Ken's Poetry

Intrepid Aviator

I fly by night, I fly by day,
where strings of runways shrink away
through skies so blue it can’t be told,
through clouds of crimson and of gold.
Asleep at night I wheel so high
the ground is lost in clouds of sky,
I loop and whirl and curl and roll
from the equator to the pole.

Through all my dreams of sun and fire
I cruise my dreamscapes of desire;
but Wednesdays at the field my feet
are heavy as two lumps of meat,
my fingers on the twitchy stick
as stiff as planks and twice as thick,
my mind is straining for the air,
my face a sick and panicked stare.

I wallow through a spiral roll
(the sting of comment sharp, yet droll)
and wobbling round a crooked loop
I feel my heart and shoulders droop.
The engine doesn’t run so sweet
the engineering’s not so neat,
the wing has sprung a gaping hole
the creature spins out of control

and in a frenzied moments fight
it crashes almost out of sight
a spray of splinters fills the air.
I wish, I wish I wasn’t there!
Back to the workshop I must go
for Epoxy glue and Cyano,
invest more in the model shop
build and break, extend and chop.

Deadline days may come too slow
but back to the airfield I must go
it is a thing I can’t resist.
Will I succeed if I persist?