A bunch of poems about airplanes. 
some of them formatted correctly ish
and they do kinda connect again ish
 
 
Ju-87
 
The stick is heavy in my hand 
The throttle pressed hard against the stops 
Pedals bucking under my feet
Sweat running into my eyes and across my palms
I blink and swipe at it clearing my vision as we break from the clouds
Sun at our backs, high and fast we rocket earthward 
Lungs and craft screaming like the trumpets of Jericho
A high keening wail that men have learned to fear
My target comes into view hurtling towards me as I plummet
My vision growing black around the edges, I fight for control
Release, the shudder of extra weight dropped
And I am free, climbing skyward again
Into the safety of the heights I claim as my eerie
The clamour of battle falling away behind me
Safe again I breathe and laugh
Once more I have survived
As I run for home more and more of my comrades join me
Each of us jubilant in our survival
And saddened by the loss of those we do not see
 
 
Spitfire
 
We watch the Huns drop from the clouds
High, with the sun at their backs they are black specks against the sky, barely visible
Junkers on an attack run they start screaming as they fall
So intent on their targets, the single focus of a diving hawk
They don’t see us
We climb above them waiting for them to rise
They don’t see us
The climb the joy and relief at a successful run making them sloppy
The don’t see us
We fall in behind them lining up our shots
They have seen us
They break scattering to the winds as they attempt to run
But we are quicker to climb and to fight
They are lumbering beasts
Swift to fall 
 
 
B-17
 
The thrumming pulse of the engines strong beneath my feet
The rush of air running past us, splitting and cackling in the wings
The hiss and stutter of the radio 
The low murmur of voices, and soft commands
The creak of leather and the wheeze of oxygen masks
The clang of feet on metal 35,000 feet in the air
The rack and slide of machines guns readying
The muted call and response of crew arming payloads
 
The calm before the storm
 
The screamed calls for ammo and target positions
The chatter and bark of machineguns firing
The clang of feet on metal 35,000 feet in the air 
The wet rip of fabric and flesh
The shouts of orders and of pain
The frantic overlapping of voices on the radio
The hiss of air running in the holes and through the seams
The stuttering and jumping of the engines failing beneath my feet
 
 
 
Zero
(i really should have re written this into a haiku)
The wind blows through the trees towards the west 
The sun a great ball of fire rising in the east
The controls firm and responsive in my grasp
I pull up into the blue of a sky that knows no limit
My brothers surround me
Side by side and heart to heart we soar
As we go a song rises across the radio
A joyful song of planting and new crops that will come
We fly out towards the east
A divine wind guiding us
 
 
The Bomb
The ominous drone grew steadily louder, resolving into a flight of bombers.
And then suddenly a cacophony.
The rapid bark of anti-aircraft guns, 
the wailing of sirens, 
the crack of rifles as soldiers fire uselessly into the air.
And then silence, the breath of calm before the storm.
And in that silence, the whistle of a dropping object, 
just one
and this simple fact alone is enough to extend the pause 
until time slows and a soft clang is heard.
In what seems a million years, a wind sweeps up, pushing out, through, over
and following close upon its heels, the fire.
As I stare, time and sound catch up
and in an instant, I am gone, reduced to dust and ash.
This new sun on earth blossoming and dying in a second, 
leaving only the black shroud of death which reaches up into the sky, 
proclaiming victory.
While below dust settles, twisted iron creaks,
and through the ashes, death does creep,
studying his handiwork.
A guttering flame licks up his robe
and he is gone.
Leaving everything and nothing. 
And high above the, drone recedes.