The Pig

In England once there lived a big And wonderfully clever pig. To everybody it was plain That Piggy had a massive brain. He worked out sums inside his head, There was no book he hadn't read. He knew what made an airplane fly, He knew how engines worked and why. He knew all this, but in the end One question drove him round the bend:

Crossing Nation

Under silver wing San Francisco's towers sprouting thru thin gas clouds, Tamalpais black-breasted above Pacific azure Berkeley hills pine-covered below- Dr Leary in his brown house scribing Independence Declaration typewriter at window silver panorama in natural eyeball-

Hector The Collector

Hector the Collector Collected bits of string, Collected dolls with broken heads And rusty bells that would not ring. Bent-up nails and ice-cream sticks, Twists of wires, worn-out tires, Paper bags and broken bricks. Old chipped vases, half shoelaces, Gatlin' guns that wouldn't shoot, Leaky boasts that wouldn't float And stopped-up horns that wouldn't toot. Butter knives that had no handles,

History Of The Airplane

And the Wright brothers said they thought they had invented something that could make peace on earth (if the wrong brothers didn’t get hold of it) when their wonderful flying machine took off at Kitty Hawk into the kingdom of birds but the parliament of birds was freaked out by this man-made bird and fled to heaven And then the famous Spirit of Saint Louis took off eastward and flew across the Big Pond with Lindy at the controls in his leather helmet and goggles hoping to sight the doves of peace but he did not

Kral Majales (King Of May)

And the Communists have nothing to offer but fat cheeks and eyeglasses and lying policemen and the Capitalists proffer Napalm and money in green suitcases to the Naked, and the Communists create heavy industry but the heart is also heavy and the beautiful engineers are all dead, the secret technicians conspire for their own glamour in the Future, in the Future, but now drink vodka and lament the Security Forces, and the Capitalists drink gin and whiskey on airplanes but let Indian brown

My Excuses

I started on my homework but my pen ran out of ink. My hamster ate my homework. My computer's on the blink. I accidentally dropped it in the soup my mom was cooking. My brother flushed it down the toilet when I wasn't looking.

Doll For A Terrorist

Here is a doll for you, terrorist Bloodstained Which was fondled by my daughter While she was exploded by the bomb That you planted in her school bus Killing all her friends In the fragment of a second I am her doomed mother Who happened to see My own daughter

San Sepolcro

In this blue light I can take you there, snow having made me a world of bone seen through to. This is my house, my section of Etruscan wall, my neighbor's lemontrees, and, just below

Gioconda And Si-Ya-U

to the memory of my friend SI-YA-U, whose head was cut off in Shanghai A CLAIM Renowned Leonardo's world-famous "La Gioconda" has disappeared. And in the space

Did The Elephant Fly Or The Rhino Lay Eggs?

I feel sad as sadness could be Cause I'm afraid that one day; I may not be able to say; To my grandchildren, why animals deserted our planet And why all birds fled away I am afraid to give a lie As I would be sorry not to justify How the African elephant had disappeared? And why?

Phenomena

Great-enough both accepts and subdues; the great frame takes all creatures; From the greatness of their element they all take beauty. Gulls; and the dingy freightship lurching south in the eye of a rain-wind; The airplane dipping over the hill; hawks hovering The white grass of the headland; cormorants roosting upon the guano- Whitened skerries; pelicans awind; sea-slime Shining at night in the wave-stir like drowned men's lanterns;

View From An Airplane's Window

Oh, everything looked far like tiny toy cars Living things hurrying Everything scurrying And they appeared like doll's houses or little women walking in wee coats and teeny blouses Even big men appeared smaller than boys as everything seemed dwarfed to mobile toys And tiny looked the trees

* Seen From Airplane Window

When I look down from the airplane window I see a map the biggest map on earth that i haven't seen before

21 Haikus

He stayed inside her until the borders opened beloved Poland. She shaved the hair off but hubby was a drunkard hair of the dog, then. The snow of dandruff had settled on his shoulders

' ' ' ' ' ' ' ' ' ' ' ' ' ' ' ' ' ' Origami Bird(Being A Christmas Poem For Angie Babeeee)

To the copulating cats in the woodshed now in sunlight now in shade the couple's kiss on the airplane does not exist.

Tanka ~ Silence Aftermath

a deafening sound as the airplane flew away valley of mountain leaving behind, trail of past with pin-drop silence around

Don'T Let Me Be Lonely

There was a time I could say no one I knew well had died. This is not to suggest no one died. When I was eight my mother became pregnant. She went to the hospital to give birth and returned without the baby. Where's the baby? we asked. Did she shrug? She was the kind of woman who liked to shrug; deep within her was an everlasting shrug. That didn't seem like a death. The years went by and people only died on television—if they weren't Black, they were wearing black or were terminally ill. Then I returned home from school one day and saw my father sitting on the steps of our home. He had a look that was unfamiliar; it was flooded, so leaking. I climbed the steps as far away from him as I could get. He was breaking or broken. Or, to be more precise, he looked to me like someone understanding his aloneness. Loneliness. His mother was dead. I'd never met her. It meant a trip back home for him. When he returned he spoke neither about the airplane nor the funeral. Every movie I saw while in the third grade compelled me to ask, Is he dead? Is she dead? Because the characters often live against all odds it is the actors whose mortality concerned me. If it were an old, black-and-white film, whoever was around would answer yes. Months later the actor would show up on some latenight talk show to promote his latest efforts. I would turn and say—one always turns to say—You said he was dead. And the misinformed would claim, I never said he was dead. Yes, you did. No, I didn't. Inevitably we get older; whoever is still with us says, Stop asking me that. Or one begins asking oneself that same question differently. Am I dead? Though this question at no time explicitly translates into Should I be dead, eventually the suicide hotline is called. You are, as usual, watching television, the eight-o'clock movie, when a number flashes on the screen: I-800-SUICIDE. You dial the number. Do you feel like killing yourself? the man on the other end of the receiver asks. You tell him, I feel like I am already dead. When he makes no response you add, I am in death's position. He finally says, Don't believe what you are thinking and feeling. Then he asks, Where do you live? Fifteen minutes later the doorbell rings. You explain to the ambulance attendant that you had a momentary lapse of happily. The noun, happiness, is a static state of some Platonic ideal you know better than to pursue. Your modifying process had happily or unhappily experienced a momentary pause. This kind of thing happens, perhaps is still happening. He shrugs and in turn explains that you need to come quietly or he will have to restrain you. If he is forced to restrain you, he will have to report that he is forced to restrain you. It is this simple: Resistance will only make matters more difficult. Any resistance will only make matters worse. By law, I will have to restrain you. His tone suggests that you should try to understand the difficulty in which he finds himself. This is further disorienting. I am fine! Can't you see that! You climb into the ambulance unassisted.

The Old Meeting House

Its quiet graves were made for peace till Gabriel blows his horn. Those wise old elms could hear no cry Of all that distant agony— Only the red-winged blackbird, and the rustle of thick ripe corn. The blue jay, perched upon that bronze, with bright unweeting eye Could never read the names that signed The noblest charter of mankind; But all of them were names we knew beneath our English skies.

The Boeing 737 Max- Issue.

Boeing never bowed down, though families wore a frown, for the Lion and Ethiopian planes had crashed down. Investigations revealed, faults in their machines, yet, the airplane maker denied any sins. Families gathered, agitated and upset, their loved ones gone, they couldn't forget. they demanded answers, they pleaded and cried, but Boeing showed no remorse, no shame or abide.

Let The Better Sense Prevail!

Those melodious sounds Chirping of birds Sound of waterfall Wind passing rustling leaves Train passing by Airplane flying over clouds Waves at sea, river rushes through the mountain Shouting crow, barking dog No cock-a-doodle-doo, today