing to be torn apart rather than to die from within themselves.
Electroshock for those who wrote too true about the wars they'd seen,
and still they found a way to pull the trigger, in the end, alone,
for creation kills, not metaphorically, but literally, with hands of ink,
and madness is just another name for lucidity too sharp to bear.
Some drowned inside their own vomit, drunk on life and drunk on death,
and others drank until their livers became a poem, black and final,
and the sun of some was black before it ever had a chance to fade,
for artists wear eclipses on their chests like decorations from the war.
You want to be a writer? Step into the trenches, soldier, don't look back,
for on this battlefield the wounded lie everywhere and no one's coming,
some make it to old age with trembling hands and words still breathing,
but many starve like Vallejo, with unwritten poems in empty stomachs.
It's a kind of war in which the enemy is yourself, multiplied,
and creation is the grenade you throw and catch back in your arms,
and when they hit you from the blind side, from the angle you never saw,
don't come to me with your regrets, for I told you from the start.
Now I'm going to smoke a cigarette in the empty tub, no water and no blood,
and I will fall asleep with all the dead poets floating in the fog of my brain,
for to write is to die every single day and be reborn inside the words,
and the survivors are only those who learned how to die beautifully.
The trenches of literature are full of skeletons still clutching pens,
and their unfinished manuscripts are white flags waving in the wind of forgetting,
but we keep on writing, keep on dying, keep on throwing ourselves to propellers and sharks,
for this is the calling: to bleed ink until the paper becomes sky.
5/18/17
Never have I been the best storyteller
An average speller
And easy going feller
Shoutout to 'Old Yeller'
Above, below and within any cellar
With or without the use of propellers
In areas considered interstellar
Props to 'The Clan of the Cave Bear'
Concerning everywhere
Realize life isn't always going to be fair
Regardless of if you're a million or billionaire
So keep on climbing to the top of the stairs
Stay aware and prepared
While still enjoying the view from there
Feeling puzzled?
It's no joke read 'The Jungle"
You wouldn't want to slip, stumble and take a tumble
Even if you are overly confident or humble
It took so much dedication, hustle
And muscle
To get through the struggle
As well as any trouble
Respect to 'Where the Wild Things Are'
Even if it was a little different and somewhat bizarre
Whether on foot, plane, bike or car
Keep on reaching far
No matter who you are
Believe that you will become a star
Look
I thoroughly enjoyed all these books
Including 'Life of Pi'
I just can't lie
It's in our best interest to try
Despite if we can't always find out why
Keep living your life, attempting to do right
During any day and night
By: Dalton Ogletree