Destined by a thread,
Stories untold,
As the sun turns red,
And the earth grows cold,
The future unseen,
The stories untold,
Life goes by day and night
Written in the stars,
Our fate takes flight,
A map of scars,
That glimmers at night,
The heavens whisper,
What time cannot hide,
A cosmic scripture,
Where dreams collide.
A pilot, a nurse, a doctor too,
These are all dreams,
That has to come true,
What is fate?
When it's a God that guides us,
Everything he has done,
Is done for us.
Destined by a thread,
Written in the stars,
What's there to fret?
When we know who we are.
A small path stippled with the print of wind slurries?
runs along a snowy edge,?
scrub-oak nails down tilting stumps of ice.?
?
How old must the year become?
before a cockled bark sheds its wind-blighted hide??
?
The creek is a stretch;?
I tread through a sleet blurred flurry?
zag a rooted track to its frigid bank.?
?
Standing by the water,
crow wings flying form my black overcoat,?
I watch a flotilla of ducks?
pilot a channel through small ice floes.?
?
Then the ducks disappear; we disappear together?
as a hard mist crashes-in.?
I hear the creaking of tree-hung clouds,?
the crunch of frost-bitten shoots,?
a grinding of raw jaw bones on brittle sprigs.?
?
My warm breath pushes through the cold air
the sky returns to tints of sunlight.?
Saplings quicken under blackened limbs?
are tucked between lichenoid openings.?
?
And is that a greening moss,
is that a young crocus reaching?
No one saw me slip into the cockpit.
I dreamed of flying like pilots on TV.
So many buttons — which one should I press?
I picked the green; the plane began to roll.
I pressed again — it raced across the tarmac.
A man ran fast and screamed, “Terrorists! Child?”
The wing struck hard; another man cried out.
A bus rolled out to block the moving plane.
I saw the crash, then fainted in my seat.
Metal shrieked louder than my heartbeat.
I woke to police swarming all around.
They called a child pilot a terrorist.
My name was on the news — same scary word.
That word burned deeply;
I had to ask myself,
What did it mean? I wondered every day.
Not till I grew up did I learn the truth.
That day inspired my dream to be a pilot.
Lady luck alone had saved me from death —
Green button, scream, and question — all began.
An old man tries to find his wings.
Once he flew up near his puppet strings. A calm loving stare between his wondering eyes. Remembering that day as he search the sky. A stinging passion near the bees. A sad spirit man who lost his mate oversees. Ninety years old and still time counting. His heart full lifeboat because he’s drowning. He once was a pilot, a army man in disguise. Hawk eyes sounds in his spirit which cries and cries. He stands to his feet one last time. He builds up some new wings and begins to climb. Stretching his long dusty old legs up the latter. His wings connected to his shoulders as he reaches up higher. He looks down towards the empty black hole scared. He shifts his eyes up looking pass the stars with a heart beat dared. He starts to take a deep long breath. He thinks if he does this what will his family have left. The dreadful dragonfly leaves out his spirit. Before he can jump he’s made it faster to heaven, a world record speed, more faster then when he was a pilot. A tombstone’s remembrance was not suicidal. His departure was accurate and was not a dismissal. A determined soul now has his new wings, forever and ever reigning with the King.
It looks like a wristwatch but they are different now.
Not a wristwatch at all. A computer, an I-pad, an I-pod,
A diving board, a sewing machine, a refrigerator.
Lovely, I say.
And it can pilot a plane, she says.
Which might explain its cost.
A small path
stippled with the print
of wind slurries,
it runs along a snowy edge,
scrub-oak nails down
tilting stumps of ice.
How old must the year become
before a cockled bark
sheds its wind-blighted hide?
The creek is a stretch;
I tread through a sleet blurred flurry,
zag a rooted track to its frigid bank.
Standing by the water, crow wings
flying form my black overcoat,
I watch a flotilla of ducks
pilot a channel through small ice floes.
Then the ducks disappear; we disappear together
as a hard mist crashes-in.
I hear the creaking of tree-hung clouds,
the crunch of frost-bitten shoots,
a grinding of raw jaw bones,
on sapless sprigs.
Only my hot breath pushes
through a clearing of sky -
all has returned with tints of sunlight.
Saplings are carried by blackened limbs
toward lichenous openings.
And is that a greening moss -
is that a young crocus leaf reaching?
Imagine being good at one special thing,
Distinguished in something you do,
When people want perfect done for them,
Then you are the one they go to,
Imagine being able to pilot a rocket,
Or play tennis or golf with the best,
Imagine being able to sing perfectly,
Sing better than all of the rest,
I wish that could be more than imagination,
More than a thought in the air,
I wish I was great at one little thing,
And not live as a wing on a prayer,
Hang on, one minute, it just came to me,
There’s something, I knew it, it’s true,
The one little thing that I’m really super good at,
Is loving all there is about you.
it is coming,
nomore earth beliefs,
we are borntoinfinity,
connect to the universe,
via a computer,
shut the earth mother hag out.
travel the galaxy with a data stream,
daily life is damnation,
talk you,reearth life out,
cry if you like,
it was bondage,
let reality become infinity
pilot a ship through the galaxy
stick to the trade routes
be good,
as for death
it is a continuation of ininity,
don,t look backto reality,
it is a dying dinosaur.
Aircrafts
Pilots are spied from the moment they sit down to fly an airplane
and till they land the plane. This must be a heavy psychological
burden and for some pilots intolerable, so they plot a way to avoid
all Seeing Eye, these constant observations. Wish is to navigate
a route that has not been staked out by the none flying expert
Airline pilots are not brain surgeons to flying not a big deal, but carries
a great reputation yet they are not free hands tied by rules, so they
plot courses to avoid the eye that record the tiniest of farts.
One pilot succeeded he altered course and so far he has been able to
a keep his secret. To pilot a modern airplane is as easy as to drive
a smart car, we now this but we have to keep up the illusion after all
when a plane falls out of the sky the pilot too dies.
Sky Fight
What makes the game even more interesting is that you can never win.
Or if you know you’ll lose from the start and you still enter the game, to lose.
As a student of air warfare, never ever fight the enemy on their rules.
But what happens if you do?
There’s a gothic saying...
‘Doing the wrong thing for the right reasons...’
Goth or no Goth, those words are the real deal.
Your comment reminds me of a crazy
but fascinating dog fight of an English Electric Lighting jet fighter
and a late Mark Griffon engine Spitfire, maybe Mk24.
Was in the late 50s.
Spit could never win even tho it could do 450mph level flight and dive past 600mph. Lightning was 1500mph jet.
The Spit could out turn the jet.
Jet could climb from below, hit from above, high speed slash attack.
You get the idea.
Yet they did this fight.
Shame both weren’t armed...
The Lightning pilot had a bang seat,
the Spit pilot a chute...
Years ago I flew in the sky
In a basket under colors of red, blue, and white
We sailed over towns and farms in flight
The pilot, a friend, my brother, and I
My parents watched the balloon go higher
It was our shared birthday gift
Reaching toward the clouds, the air so swift
Like a bird in motion, we became fliers
The ride was smooth though filled with suspense
Yet such happiness we had when we touched down
Climbing out of the basket onto solid ground
We loved and enjoyed the whole experience
Written by: Shani Fassbender
on July 19, 2011
for the contest: Happiness is a Balloon
The bombing raid siren
Threw sounds loud and clear,
Accross rubble that once was our town
The children all fled,
And the town became dead.
As a bomber, 'their' bomber, came down.
The sky's grey appearance
Was filled with black smoke.
Then a Scarlet, an Orange, a Red.
The blood curdling crash,
and a terrible smash.
There she goes, another one dead.
The very next day, I went to the spot
Where the plane had fallen from sky.
The aircraft a zero, the pilot a hero,
Who sacrificed life, for his country to die.
The plane was but ash, from the fire.
The stupidity and wastage of life.
I thought of his friends,
and the love they all send.
His Family, His Children, His Wife.
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