new plane poems

Sunday Flying

It's so much fun flying on a Sunday.

You think you own the sky.

But don't; delusion illusion.

Half of it belongs to amateurs.

With a hundred hours and second hand plane.

Bought time share style.

Using their daylight rating to show off to their friends.

Other wannabes hang out in the airfield bar.

Spinning yarns and alienating everyone.

The other half belongs to the pros.

Warbird owners with a life.

Flying restored vintage aircraft worth a hospital wing.

Speed demons race their experimental racers.

Tight pylon turns aplenty.

What of Red Bull?

Pros giving a show you'll never forget.

Myself, I'm an enthusiast.

Till I learn to fly like a pro.

Watch the sky.

Mine is the green little biplane.

Named after my little sister.

Hayate

Standing on top of the kaarst mountain.

Eighteen hour hike up here.

Busting our balls to go nowhere.

Away from the city and all that life.

There's a reason we're here.

It dates from before.

I found the mint condition 'Zero' in a tree!

Pilot still in the cockpit.

A 45 calibre slug in his head.

A parachutist did it.

Mr Nippon had just killed his B-24.

The Yank airmen hit the silk.

Then popped off a few shots at the Nip.

Got a kill!

He kept the crash location secret.

Till he told me on his death bed.

It wasn't his inheritance.

Something way more meaningful.

The crash location of his 'Zero'.

Actually a 'Hayate'.

Imperial Japan's best fighter.

One now preserved here, alone.

On top of the limestone plateau.

Why wasn't it found before?

It's easily visible from the air.

We take only photos.

It would be sacrilege to desecrate the plane.

It remains where it fell.

In the big tree.

The paint has faded and guns still armed.

We don't report it.

This is a pilot's last resting place.

I think he'd like to remain here.

The views are to die for.

My friends and I are silent.

In respect, awe and joy.

Nothing compares to this.

I thank my old friend.

And scattered his ashes here.

RIP father.