A poem I wrote on my way back from Costa Rica. |
"Flight Twenty-One Thirteen" The beast wakes beside me, harnessed to the wing like a creature of labor. Sputtering in disgust, the engine drones wearily as it pushes along, circling the tarmac like a poised hawk. The engine whines in pain, a captured stallion, as it lumbers down the runway, a whine quickly crescendos into a wail of agony as the pilot whips it from the safety of the cockpit, taming it anew every day. As my prison lurches skyward, I feel a certain kinship toward the creature to my side, trapped in this steel shell like tinned tuna, hapless of escape, wedged between a perpetual grandmother and an Old Spice extremist (A nasal terrorist in my mind) Desperate for reprieve, I stare down the icon before me, as oppressive as any military coup. The seatbelt blinks out, and I make my escape, forging pass the fellow beside me (his odor no less tangible), and into the aisle. Peanuts (of all things) block my path as the flight attendant struggles with the cart, granting me a horribly fake smile. (Not so pearly whites) I lean heftily on a nearby seat, flailing my left arm like a drunk, attempting to keep balance, a man devoid of sea legs in air. The passing cart forces me to dig deeper into a tangle of legs, an awkward moment. Back in my seat I did despair as granny slumped over, asleep on my shoulder, gaging my gaze to the right, where I beheld the sight of two peanut wrappers peeking up from seat hamper. Mr. Spice stole my luncheon. Stuck in this prison, I glanced out the port, and somewhat beheld an epiphany of sorts. Clouds sailed the heavens like long-forgotten angels, watching over the world like mystical guardians, granting reprieve from the well-meaning sun. And the amber sun, brilliant as a fresco, was saying its goodbyes, a circle of honey in heaven. And though this mixture of milk and honey was food for the soul, it never compared to the sight down below. Forested mountains, and mountains of forests painted the ground with life, natural life, empty of the corruption of man. Yet man left its mark, a beauty of its own. Highways ran like veins across the land, clotted with traffic, pumped by the beating of cities galore. Rivers ran twisted like forgotten strands of yarn, flowing, pulsing, the true blood of nature, feeding the foilage, muscles of nature, which seemed to flex in the bright sun. Then came the beaches, born off the shore like protruding nails, yet soft as freshly bleached sheets pulled straight from the dryer. And land the plane left, and huffed over the ocean, a brilliant hue under the endless blue. Sails dotted the sea like particles of dust in a shaft of morning sunlight, that is if dust was born of feathers, and could ripple the sun. And beyond in the distance there lay the endless, shimmering horizon, a razor's edge able to slice the sun and give birth to the dawn. It spoke of promises, of lands unseen, of days yet to come. And in the horizon all days are one; what was, is, and shall be all breathing deeply within the same womb. Although my body was trapped within the bowels of this capsule, my eyes were forever free, slaves to no one; not even to me. Spice gave a start and my mind smacked back into my head. Granny snored louder and grunted into my shoulder making me wish I had been much bolder and throw off the lady and throw out the hatch to swim with the eagles and fly with the whales. Yet here stuck was I, so I took up my headphones and pondered the sky. |