Supersonic bombers of the US Airforce,
shattering the sapphire with banshee booms
and a payload of tragedy
and gore and ashes,
widowhood, orphanhood and dank, dark tombs.
Orbiter transcending Merritt Island spaceport,
clinging to its fuel tank as an infant sucks,
with the burden of destiny
and apes or angels,
opal hopes and diamond dreams and prayers and luck.
Comments
Silver Spun Sand | November 14, 2010 - 20:10
You have the rhythm off to a 'T' here, well wisher. 'Dirty British coaster with its salt-caked smokestack...' and all that;-)
How I loved and still love that poem, and yours too. The last line, especially, is a gem.
Tina
well-wisher | November 15, 2010 - 21:21
Thanks, Tina. It's one of my favorite poems too. The line "Quinquireme of Nineveh from distant Ophir" always set my imagination alight.