Poetry, Part Fifty-seven

The Thunderbirds are, along with the Blue Angels, the best known precision flying teams in the world. There have been, with both teams, unfortunate accidents resulting in death, often multiple deaths because of the nature of their close flying. Each member of each team must follow, and rely heavily upon, the lead pilot, even if that pilot has made a mistake.

I wrote the following two, related poems when each team experienced accidents in the 1980's. I was also influenced by a few other factors. Now that I was teaching history and humanities, as well as English and literature, part time at Fort Carson and Peterson Air Force Base for Pikes Peak Community College, I showed Thorton Wilder's OUR TOWN, the PBS production starring Ned Beatty and Hal Holbrook, to some of my classes. Throughout the 1970's, I'd read several books about the concept of "Life After Life", where those who had died but returned had learned from those on the other side that acquiring knowledge was our life's mission. I also learned that, to the ancient Greeks, sin was a lack of knowledge. So Oedipus was condemned for not knowing that he had killed his father and married his mother. All of these concepts and notions created a heady brew.

Thunderbirds

Ability also betrays.

And I am become perspective
as one once tethered,
like an Academy glider
too early released.

Performance is one's practice exposed,
as a crash is competition's moment
now ceased.

I fault the faith
we traditionally misplace in leaders.
Too committed to the lift
these equals provide,
we followers ride another's reference
into the ground.

Since we often exempt them from mistakes,
gravity awakens us to errors too late.

After roles push us
beyond technology and training,
who commands?
We yield responsibility,
so who controls?

Those who set the goals, fearing to follow,
command.
We who fear our own control should reconsider.


Blue Angel

Somewhere one significant hue
nosing down
is outreached.

I would have had him streaking upward,
delivered before impact;
but who I am to preach salvation?

Years ago I trimmed what wings I had,
tapering my turn to land,
feeling for flight unclean.

Unlike Em'ly once,
I keep unravelling back from the grave,
paused by my loving never saved.

Toward what purpose is the spiral,
do you know?
Escape is merely traveling postponed.

Is it learning that keeps us living,
do you think?
Linking worlds wound up and tinkered with?

Death is a tentative survival,
tailoring knowledge,
salvaging some.

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