Long Undercarriage Poems
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It descended hard and hot -
must have been a rookie,
flaps oscillating mightily
correcting overcorrections,
undercarriage lowered and high angled
wings up and wide
spread out for maximum deceleration.
If there had been a computer on-board
it would have been repeating:
"too low - too low,
terrain-pull-up, terrain pull-up!"
but
there was just a solo goose brain at the controls,
and landing on ice in low visibility is always tricky
even for professional flyers.
It came in fast,
no chance of aborting the landing now,
no time for last moment adjustments,
webs touching down, then lifting up
as the impact jolted it airwards again,
Touch-down, yawing badly,
wings now beating the air wildly,
somehow
the bird keeps a shaky balance
as it slews and skids to a rocking half.
The goose immediately
starts preening and shaking-out its tail feathers
as if to say:
"nothing to see here."
The other geese in that same flight
honking loudly,
hard to say if they were cheering
or jeering.
Somewhere over Europe
A B-17 flies
Strafed and damaged
In her enemies skies
The flak has taken
Its toll on the plane
This crew so brave
In this theatre of war campaign
Many hours have passed
With no sight of the channel
Only land ahead
Is it our instrument panel
A shout is heard from the rear of the plane
A Messerschmitt ME-109, beside us flies
We are sitting targets for another kill
The pilot turns his head, as i look into his eyes
He is making a gesture
For us to turn 180 degrees
Do we believe our enemy
But we eventually agree
He continues to fly
Like an escort of question
Were we right to agree
His degree of suggestion
For up ahead we see
The glint of blue water
Our horizon of hope
Are we saved from slaughter
Moments later
As i turn my head again
A wave from the German
As he banks his fighter plane
We are now well over the channel
As we sight the white cliffs of Dover
Our B-17 in struggle
This mission near over
On the runway at Kimbolton
The fire crews stand ready
Will our plane take the landing
Is our undercarriage steady
Touch down we make
As we talk of our flight back
About the German fighter pilot
Who refused to attack
It is now many years later
For we were lucky, we grew old
As we assembled on anniversary
Our story could now be told
For he had kept it his secret
But now we have to say
Franz Stigler and his German fighter
Is why we are before you today
He was scrambled to intercept
The enemy that we were then
When he arrived we awaited
The fate of us men
When he viewed our plane
He couldn't believe his eyes
Why something so shot up
Still flew in his skies
When he returned to base
In his reports he states
It went down over the sea
And sealed our fate
After all these years
I am so happy we have met
We have lived many years
While our lost colleagues have slept
I thank you Sir
For sparing the lives of my crew
As we stand together for peace
We salute you
This is a true story from WWII, written by request for Sara Kendrick,
who loves to challenge me, and i thank Sara kindly for the opportunity
http://www.thehighlanderspoems.com/war-6.php
When my brother was fading away,
black chimes signaled for the demons to play.
They attacked all sides of my hobbled mind.
Treating the heart like an orphaned marble
They were rabid and had brackish intentions
Hope chipped away like a crowbar to cement.
In a dream, one of them took me into its sky
I clung tight to its undercarriage
begging for it to release me
It promised that it would if I said
that I loved it...I relented
It didn't keep its promise as expected
and we wrecked together.
I coddled a little amber cross....
(a field mouse in an owl's greying claw).
I was dismissed into a pillow of tranquility
The demons slowly drifting away...
as did my brother the very next day.
PAPER PLANE
A project with my small son
After so much paper folding
Sharpening important creases
Anticipation slowly increases
Thumb and forefinger holding
First flight testing has begun
He sees me throw the plane
Into the garden’s warm still air
At first it floats and then dives
A sense of freedom in our lives
What’s a wing without a prayer
Swooping down to crash again
Initial plans were crafted well
Launching to fly into marriage
Reminds me what went wrong
All planes land before too long
Skidding with no undercarriage
Flights suspended as you can tell
Dated 26 August 2022
I am a bonafide certified mommy-fied leader of a dog pack.
They currently sit at my feet waiting to see what we will do next.
Beau our newbie is the only renegade who keeps running from the pack.
He has never had the run of six acres before, and he loves it.
Sophie, our old lady cocker is sedate and stoic…
unless another member gets too close, then she gives a guttural
warning growl.
She is proud to be the matriarch.
Buddy at one hundred and sixteen pounds could take all of us.
But he is a gentle giant, going with the flow, letting the new baby manhandle him.
Beau at five months, attacks his big bro and often
Play biting his leg and his undercarriage.
They run from couch to couch, moving furniture as they go.
I am super proud to be a bonafide certified mommy-fied leader of a dog pack.
The heart of a lion
The soul of a flea
The energy of a gnat
Please do not let this be me
Reaching into my junk drawer
I pick up three items that give me glee
A candy bar wrapper,
And a playing card with a decorated bee.
Dragons in my undercarriage,
Dolphin party in the sea,
This poem is starting to feel jazzy,
It is lively, and it’s free.
I line up the unicorns,
Who are laughing at my knee.
They ask Trixie to join them,
So she dances away with thee.
Her underling muses
Chip and Dale come running to me.
They are dying to write a poem,
So we line up the junk items three.
Let’s make it funny, says Chip
A cut up we all agree.
But Dale wants a sad poem,
So we begin to disagree.
Trixie's assistants laugh at my consternation
And run away you see,
So this is the end of the poem,
Which made me yell a “whee!”
.
fathom this fellowz
whilst i try mine
superior
not
tuh twist
yourn
thinks
Her petticoat
Oh sure
she held unto
normal stand'z
yet
the audience found thuh
wonder
why it's cotton
white
sway'd az uh church bell
miss'n it's
rockabilly frilly
habit
Tap
*In Old English “habit" meant attire or dress.
It originated from the Latin “habitus" meaning
appearance.
*The undercarriage of a woman is the pelvic floor,
which is a large, layered muscle sling located at
the base of the pelvis ,)
Oh boy, she was gorgeous and I made mention of bed
She said she really liked me but she won’t until we’re wed
She often said there’s stuff that really ought to be discussed
But I could only think of getting hitched to quench my lust
We did it, we were spouses, and our first dance was real close
I thought that she would realise who wanted who the most
We left our guests to party and I hoped I would impress
And once we were alone I ripped apart her wedding dress
And that was when I wished that we had dallied before marriage
For there and then I found ‘her’ quite extensive undercarriage
‘She’ said, “Why don’t you try it out, I’m sure we will be fine.”
I said, “Why would I play with yours… when I could play with mine?”
Well, ‘she’ looked shocked and what she said caused all my toes to curl
‘She’ looked at me and muttered, “Oh! I thought you were a girl.”
I said, “Are you quite bonkers for you’re talking really weird,
I’m stood here and I’ve got a most extensive ginger beard!”
‘She’ sauntered to the bed and threw me down upon my back
And said, “I’ve got a gift for you and it is never slack.”
‘She’ nipped into the bathroom saying, “You can be the wife.”
‘She’ came back with a sexy smile… and a massive knife!
“Lasciate ogne speranza, voi ch'intrate", most frequently translated as "Abandon all hope, ye who enter here". A. Dante, 14th century Italian poet
They sway the power over mere mortals
They drop the words that cannot be appealed
Gods of carjacks are deities, immortals
The voodoo magic over vehicles they wield
Their world is full of strange sounds
“Alignment, ratchet, dolly and exhaust
Lift, mallet, drip-pan” terms are out-of-bounds
To lowly humans who will surely be lost
It’s torque, rotation, caddy, pliers, wrenches
Inspection sticker, undercarriage rust
The noisy drilling on the workshop benches
And wailing, “Fix my car at once or bust!”
Compressor hiss and cannonade of hammer
Struts, piston rings and diagnostic code
The mystery of sensor change glamour
Oh, deftly moves, returning auto to the road
It’s coolant check, brake fluid, fuses, coils
Spark plugs replacement, tire pressure gauge
They know of summer vs winter oils
And best brake pads, domain of the sage
Cars pulled apart, they look so weak and tender
Like bugs without wings that cannot fly
Await repair of the fender-bender
We’ve all been there and can testify
Patched tires, shock absorbers, sockets
The wiper blades, the funnels and headlights
Big bucks repair our hitting pockets
But while here we have very little rights
Male shadows standing here and there
They look askance, the humbled, quiet bunch
As if infer the process of repair
With facial expressions of a hunch
And while surgery performed, there’s hope abound
For chariots of fire, as before
When gods of auto centers, homebound
Us send at once, by fixing what was sore
January 12, 2025