Aces High Bulletin Board
General Forums => The O' Club => Topic started by: Getback on November 05, 2009, 02:52:04 PM
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Here's a couple of my favorite poems. Both classics. So share some of your favorites.
Too Many Daves, by Dr. Seuss
Did I ever tell you that Mrs. McCave
Had twenty-three sons and she named them all Dave?
Well, she did. And that wasn't a smart thing to do.
You see, when she wants one and calls out, "Yoo-Hoo!
Come into the house, Dave!" she doesn't get one.
All twenty-three Daves of hers come on the run!
This makes things quite difficult at the McCaves'
As you can imagine, with so many Daves.
And often she wishes that, when they were born,
She had named one of them Bodkin Van Horn
And one of them Hoos-Foos. And one of them Snimm.
And one of them Hot-Shot. And one Sunny Jim.
And one of them Shadrack. And one of them Blinkey.
And one of them Stuffy. And one of them Stinkey.
Another one Putt-Putt. Another one Moon Face.
Another one Marvin O'Gravel Balloon Face.
And one of them Ziggy. And one Soggy Muff.
One Buffalo Bill. And one Biffalo Buff.
And one of them Sneepy. And one Weepy Weed.
And one Paris Garters. And one Harris Tweed.
And one of them Sir Michael Carmichael Zutt
And one of them Oliver Boliver Butt
And one of them Zanzibar Buck-Buck McFate ...
But she didn't do it. And now it's too late.
And this classic!
The Raven, Edgar Allen Poe
Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered weak and weary,
Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore,
While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,
As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door.
`'Tis some visitor,' I muttered, `tapping at my chamber door -
Only this, and nothing more.'
Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the bleak December,
And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor.
Eagerly I wished the morrow; - vainly I had sought to borrow
From my books surcease of sorrow - sorrow for the lost Lenore -
For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels named Lenore -
Nameless here for evermore.
And the silken sad uncertain rustling of each purple curtain
Thrilled me - filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before;
So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating
`'Tis some visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door -
Some late visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door; -
This it is, and nothing more,'
Presently my soul grew stronger; hesitating then no longer,
`Sir,' said I, `or Madam, truly your forgiveness I implore;
But the fact is I was napping, and so gently you came rapping,
And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my chamber door,
That I scarce was sure I heard you' - here I opened wide the door; -
Darkness there, and nothing more.
Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there wondering, fearing,
Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to dream before
But the silence was unbroken, and the darkness gave no token,
And the only word there spoken was the whispered word, `Lenore!'
This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the word, `Lenore!'
Merely this and nothing more.
Back into the chamber turning, all my soul within me burning,
Soon again I heard a tapping somewhat louder than before.
`Surely,' said I, `surely that is something at my window lattice;
Let me see then, what thereat is, and this mystery explore -
Let my heart be still a moment and this mystery explore; -
'Tis the wind and nothing more!'
Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt and flutter,
In there stepped a stately raven of the saintly days of yore.
Not the least obeisance made he; not a minute stopped or stayed he;
But, with mien of lord or lady, perched above my chamber door -
Perched upon a bust of Pallas just above my chamber door -
Perched, and sat, and nothing more.
Then this ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling,
By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore,
`Though thy crest be shorn and shaven, thou,' I said, `art sure no craven.
Ghastly grim and ancient raven wandering from the nightly shore -
Tell me what thy lordly name is on the Night's Plutonian shore!'
Quoth the raven, `Nevermore.'
Much I marvelled this ungainly fowl to hear discourse so plainly,
Though its answer little meaning - little relevancy bore;
For we cannot help agreeing that no living human being
Ever yet was blessed with seeing bird above his chamber door -
Bird or beast above the sculptured bust above his chamber door,
With such name as `Nevermore.'
But the raven, sitting lonely on the placid bust, spoke only,
That one word, as if his soul in that one word he did outpour.
Nothing further then he uttered - not a feather then he fluttered -
Till I scarcely more than muttered `Other friends have flown before -
On the morrow he will leave me, as my hopes have flown before.'
Then the bird said, `Nevermore.'
Startled at the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken,
`Doubtless,' said I, `what it utters is its only stock and store,
Caught from some unhappy master whom unmerciful disaster
Followed fast and followed faster till his songs one burden bore -
Till the dirges of his hope that melancholy burden bore
Of "Never-nevermore."'
But the raven still beguiling all my sad soul into smiling,
Straight I wheeled a cushioned seat in front of bird and bust and door;
Then, upon the velvet sinking, I betook myself to linking
Fancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous bird of yore -
What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt, and ominous bird of yore
Meant in croaking `Nevermore.'
This I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing
To the fowl whose fiery eyes now burned into my bosom's core;
This and more I sat divining, with my head at ease reclining
On the cushion's velvet lining that the lamp-light gloated o'er,
But whose velvet violet lining with the lamp-light gloating o'er,
She shall press, ah, nevermore!
Then, methought, the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen censer
Swung by Seraphim whose foot-falls tinkled on the tufted floor.
`Wretch,' I cried, `thy God hath lent thee - by these angels he has sent thee
Respite - respite and nepenthe from thy memories of Lenore!
Quaff, oh quaff this kind nepenthe, and forget this lost Lenore!'
Quoth the raven, `Nevermore.'
`Prophet!' said I, `thing of evil! - prophet still, if bird or devil! -
Whether tempter sent, or whether tempest tossed thee here ashore,
Desolate yet all undaunted, on this desert land enchanted -
On this home by horror haunted - tell me truly, I implore -
Is there - is there balm in Gilead? - tell me - tell me, I implore!'
Quoth the raven, `Nevermore.'
`Prophet!' said I, `thing of evil! - prophet still, if bird or devil!
By that Heaven that bends above us - by that God we both adore -
Tell this soul with sorrow laden if, within the distant Aidenn,
It shall clasp a sainted maiden whom the angels named Lenore -
Clasp a rare and radiant maiden, whom the angels named Lenore?'
Quoth the raven, `Nevermore.'
`Be that word our sign of parting, bird or fiend!' I shrieked upstarting -
`Get thee back into the tempest and the Night's Plutonian shore!
Leave no black plume as a token of that lie thy soul hath spoken!
Leave my loneliness unbroken! - quit the bust above my door!
Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form from off my door!'
Quoth the raven, `Nevermore.'
And the raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting
On the pallid bust of Pallas just above my chamber door;
And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon's that is dreaming,
And the lamp-light o'er him streaming throws his shadow on the floor;
And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor
Shall be lifted - nevermor
At one time I could almost recite The Raven from rote.
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I know
"There once was a girl from Nantucket.."
and the all time classic "Roses are red, violets are blue, if I take you home can I..."
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here i sit all broken hearted, couldnt ....... you know the rest lol
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These two from The Man With Two Brains:
"A pointy birds, a pointy-pointy. Anoint my head, anointy-nointy."
"No sweet thoughts could replace her visage, until your face brought thoughts of kissage."
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Halfway down the trail to Hell,
In a shady meadow green
Are the Souls of all dead troopers camped,
Near a good old-time canteen.
And this eternal resting place
Is known as Fiddlers' Green.
Marching past, straight through to Hell
The Infantry are seen.
Accompanied by the Engineers,
Artillery and Marines,
For none but the shades of Cavalrymen
Dismount at Fiddlers' Green.
Though some go curving down the trail
To seek a warmer scene.
No trooper ever gets to Hell
Ere he's emptied his canteen.
And so rides back to drink again
With friends at Fiddlers' Green.
And so when man and horse go down
Beneath a saber keen,
Or in a roaring charge of fierce melee
You stop a bullet clean,
And the hostiles come to get your scalp,
Just empty your canteen,
And put your pistol to your head,
And go to Fiddlers' Green.
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Double post, stupid slow internet.
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"Double post,
stupid slow internet."
Oh man.
Just one more line and you would have had a haiku!!
Here. Let me try...
"Double post,
stupid slow internet.
fondle my geraniums!"
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Behold the timeless
sweeping vistas of winter.
'Kay, bored. Lets play Wii.
Best.Haiku. Ever.
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The Death of the Ball Turret Gunner
by Randall Jarrell
From my mother's sleep I fell into the State,
And I hunched in its belly till my wet fur froze.
Six miles from earth, loosed from the dream of life,
I woke to black flak and the nightmare fighters.
When I died they washed me out of the turret with a hose
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I remember having to explain that one to my teacher in HS. She'd interpreted it into some ridiculous existentialist crap. Not all poetry is a metaphor for some deep philosophical message. Some is just brutal and to the point.
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The Death of the Ball Turret Gunner
by Randall Jarrell
From my mother's sleep I fell into the State,
And I hunched in its belly till my wet fur froze.
Six miles from earth, loosed from the dream of life,
I woke to black flak and the nightmare fighters.
When I died they washed me out of the turret with a hose
Wow!
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The Limerick is Furtive and Mean - Morris Bishop
The limerick is furtive and mean.
You must keep it in close quarantine,
Or she sneaks to the slums,
And promptly becomes
Disorderly, drunk and obscene.
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We're starlings, the misses, meself and the boys,
We don't go round hopin', we walks.
We don't go in for this singing all day,
And twittering about, we just squawks.
We don't go in for these fashionable clothes,
Like old Missel Thrush, and his spots,
Me breast isn't red, there's no crest on me head,
We've got sort of, hardwearing...dots.
We starlings, the misses, meself and the boys,
We'll eat anything that's about,
Well anything but that old half coconut,
I can't hold it still. I falls out.
What we'd rather do, is wait here for you,
To put out some bread for the tits,
And then when we're certain, you're there by the curtain,
We flocks down and tears it to bits.
But we starlings, the misses, meself and the boys,
We reckon that we're being got at,
You think for two minutes, them finches and linnets,
You never sees THEM being shot at.
So the next time you comes out to sprinkle the crumbs out,
And there's starlings there, making a noise,
Don't you be so quick to heave half a brick,
It's the misses, meself and the boys!
Poem by Pam Ayres
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IF
If you can keep your head when all about you
Are losing theirs and blaming it on you;
If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you,
But make allowance for their doubting too;
If you can wait and not be tired by waiting,
Or, being lied about, don't deal in lies,
Or, being hated, don't give way to hating,
And yet don't look too good, nor talk too wise;
If you can dream - and not make dreams your master;
If you can think - and not make thoughts your aim;
If you can meet with triumph and disaster
And treat those two imposters just the same;
If you can bear to hear the truth you've spoken
Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools,
Or watch the things you gave your life to broken,
And stoop and build 'em up with wornout tools;
If you can make one heap of all your winnings
And risk it on one turn of pitch-and-toss,
And lose, and start again at your beginnings
And never breath a word about your loss;
If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew
To serve your turn long after they are gone,
And so hold on when there is nothing in you
Except the Will which says to them: "Hold on";
If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue,
Or walk with kings - nor lose the common touch;
If neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you;
If all men count with you, but none too much;
If you can fill the unforgiving minute
With sixty seconds' worth of distance run -
Yours is the Earth and everything that's in it,
And - which is more - you'll be a Man my son!
"If" by Rudyard Kipling
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The boy stood on the burning deck
His pocket full of crackers
one fell down between his legs
and blew of both his Kn@c&ers
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This Is Just To Say
I have eaten
the plums
that were in
the icebox
and which
you were probably
saving
for breakfast
Forgive me
they were delicious
so sweet
and so cold
by William Carlos Williams
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The man in the glass
When you get what you want in your struggles for self
And the world makes you king for a day,
Just go to a mirror and look at yourself
And see what that man has to say.
For it isn't your father or mother or wife
Whose judgment upon you must pass,
The fellow whose verdict counts most in your life
Is the one staring back from the glass.
Some people might think you're a straight-shooting chum
And call you a wonderful guy.
But the man in the glass says you're only a bum
If you can't look him straight in the eye.
He's the fellow to please, never mind all the rest
For he's with you clear to the end
And you've passed your most dangerous test
If the guy in the glass is your friend.
You may fool the whole world down the pathway of years
And get pats on the back as you pass
But your final reward will be heartache and tears
If you've cheated the man in the glass.
Author Unkown
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I wear no standard
no name to be slandered
no honours from royal courts
I joust, not with lance
and my steed does not prance
but she roars, and thunders and snorts
I'll charge at my foe
with the ground far below
neither my steed nor my pulse could be higher
As we twist in the air
everything is fair
cross my sight and my steed shall spit fire
I shall salute my enemy
manners cost nothing to me
as earthwards, he plummets in flame
For I am the best
no sport for the rest
to some this is more than a game
Favor me Princess
and I'll fly to impress
your love will lift me up high
No flight is the same
I shall fly in your name
come join me tonight, in my sky
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THE FINAL INSPECTION
The soldier stood and faced his God,
Which must always come to pass;
He hoped his shoes were shining bright,
Just as brightly as his brass.
"Step forward now, soldier,
How shall I deal with you?
Have you turned the other cheek?
To my church have you been true?"
The soldier squared his shoulders and said,
"No, Lord, I guess I ain't;
Because those of us who carry guns,
Can't always be a saint.
I've had to work most Sundays,
And at times my talk was rough;
I've had to break your rules my Lord,
Because the world is awfully tough.
But, I never took a thing
That wasn't mine to keep;
Though I worked a lot of overtime,
When the bills got just too steep.
And I never passed a cry for help,
Though at times I shook with fear;
And sometimes ... God forgive me,
I've wept unmanly tears.
I know I don't deserve a place
Among the people here;
They never wanted me around,
Except to calm their fears.
If you've a place for me here, Lord,
It needn't be so grand;
I never expected or had too much,
But if you don't, I'll understand."
There was a silence all around the throne,
Where the saints often trod;
As the soldier waited quietly,
For the judgment of his God.
"Step forward now, soldier,
You've borne your burdens well;
Come walk peacefully on Heaven's streets,
You've done your time in HELL!"
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Bent double, like old beggars under sacks,
Knock-kneed, coughing like hags, we cursed through sludge,
Till on the haunting flares we turned our backs
And towards our distant rest began to trudge.
Men marched asleep. Many had lost their boots
But limped on, blood-shod. All went lame; all blind;
Drunk with fatigue; deaf even to the hoots
Of tired, outstripped Five-Nines that dropped behind.
Gas! Gas! Quick, boys! – An ecstasy of fumbling,
Fitting the clumsy helmets just in time;
But someone still was yelling out and stumbling,
And flound'ring like a man in fire or lime . . .
Dim, through the misty panes and thick green light,
As under a green sea, I saw him drowning.
In all my dreams, before my helpless sight,
He plunges at me, guttering, choking, drowning.
If in some smothering dreams you too could pace
Behind the wagon that we flung him in,
And watch the white eyes writhing in his face,
His hanging face, like a devil's sick of sin;
If you could hear, at every jolt, the blood
Come gargling from the froth-corrupted lungs,
Obscene as cancer, bitter as the cud
Of vile, incurable sores on innocent tongues,
My friend, you would not tell with such high zest
To children ardent for some desperate glory,
The old Lie; Dulce et Decorum est
Pro patria mori.
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Mine are too long to actually post here, but:
Beowulf
and
The Lays of Beleriand. I really wish Tolkien had finished them.
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There are holes in the sky, where the rain gets in.
But they're ever so small, thats why rain is thin.
- Spike Milligan
:aok
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I almost went for a Spike poem :aok
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:cheers: he did some great ones that the only one i remember word for word right now
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Gaw! There's at least three literate guys in this forum.
How about this from, "The Man from Athabaska."
"....for I'm the regimental sniper,
and they work me like a dago,
and they laugh to see me shoot the bosche
a half a mile away."
You can hear Country Joe sing it...maybe this address works....http://popup.lala.com/popup/576742266788512939
Otherwise you can do a search.
regards, TEShaw
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You just cannot get enough poetry; it's been the best since 700 BC. (that rhymes)
...and, staggering blind Homer strums the lyre and says, "I sing of arms and the man..."
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High Flight
Oh! I have slipped the surly bonds of Earth
And danced the skies on laughter-silvered wings;
Sunward I've climbed, and joined the tumbling mirth
Of sun-split clouds, — and done a hundred things
You have not dreamed of — wheeled and soared and swung
High in the sunlit silence. Hov'ring there,
I've chased the shouting wind along, and flung
My eager craft through footless halls of air. . . .
Up, up the long, delirious burning blue
I've topped the wind-swept heights with easy grace
Where never lark, or ever eagle flew —
And, while with silent, lifting mind I've trod
The high untrespassed sanctity of space,
Put out my hand, and touched the face of God.
— John Gillespie Magee, Jr
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"I almost went for a Spike poem".
Good ol' Spike Milligan. Here's one of his best, short and to the point:
The boy stood on the burning deck.
TWIT!
For me, there's just one poem that says it all about the individualist:
An Irish Airman Foresees His Death.
I know that I shall meet my fate
Somewhere amongst the clouds above.
Those that I fight, I do not hate,
Those that I guard, I do not love.
My country is Kiltartan Cross, my countrymen Kiltartan's poor,
No likely end could bring them loss or leave them happier than before.
Nor law, nor duty bade me fight,
Nor public men, nor cheering crowds,
A lonely impulse of delight drove to this tumult in the clouds.
I gathered all, brought all to mind,
The years to come seemed waste of breath,
A waste of breath the years behind,
In balance with this life, this death.
W.B. Yeats.
:salute
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Gaw! There's at least three literate guys in this forum.
Am I one? :D
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Because I fly...
...I laugh more than other men,
I look up and see more than they,
I know how the clouds feel,
What it's like to have the blue in my lap,
to look down on birds,
to feel freedom in a thing called the stick...
who but I can slice between God's billowed legs,
and feel then laugh and crash with His step?
Who else has seen the unclimbed peaks?
The rainbow's secret?
The real reason birds sing?
Because I Fly, I envy no man on earth.
Not sure who wrote this but describes any true aviation enthusiasts feelings quite admirably.
Kind regards
FBClaw
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Saw this on User Friendly this morning:
(http://www.userfriendly.org/cartoons/archives/09nov/xuf013308.gif)
:salute
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Check this out
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rmD_s_N8tDQ
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Dragon's Hour
The lion banner sways and falls in the horror haunted gloom,
A Scarlett dragon rustles by born on winds of doom.
In heaps the shinning horsemen lie.
where there thrusting lances break.
Deep in the haunted mountains,
the lost black gods awake.
Dead hands grope in the shadows,
The stars turn pale with fright.
For this is the Dragon's hour,
the triumph of fear and night.
Robert E Howard
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History: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Charge_of_the_Light_Brigade
Poem: -
Half a league half a league,
Half a league onward,
All in the valley of Death
Rode the six hundred:
'Forward, the Light Brigade!
Charge for the guns' he said:
Into the valley of Death
Rode the six hundred.
'Forward, the Light Brigade!'
Was there a man dismay'd ?
Not tho' the soldier knew
Some one had blunder'd:
Theirs not to make reply,
Theirs not to reason why,
Theirs but to do & die,
Into the valley of Death
Rode the six hundred.
Cannon to right of them,
Cannon to left of them,
Cannon in front of them
Volley'd & thunder'd;
Storm'd at with shot and shell,
Boldly they rode and well,
Into the jaws of Death,
Into the mouth of Hell
Rode the six hundred.
Flash'd all their sabres bare,
Flash'd as they turn'd in air
Sabring the gunners there,
Charging an army while
All the world wonder'd:
Plunged in the battery-smoke
Right thro' the line they broke;
Cossack & Russian
Reel'd from the sabre-stroke,
Shatter'd & sunder'd.
Then they rode back, but not
Not the six hundred.
Cannon to right of them,
Cannon to left of them,
Cannon behind them
Volley'd and thunder'd;
Storm'd at with shot and shell,
While horse & hero fell,
They that had fought so well
Came thro' the jaws of Death,
Back from the mouth of Hell,
All that was left of them,
Left of six hundred.
When can their glory fade?
O the wild charge they made!
All the world wonder'd.
Honour the charge they made!
Honour the Light Brigade,
Noble six hundred!
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History: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Charge_of_the_Light_Brigade
LoL, I was thinking of posting that one today myself. You know, cause its the CAVALRY!
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Furbie favours Tennyson. From Lincolnshire if I recall right. Boggy county ;)
I go for "High Flight"
Perhaps it's already been posted, anyway a Spitfire Pilot's describtion, and very good for a 19 year old.
High Flight
Oh! I have slipped the surly bonds of Earth
And danced the skies on laughter-silvered wings;
Sunward I’ve climbed, and joined the tumbling mirth
of sun-split clouds, — and done a hundred things
You have not dreamed of—wheeled and soared and swung
High in the sunlit silence. Hov’ring there,
I’ve chased the shouting wind along, and flung
My eager craft through footless halls of air....
Up, up the long, delirious, burning blue
I’ve topped the wind-swept heights with easy grace
Where never lark nor even eagle flew—
And, while with silent lifting mind I’ve trod
The high untrespassed sanctity of space,
Put out my hand, and touched the face of God.
John Gillespie Magee, Died in the OTU#53 due to a midair collision, summer 1941
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Here is a good one, about Coastal Command: -
Ubiquitous Coastal
From A.S.R. to P.R.U.
We did our best : we saw it through.
With bombs and rockets : Leigh-Lights too.
With ASV and weapons new,
We flew in Hudsons, Wimps and Boats.
We flew in sheepskin boots and coats.
We laid our mines where Group did wish,
While Torbeaus dropped their deadly 'fish'.
We struck ships by night and day
In Blenheims, Mossies, Beauforts grey.
We scoured and harassed the shipping lanes
In Libs and Cats and British planes.
We lost ten thousand crewman true,
We did our best : we saw it through.
Squadron Leader Tony Spooner - No. 53 Squadron
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WHOA!!! T'was nice!!!!
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John Gillespie Magee, Jr. wrote 'High Flight' following his first flight in a Spitfire. The first and last lines of his poem are engraved on his tombstone. :salute
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The Last Breath
I was your nurse
You were my patient
Thrown together half way across the earth
I am not sure you can hear me
You haven't got much time
I will do my best to keep you out of pain
I will stay with you holding your hand
Until the last breath
It is my job to help you on your final journey
Your hands seem so strong for one so young
Your hair so soft and easy to touch.
Your breathing is more labored
Close your eyes breathe deep and slow
That's it let it all out the last breath
Your face relaxes, your hands go limp
I was with you at the end of your life
I touched you, I held you, I loved you
I didn't even know your name
All I have is the memory of your last breath
Kerry "Doc" Pardue
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Rose are Red
Violets are Blue
In Soviet Russia,
Poem write you!
-
There once was an engine driver named Hunt
Who was given an engine to shunt
Along came a truck
A man yelled "Duck!"
And he saved the life of the man in front
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Yes indeedy,
You're my sweety.
Why? It's short.
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DUST
Agatha Morely all her life,
grumbled at dust like a good wife.
Dust on the table dust on the chair,
dust on the mantle she couldn't bear.
She forgave faults of man and child,
but a dusty shelf would set her wild.
She abhored sin without protest,
but dust thoughts preyed upon her rest.
Agatha Morely is sleeping sound,
six feet under the moldy ground.
Six feet under the Earth she lies,
with dust at her feet and dust in her eyes.
Originally in a kids scary book I had long ago.
This is not exactly how I remember it but its close.