poem: built on bones [nanoljers]
This was written from a picture prompt posted at nanoljers here. It reminded me a lot of my grandpa and this little poem bit was the ensuing result.
built on bones
it's quiet now
quiet up there
above the skyline, ground below
ants crawling slow
the order comes in
bombs strapped to the bird
she flies with grace
smooth metal, a companion
up in the high place
the dirt doesn't touch me
I'm a zephyr on the wind
the clouds are an accomplice
to a heart filled with cowardice
it wears on your bones
living at the speed of flight
ending lives with a click
I think I'm gonna be sick
the pin pierces the felt
good job, son, we're proud
I'm home now, but not
So I'll be the kettle, you be the pot
and we'll all pretend
only half of everything happened
I haven't written a poem for a while, and I think this was a good exercise. I got to remember some stories my grandpa told me of when he was a parachuter, even though the man in the picture was probably a pilot because of the badge on his chest. I didn't read the extra info provided, but apparently he was a pilot, and a British one at that.
I wanted the poem to talk about the pilot's feelings when he was flying. And even though Spitfires didn't carry bombs, they were equipped with gun artillery. So call it...artistic license.
Anyway, let me know how you liked it/your thoughts on it. Any comments are appreciated.
built on bones
it's quiet now
quiet up there
above the skyline, ground below
ants crawling slow
the order comes in
bombs strapped to the bird
she flies with grace
smooth metal, a companion
up in the high place
the dirt doesn't touch me
I'm a zephyr on the wind
the clouds are an accomplice
to a heart filled with cowardice
it wears on your bones
living at the speed of flight
ending lives with a click
I think I'm gonna be sick
the pin pierces the felt
good job, son, we're proud
I'm home now, but not
So I'll be the kettle, you be the pot
and we'll all pretend
only half of everything happened
I haven't written a poem for a while, and I think this was a good exercise. I got to remember some stories my grandpa told me of when he was a parachuter, even though the man in the picture was probably a pilot because of the badge on his chest. I didn't read the extra info provided, but apparently he was a pilot, and a British one at that.
I wanted the poem to talk about the pilot's feelings when he was flying. And even though Spitfires didn't carry bombs, they were equipped with gun artillery. So call it...artistic license.
Anyway, let me know how you liked it/your thoughts on it. Any comments are appreciated.