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Greg Hladky Poem
What were the odds they did not know?
So many, many years ago, according to the records
they had left in there, it seems the answer was, quite low.
How strange the paradox of nature, how unpredictable
the outcome of its selections, how some variations
with the best chance to survive
became the human species,
became nature reflecting
on itself,
yet could not understand
that to stop adapting to its environment,
instead to change it, exploit it, a tipping point
would be reached, a no going back extinction event
would be unleashed, and adaptation would no longer be
an option.
Oh the stories we have found! The art fantastic as the sounds
of sea on shore, birds awakening with the golden dawn and
the scent, still present in its capsule, of an ancient rose.
How primitive their science, yet how predictable
the future was for them in small steps undertook with effort:
they knew slide rule soon and to the second
when Apollo would return from the dark side of the moon;
they knew nano chip soon and to the second
when and where an eclipse of the sun would pass at noon;
they knew too soon and to what degree
rising temperatures and rising seas foretold their doom.
What were the odds they did not know
how precious was this Eden, how rare an oasis in a vast unfriendly space,
when they sealed this vault five million years ago?
(Should this poem go in the vault? If so,
we have ten years left and then we'll know
and they'll know, too . . . we knew.)
- original poem written on the 5th of December in the year 2019 CE
Predictable poetry contest sponsored by Nina Parmenter
Copyright © Greg Hladky | Year Posted 2019
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Greg Hladky Poem
Fair wind floating above a sparkly sea
as the pounding surf grinds sand over there,
I then feel hunger to a large degree,
sense some morsels near, beat my wings on air.
As the pounding surf grinds sand over there,
I fly, knowing fellow hunters will feast,
sense some morsels near, beat my wings on air,
then hover, tuck, and dive in from the east.
I fly, knowing fellow hunters will feast,
will swoop and swoon for every scrap of food,
then hover, tuck, and dive in from the east,
attacking dinner with some attitude,
will swoop and swoon for every scrap of food,
and leave naught behind but sand, sky and brine.
Attacking dinner with some attitude,
squalling seagulls sip the morning sunshine
and leave naught behind but sand, sky and brine;
I then feel hunger to a large degree.
Squalling seagulls sip the morning sunshine,
fair wind floating above a sparkly sea.
November 26, 2019
Seagulls contest by Eve Roper
Copyright © Greg Hladky | Year Posted 2019
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Greg Hladky Poem
She left the tent in holy fervor,
Hell-bent to spread the Word.
The Spirit moved and made her quiver;
No act of faith was too absurd.
She knocked on doors, she spoke with zeal,
Her faith she shared in earnest.
There was no doubt God’s love is real:
His justice is the sternest.
I asked what other gods contend
For space inside her pretty head.
Might Yahweh, Allah or Shiva rend
The veil between gods ‘live and dead?
Do you beseech the Norse god Thor,
Once favored by the common folk?
The Son of Odin is heard no more.
What power broke that yoke?
For love there was an Aphrodite,
For war the Greek god Ares.
Athena’s wisdom eclipsed the mighty,
As Apollo‘s virtues the Virgin Mary‘s.
Though long I queried with due respect,
She unyielding kept her patience.
“On Jesus only I reflect;
To Him I owe allegiance.”
One god only fills her life -
It severs her from me.
I trust in reason, yet love my wife
With faith in one less god than she.
Copyright © Greg Hladky | Year Posted 2019
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Greg Hladky Poem
And did those wings in ancient time
Soar upward in the sun burnt sky:
And was the father of our dreams
Seen boldly taking us on high!
And did the clever man of arts
Shed light upon our lofty bent?
And was a seed implanted in
That Cretan's dark imprisonment?
Bring me my wings of fair design;
Bring me the power of desire!
Bring me my aerobatic lines;
Bring me the chariot of fire!
I will not cease from mental flight,
Nor shall my sequence sleep in hand,
Till I have reached the sun kissed heights
In hallowed halls o’er sea and land.
- The word "sequence" refers to a series of precision aerobatic figures studied in advance and flown by an IAC pilot. (IAC is the International Aerobatic Club)
-Inspired by William Blake's poem, Jerusalem, "And did those feet in ancient time..."
Copyright © Greg Hladky | Year Posted 2019
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Greg Hladky Poem
Oh banish from the dim lit moor
barren windswept cold and more
the untamed nagging beast and boor
Oh darkened sky above the fire
smoke rising from the pricey pyre
signals where my hopes retire
Oh twisted wooden frame remains
wreckage of some airborne gains
lock my airfield gate in chains
Oh welcome summer shifts of breeze
warmer winds from warmer seas
shafts of sun to ashes tease
Oh see it rise, oh spark of life
bird of wonder born of strife
free to wander, free to fly!
Oh transformation of the moor,
dappled by the sun and more:
no untamed beast, no nagging boor.
-Dedicated to all the pilots who, in practice or competition, have lost a plane this year, or in years past. Precision aerobatic planes represent a significant investment of time and money. Their courage to rebuild and compete again was an inspiration to me. Here's to renewed hope, rising from the ashes.
Copyright © Greg Hladky | Year Posted 2019
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Greg Hladky Poem
Poor Mikey
gave everything he had
for fifteen minutes under lights
(and they are expensive lights).
He went down not once but twice
in the same game with the same head
(his only one).
Rules meant to protect him
from returning to the field did not apply.
Officials determined he lay there resting
from a sprint, and his sudden prone position
was not from impact or concussion.
He knew the danger in his sport,
that helmet and pads are not for show.
He signed a waiver, accepting all responsibility
for injury, death and “outbursts of rage”
by other players, coaches and referees.
His parents signed it, too, to make it clear
the school would not be liable
should injury or worse occur.
At 5’6” and 160 pounds he was
David, weaving through
Goliaths armed for battle.
We sat in the colosseum,
spectators of sport,
and cheered him on,
the beat of drums stirring passions
only a clash of titans can satisfy.
The brilliant play, naked
without the tension
of orchestrated violence,
is not enough.
The threat to quarterback,
the linemen pushing back,
the fake pass, all are lost
without the crushing weight
of a six foot, 300 pound tackle,
like going to war
without airplanes and ships
or weapons of any sort.
(What fun is that?)
We’d miss the impassioned
announcer, breathless in describing
the mobilization of forces,
and the welcome distraction from our
boring lives back home.
His brain was moving
thirty feet per second
when it slammed into his skull,
full stop,
a direct collision of his helmet
against one opposing his completion.
“Get up, Mikey. Get up.”
The man next to me urged the fallen
player to recover from the blow, as if
by willing it, three pounds of
brain matter could be restored,
and the physics of smashing
soft tissue against bone
with a thousand Newtons
could be waved away
with wishful thinking.
Poor Mikey,
jersey number 2,
gave everything he had,
for the colors of his team,
and the pride of his school,
while we sat there
with our Roman hearts,
and cheered him on.
Notes: On Friday, September 12, 2014, Michael Trimble, jersey #2, wide receiver for the Walnut Hills High School football team, slammed helmet first against the helmet of a player from Fairfield running in nearly the opposite direction. He eventually got up and walked off the field, only to return to the game a short time later. He was knocked down a second time.
Copyright © Greg Hladky | Year Posted 2020
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Greg Hladky Poem
Prince Andrew in the press is tried, but he denied
both far and wide, as Duke of York (soon Earl?),
a train of thought upon the side,
a rain of sweat upon a girl.
Please, cork that Duke before I swirl!
Submitted 12/4/2019
Five Word Challenge Poetry Contest by Beth Evans
Copyright © Greg Hladky | Year Posted 2019
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Greg Hladky Poem
This patch of dirt, this womb of earth, organic
black and aromatic with compost and
coffee grounds, receives my
spade, but soon my hands
are digging there, putting roots
in place as seedlings, kelly green and
delicate as sparrow wings, fill the garden bed.
Relentless sun
draws sweat like rivulets
on walls in a leaky house, salting
my eyes and a skyward supplication:
Dear God dismiss both drought and deluge;
create instead a harvest bursting like the heirloom,
deep red and overdue for picking.
On the morrow, with work behind me for a day, I drive
to town and join my neighbors in communal song: we praise
the One who watches over home and field and commands
his son to rise along with daily bread.
Heading home through glacial ghosts, on asphalt
softened by an early summer, and though the
wide horizon invites redemption, I’ll not
realize what I’ve done: prayer engaging
as an echo
(the cry of hope in cloistered air...)
prostration pleasing to Apollo -
and all the patriarchal gods -
praises poured upon an
ancient father, Abba,
unable to embrace a
child or climate
refugee.
I’ll not remember my mother, how she shaped
bone and sinew from the black dust of
burned out stars, breathing, from
florae exhalations, oxygen into
lungs, benefiting when I
grow wise enough to consider
the lily, to celebrate her gift, now
trampled beneath the gilded idol, how she
suckled me with milk as rich as the soil in her veins.
Copyright © Greg Hladky | Year Posted 2019
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Greg Hladky Poem
Winter solstice is approaching. Night advances as
day retreats, aiding my studies, though December
winds and persistent festive music cut, cold and
careless, to the heart. I am warmed as I think
of seeing you, and soon.
Winter solstice is approaching, and I'm sorry
for the dour mood, but really, what is all this fuss
about? The lights and carols, the “Happy” this
and “Merry” that, the solemn incantations and
remembrances. Centuries have wintered by, shape-
shifting traditions, yuletide culture and commerce
consuming us once more, like the shadow
swallowing a waning crescent moon. Oh, welcome
the waxing light wherever it appears!
Winter solstice is approaching, and I, solitaire,
study snug inside my room, while others, threadbare
and wandering, homeless, sick and suffering,
can hardly find much cheer this time of year. I will
drop a coin in that bell rung can to ease my
conscience, but why? What good will come
of it? Is this what Heaven demands, the cost
of my free will?
Winter solstice is approaching, and I have papers
to finish. Search nature, gather facts, question ideas;
now hypothesize and test, write and conclude. There
is no room in here for a word pregnant with false hopes,
glad tidings from yesterday's gods, the gospel of fake
news. We need paper trails, not paper gods. We have
only one life, one brief moment under the sun. Why
squander it?
Winter solstice is approaching, and I am warmed
as I think of seeing you, and soon. No need to pick
me up; I'll take a taxi from the station.
With love and devotion,
your only son.
November 30, 2020
Christmas Poetry Contest
Sponsored by Regina McIntosh
Copyright © Greg Hladky | Year Posted 2020
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Greg Hladky Poem
I miss some information while the news drones on today,
and lose a favorite TV chair, while commentators lie on air.
The coddled cats, now cozy in my spot, have no respect for playing fair.
Their clawing paws pause in sync with reporters at play with words,
then resume, like rhetorical retorts swatting truth away.
“The housing market's in a bubble,” they blurb on without a bobble,
or hint of irony. And with iron fisted tone demand attention to their
tomes, attacking what's left of right. A pin is needed to pop in, to bust
their bubble with an outburst, an outrage against the dying of the light.
But darkness already settles in as homeless huddle on the street.
Enjoy your yurt on a mountain top, camping with tin pot and tinder
from tenuous timber on a fire pit of stone, and thank fake news for
declaring climate change a hoax. Sing with Mellencamp, “Come on baby,
make the yurt so good,” and dream melancholic dreams of better days.
In this post fact, post hoc fallacy filled world, where science must compete
with goat herder wisdom, the black belted Bible still punches out the Truth
in four inerrant yet irreconcilable Gospels, “The Good News.” But the news
is not so good for slaves, or women, or LGBQT, or really any life
on planet Earth from A to Z, as Heaven trumps our paradise,
despite the lack of evidence, and no planet B.
Oh the cacophony of cock-eyed calumnies! The columnist and internet
conspire, slipping the surly bonds of truth to touch the face of gob smacking
lies. Dismiss these purveyors of the putrid, who exchange fact for opinion
and peel back layers of untruth, until my eyes sting with tears.
July 23, 2021
Word Play Poetry Contest
Sponsored by John Anderson
Copyright © Greg Hladky | Year Posted 2021
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