Short Cockpit Poems
Short Cockpit Poems. Below are examples of the most popular short poems about Cockpit by PoetrySoup poets. Search short poems about Cockpit by length and keyword.
On a plane.
Erotic affair in the cockpit.
Sacred merging,
intensified by turbulence.
Red Baron sits in his cockpit;
He fires off shot after shot;
As enemies perish.
Raging, waging battles;
He longs for home and the great burgers,
From Charlie Brown’s grill;
No kibble tonight!
in my cockpit
holding the
stick i got
her off the
ground in
to a blue
sky i
got in
position
coordinating
my coordinates
not too much of
any kama
sutra stuff a
missionary on
a mission
of love and
giving but
about a
minute in
i got swall
owed
into her
Bermuda
triangle
Form:
The car was painted mat black
With red rimmed wheels
The windows were tinted
There were no plates
It looked menacing
Even if it was driven
By a girl...
...Who flew the plane
An F-35 Aggressor version
It was like her car
Mat black all over
With red wheel rims
A tinted cockpit
And no markings...
Sometimes in life, although it be,
a person can be good.
For reasons we don't understand,
perhaps misunderstood.
To wrap your mind around the facts
is not an easy thing..
No pilot in the cockpit;
"Look!,"; he's standing on the wing!
"Don't jump!", we say, he looks around
he doesn't say a word.
He jumps 10,000 feet to earth;
at last he's finally cured!
O’ no, the Washington swamp media rails
and the hypocrites are all telling tall tales.
A war plan group chat
on an unsecured app
but how soon they forget Hillary’s emails!
Fly boys were good to go in their cockpit
and the Houthi strike targets were all hit.
A successful mission plan
unlike Joe’s Afghanistan
so those filled with outrage are full of sh*t!
Written: March 2025
Oh to be sailing over the sea,
hull down, with the shore on the lee.
Hearing the sound of water dashing past the hull,
and the mournful cry of a ravenous gull.
Pitting ones skills against natures wiles,
not another soul in sight, for miles, and miles.
Then come the end of the day,
dropping anchor in a small secluded bay.
Relaxing in the cockpit, supping a drink,
watching the sun, as below the horizon it doth slowly sink.
Oh to be sailing over the sea,
hull down, with the shore on the lee.
Hearing the sound of water dashing past the hull,
and the mournful cry of a ravenous gull.
Pitting ones skills against natures wiles,
not another soul in sight, for miles, and miles.
Then come the end of the day,
dropping anchor in a small secluded bay.
Relaxing in the cockpit, supping a drink,
watching the sun, as below the horizon it doth slowly sink.
To the depths, dive into my dark sea;
Careful to leave a trail or you'll get lost;
I can see, don't try and rape me;
Clarity while you lay back sauced,
a fumbling fool you can't explain it;
Forge? You'll wind up double-crossed;
Flying to watch if you can swim I admit,
you'll drown waiting to be streamlined;
I'm the captain controlling this cockpit;
Transmission clarification declined;
Give up trying to hack into my mind.
Dawn Demure
Dawn December day.
Machine peacefully sleeps.
Slumber banished.
RAF pilot.
Spitfire!
Kept warm, mission time, Norway bound.
Snow, fjords, mountains.
Cockpit, aboard, checks,
rise, feathery clouds.
Recon.
Fine machine, woman.
Precision engine.
Exquisite cameras, spy on Nazi’s Christmas.
Thousand mile trip, freedom.
Gentle hearts, honest loving men.
Tirpitz photos, Whitehall desks.
Experts, delicately place,
five ton Tallboy bombs.
Lancaster love.