~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
vacant control tower hisses in static~
a Morse code signaling the absence of departing flights.
B-24s dissolve into prairie stars,
fuel streaks fading like old film burns.
Midnight mechanics still roll toolbox shadows
across tarmacs swallowed by Kansas crabgrass.
a windsock flaps—empty, always empty~
counting dead radio waves as prayer beads.
barracks hum with old Glenn Miller,
though the record needle’s been stuck for decades.
midnight taxi lights still trace the runway,
guiding no one home.
airfield ghosts wear leather bomber jackets,
not shrouds, sighing at how quietly war forgets.
I travel incognito, using a name I once found
in a book of minor sorrows.
I have a longing for the sea, yet languish here
behind the wheel of a rental,
crisscrossing arid lands with many miles ahead.
A white plastic bag flaps on a thorn bush
it could act as a windsock but turns listlessly
in the breathless air.
A GPS guides my mind over a flickering map
toward an ocean that is too far away to reach today,
a place where silver fish leap in the aqueous air,
only to pause as still as stone in an ice-marbled sky.
That shore for now, is bereft of place and time
it can only be imagined through gaps in
rising walls of dust.
The hatchback seems to trundle slowly over
dinosaur bones, dry axles groan under
tired springs.
A hundred miles ahead a fish-restaurant
is getting ready to close its doors for the night.
A Motel 8’s neon lights flicker in a sea spray.
On an unseen shore, snow crab dance and sing
like sirens in the rolling surf.
My whirligigs are spinning;
The trees are all a’sway.
The dafs, with blooms beginning,
Bow their heads in mock dismay.
The windsock strips are dancing;
The bushes are a’bounce,
The dogs on leashes prancing,
Swishing tails an added flounce.
As I sit here with my writing,
While the sunshine’s all a’peek,
Rhyming words have been alighting
To allow my thought to speak.
A white plastic bag flapping on a stark tree
acts as a windsock if I needed one – I don’t.
The GPS guides my mind upon a flickering map
toward salt water
where silver fish are leaping into the cold air,
gulping at a low-hanging haze.
Still as stone is the marbled sky.
I have yet to arrive,
the shore is bereft of place and time yet.
We will all freshen up later.
Until I am there
I travel incognito using a name
I once found in a book of minor sorrows.
My niggling fret this day is a longing for the sea
here in the middle of a prairie
where buffalo slowly much the miles ahead.
The rolling rubber is impatiently whirring,
pining out here, speeding over dry dinosaur bones.
Five hundred aqueous daydreams ahead
a shore fish-restaurant is already
opening its doors.
My brand-new garden spinner twirls
When breezes start to blow.
It joins my dancing windsock,
Strips a’flying to and fro.
The wind provides the magic
For the whirligigs and trees,
From little puffs of air to gusts
Of varying degrees.
On days when all is still, I hope
The weather will improve
So I will once again enjoy
All things the wind does move.
The Yellow Swallowtail Butterfly kissed the Lantana
Light its flight carried by the wind lands 'pon my bandana
No nourishment but the butterfly lingers
Gently the Swallowtail flies to land 'pon the Purple Flock
Drinks nectar from the honeyed bloom then touches 'pon windsock
Off in flight comes once again lands 'pon my fingers
Sponsor: Gail Doyle
Contest: Butterfly Kisses
Rhyming couplets in a form of poulter's measure
With a interlocking tail rhyme
Upon the jagged rock,
Where cloven hooves did trot.
A maiden clothed in dock,
Thought life was meant for naught.
Adorned in nature's frock,
Awaiting wind's onslaught.
Ticktock, ticktock, the clock
She dreamed of love a lot.
From China to Bangkok,
Wind brought the storms mascot.
He wished, that young warlock.
The devil's charms besought.
Two footprints stomped bedrock
Where, dreams remained bethought.
Beneath the black nighthawk,
The maiden heard gunshot.
The hunter drank cognac.
He passed through a sandlot.
Then, met that old warlock.
Good luck was all he sought.
The devil owned the rock.
The maiden's hope was naught.
The hunter could not talk.
The wind's good luck was wrought.
Within the storms airlock,
Those two with Satan fought.
The hawk began to squawk.
The hunter luck was bought.
Then came the storms windsock.
To waft the dreams besought.
Where love, its coursers walk.
Her wish was finally wrought.
© May 29, 2011
Written for Poetry Soup Member Contest: Jack OUT of the Box
Sponsored by: Debbie Guzzy
A bird/bee with head-mug, on one side of fence, tail/wump on other.
A mugwump sitting on a fence,
smug as he can be.
His mug was writting a reference,
and his wump was hanging free.
When mugwump would lift his head,
a flight he tried to make.
When he flapped his wings o'lead,
his wump got stuck in the gate.
Mugwump is a mighty mess,
hanging from that rail.
As a pilot he forgot to test,
the windsock for the gusty gale.
If a situation should arise,
where you think he's gotton free.
It wouldn't be good to surmise,
that mugwumps are great big bees.
If you consort with bees and birds,
the words should set you free.
But, if you don't watch your words,
a mugwump, you will turn out to be.
Looking for the formal definition, structure, and history of this poetry form? Visit the Poetry Dictionary entry below. Then return to explore how PoetrySoup members bring the form to life through their own poems.