Ode To an Airplane Graveyard
Ode to tired obsolescent equipment,
a rumpled mirage, past the horizon,
no more heavy boxes packed for shipment
engineering that cannot enliven,
but for glowing rainbows that fade away
awaiting to chase the hawks – full throttle
in the dead heat of the wind, a display
of showers that can never be gentle,
as no one peeks through the jet’s window seat
fixated on a dazzling illusion,
of rough plant-life breaking through the concrete
for a trip that reached final conclusion.
FormForAll – ODES
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Also posted on: Texture-ific shots from Arizona
Picture Credit: Bat-Ami Gordin © 2002 all rights reserved, credit if you use it, please.
in the plum-colored barn
the wind was a-drift, they did stop for a rest
(an expected loss in time, on this forced recess)
as they sat amongst shovels, in the plum-colored barn
the friends made strange stitches into some kind of yarn
in no time the wool became wind-breaker type sweaters
woven with magical runes, symbols and strange letters
thus this secret cabal could progress on their trek
’til they’d needed soft scarves to warm up each neck
Written for: The Sunday Whirl Wordle 36
Also posted on:
The Thursday Think Tank # 81
Also posted on:
Poetry Picnic Week 20: Fairytales, My First Time, Hope, and New Year’s Resolutions
Also posted on:
P is for People
Image Credit: Bat-Ami Gordin © 2012 all rights reserved, credit if you use it, please.
Hector and the Hawk
who are you, fearless chicken
with beak of honed steel-edge
and savage, hostile talons,
sitting on my perch with arrogant stare,
and merciless terrible eyes,
ready to tear off a head,
beautiful, wild, patient,
false manner of inaction,
awful thoughts beam from your eyes?
why do you not tease like blackbirds?
or scuttle away like sparrows?
you are on your own: no murder nor flock.
my tormenting baritone barks
are but lame sounds;
you stare me down.
you are mirthless, without pity
and i mean nothing to you!
One day, when Hector was my only dog, I heard him barking and barking without stop. This was not usual, so I looked at the window to see what was going on, and there was a Hawk. Hector could turned around and looked at me, “Why is this stupid bird not afraid of me. I’m doing my job, barking, and it just doesn’t care.” I captured this in the picture above.
prompt – “My Backyard”
I wrote this little poem , from Hector’s point of view, to go with this event and picture.
Also posted on: Wordless Wednesday: Eat your veggies!
Photo Credit: Mine (c) 2006 all rights reserved, credit if you use it, please.
Train At Night
The slow surf beats
until the rocks
is a sigh.
The sandy beach
as a satin spread.
of the Island’s beacon
until a circle
snaps in the horizon.
From miles beyond
the vain beam gropes for
embedded in the cliffs.
When the angle
is just right
the spherical ray
the lonely shores.
Like a clap
a whistle warns.
The chug captures
The cars’ silhouettes
grow and diminish
in the wake
of the winds.
At the tail
along the parallel avenue
settles into place.
The sounds slip
behind another hill.
Challenge posted by Claudia Schoenfeld
Photo from Moonlight at Albermarle Sound, Edenton, NC
I wrote this in 1992, when I was living in Edwards, WA. It was inspired by the way the train coming down the tracks, by Puget Sound.
Powerful magnetic forces tangled
in the solar wind, fracture and shatter
then rejoin with vengeance till flares, mangled
and twisted in bits of stellar matter,
pop-off on the solar surface. It’s jazz
played with frenzied brutality. It’s twitching
epileptically toward the poles. Viewed as
dynamic motions, it keeps enriching
catastrophic solar events. The sun
is miasmic. It is a complex beast.
It churns and quivers. It stops for no one.
A ball of hydrogen, to say the least!
Fluids ebb and flow on a disc shaped star,
materials suddenly fling out far.
The Sun is a seething ball of ionized gas, called plasma, and has very complex magnetic fields that interact with this plasma. The Solar activity impacts the magnetic fields of the Earth. It also has significant influence on Earth’s weather.
The picture comes from:
In tropical dawn,
in sultry dusk,
in the finest neoprene,
I shall never throne.
Rinse and hold.
Taste the salt.
No break to my adrenaline.
Spray spitting from the barrel.
I carve kinetic fluid.
In the food chain,
I devour waves.
I take refuge
in the cycles
of lunar forces.
in utter wetness.
I found this on Jean-Michel Leclercq’s Flicker Site ©
Also, I have never windsurfed nor regular surfed in my life. I did take sailing lessons and was American Red Cross certified in basic sailing.