John F. McCullagh

Gold Star - 4,852 Points (09/28/1954 / Flushing)

Eight Minutes - Poem by John F. McCullagh

High above the Canyon’s edge,
Far above the ancient clay,
The helicopter hovers there
Like a dragonfly at play.

With my jet pack on my back
I coolly, calmly step away.
Gain separation from the blades,
Freefall starts my epic day.

On stubby wings the jet packs fire
I’m Daedalus in the morning light.
I soar across the canyon’s rim.
Laughing like some hell born sprite

One hundred eighty miles an hour,
The wind whips cold despite the sun
I glide toward my landing zone
The jet packs sputter and are done.

My parachute has been deployed
My guide ropes turn me for my drop.
My wings are just a dead weight now
I touch down one the Mesa top.

At Kitty Hawk that fateful day.
This must be what the brothers felt
Kindred souls who sought to fly
By using wings that wouldn’t melt..

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Poem Submitted: Friday, May 13, 2011

Poem Edited: Saturday, May 14, 2011

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