Tag: Naval aviator

Categories
Poetry

Wars and Rumours of Wars

By Ron Pickett

We thought it might be over;
Wars and rumours of wars.
Then Russia invaded.
It was a short incursion,
They said.
Ukraine was their territory 
Anyway, anyway!
They said,
It was too costly to try we thought,
Wars and rumours of wars.
Sanctions! we said.
They couldn’t take the sanctions.
The Russians couldn’t.
But they fought back
The Ukrainians fought back
They weren’t supposed to.
They were supposed to be easy pickins’;
A walk in the park,
A few weeks, an exercise
A year has passed.
60000 Russians are dead. Or 200000
15 thousand Ukrainians or 100000
Ukraine is blackened rubble.
The snow is red with blood.
All is dark
There is no winner.
We were wrong,
We were so wrong!
Wars and rumours of wars 
They are still there.
Peace is not a part of our nature!
China lusts for Taiwan.
Shalom.

Ron Pickett is a retired naval aviator with over 250 combat missions and 500 carrier landings. His 90-plus articles have appeared in numerous publications. He enjoys writing fiction and has published five books: Perfect Crimes – I Got Away with It, Discovering Roots, Getting Published, EMPATHS, and Sixty Odd Short Stories.

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PLEASE NOTE: ARTICLES CAN ONLY BE REPRODUCED IN OTHER SITES WITH DUE ACKNOWLEDGEMENT TO BORDERLESS JOURNAL

Click here to access the Borderless anthology, Monalisa No Longer Smiles

Categories
Poetry

Two Poems by Ron Pickett

Courtesy: Creative Commons
FORM VS FUNCTION

Stiletto heels in graveyard sod.
Shorts in a ski lift line.
Sneakers with a tuxedo
Style over substance
An apron over jeans.
Slippers – ever.
Form follows function,
Except when it doesn’t!
The rules we accept
Vs the rules we ignore,
My faded, frayed pale blue floppy hat.
The ultimate victory of Function over Form,
Of Substance over Style, 
Of Utility over Beauty
I love my floppy hat.

FREE LUNCH At CHIPOTLE!

How did we get here?
It’s noon, lunch time as I walk across the parking lot.
Four teenage girls, casually dressed, emerge from Chipotle.
Orders from the Web are on a table near the front door.
Orders paid for, filled and waiting for their owner.
One girl carries a large Chipotle bag.
They walk to a Lexus.
I hear a voice. “Stop I want to look at that bag,”
I see a server from the restaurant following the girls.
They hurriedly get into the car.
The voice repeats, “I want to look at that bag!”
She takes a picture of the license plate.
The girl in the back seat opens her door.
The server takes the bag, looks at the tag.
The car leaves -- quickly. 
It’s an old Lexus.
I hear one of the onlookers ask the server, “How did you know what they were doing?”
“It’s their behaviour!”
I shout to the server, “Great job, Thank you!”
I wonder, “How did we get here?”

Ron Pickett is a retired naval aviator with over 250 combat missions and 500 carrier landings. His 90-plus articles have appeared in numerous publications. He enjoys writing fiction and has published five books: Perfect Crimes – I Got Away with It, Discovering Roots, Getting Published, EMPATHS, and Sixty Odd Short Stories.

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PLEASE NOTE: ARTICLES CAN ONLY BE REPRODUCED IN OTHER SITES WITH DUE ACKNOWLEDGEMENT TO BORDERLESS JOURNAL

Click here to access the Borderless anthology, Monalisa No Longer Smiles

Categories
Poetry

Colours by Ron Picket

Courtesy: Creative Commons
I LOVE COLOUR

The dawn sun reflects from windows across the valley.
It makes me warm with excitement.
I love colour; I always have.
I love the yellow-green of newly erupted leaves in the sun.
I love the red straws of the bottle brush
I love neutral greys, taupes, and tans -- 
Not so much for themselves,
But for the setting they give to oranges and deep chocolate browns. 
I love the blue-grey of shadows -- for their colour,
And for the shape they give.
I love the ruby red of a laser; the brilliant green of an LED – 
They’re new colours and most of humanity will not recognise them.
I love fluorescent lights for the different way they offer to see things.
I marvel at a field of ranunculus, or lavenders, or tulips.
I love a field of rows of corns or beans or lettuces.
I am delighted by the blues of roofs in Santorini and doors in Egypt.
Of the cerulean blue of the sky.
And the unworldly iridescence of a moth’s wing.
Colour, don’t know what I’d do without it!

Ron Pickett is a retired naval aviator with over 250 combat missions and 500 carrier landings. His 90-plus articles have appeared in numerous publications. He enjoys writing fiction and has published five books: Perfect Crimes – I Got Away with It, Discovering Roots, Getting Published, EMPATHS, and Sixty Odd Short Stories.

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PLEASE NOTE: ARTICLES CAN ONLY BE REPRODUCED IN OTHER SITES WITH DUE ACKNOWLEDGEMENT TO BORDERLESS JOURNAL

Click here to access the Borderless anthology, Monalisa No Longer Smiles

Categories
Poetry

The Crack in the Pavement

By Ron Pickett

Courtesy: Creative Commons
Thump, whirr, snap.
Wow, that was quite a ride!
I guess I’ll stay here for a while.
It’s not like I have a choice.
I fell, don’t know from where exactly. 
Then I rolled along the ground until
I dropped into this crack in the pavement.
You don’t know me – people call me a weed seed. And no, I’m not that kind of weed.
I don’t much like it – weed seed sounds bland, boring, dull.
I’m NOT! I’m not boring. Just wait! Plant seed maybe?
I’ll stay here in this crack for a while, don’t have a choice.
I’m waiting for rain; that’s all it takes.
Then you’ll see. That’s all that it takes.
Rocks, Concrete, hard dirt, trees, grass, anything!
Just wait ‘til it rains, then I’m outta here!
Not really outta here, but zoom, I’m alive and growing like a, well, a weed. 
What kind of plant will I be? Couldn’t see what I dropped from.
Don’t know, could be a ground hugger – ground cover – that would be okay.
Could be milkweed; that white goo might be fun.
Could be a dandelion: Dandy? Lion that’s me!
Could be mustard; you get a lot of kids, seeds that is, to spread around.
I like those weeds, make that plants with sharp spikes, and purple flowers.
I could be a thistle, all those flying seeds, and spikes, perfect. 
Or a nettle, a stinging nettle, that would show them!
Here comes one of those pesky humans. 
Whoops he’s looking right at me! Whoo-Hoo, he’s gone; guess I’m too small to be seen.
Thing about being a weed seed is that if it doesn’t rain, no big deal.
I can wait for months, years even, then face it, I’m sure not alone. 
I know a guy, says he’s a Darwinian gardener; lets the fittest survive.
Beautiful yard. He’s a great friend to us weeds. 
Keep an eye out for me after it rains, after I sprout; you’ll be surprised!
Beautiful leaves, gorgeous flowers, unsurpassed tenacity, and a lust for life.
But you have to look carefully, and it’s okay to pull us – we’ve got millions of relatives!

Ron Pickett is a retired naval aviator with over 250 combat missions and 500 carrier landings. His 90-plus articles have appeared in numerous publications. He enjoys writing fiction and has published five books: Perfect Crimes – I Got Away with It, Discovering Roots, Getting Published, EMPATHS, and Sixty Odd Short Stories.

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PLEASE NOTE: ARTICLES CAN ONLY BE REPRODUCED IN OTHER SITES WITH DUE ACKNOWLEDGEMENT TO BORDERLESS JOURNAL

Categories
Poetry

Poetry by Ron Pickett

Courtesy: Creative Commons
FALLS
Bodies strewn about the gym floor – 14, 15, 16! Nancy carries on.
I’ve seen bodies falling lately.
Not from great heights, simply disappearing from my field of view.
Missing the chair seat, losing the tenuous balance required to stand up
A little hazy, dizzy, vertigo.
Then the gathering, the collection of those nearest to the fallen person.
To help, to see, to be a part of the action – the crowd.
“911, call 911!”
“Call the front desk, call the Care Center.”
“Did he hit his head?”
“Wow that was loud.”
“Is he hurt?”
“Can he stand up?”
“Leave him alone.”
“The EMT will be here soon.”
“Why did it take so long to give the information to 911?”
 
I’ve seen bodies falling lately.
Old bodies, not limber pliable resilient bodies.
Tipping over backward is the worst – the back of the head impacts the floor.
Concrete is worse, wood not so bad, carpet is best.
Still, it is an aged, shrunken brain in a rigid skull.
A hip is bruised, damaged, cracked.
Recovery time is measured in months - if ever.
The hospital, rehab, have their own horrors.
“I don’t want to go to the hospital.
They will want to keep me overnight!
I’ve got things to do tomorrow!
I’m not going!”
 
I've seen bodies falling lately.
I check my balance, shift from side to side.  Feels OKAY I test the horizon; should I sit down?
I bend my knees, I flex, I’m feeling stable, strong, good.
What can I do for him?
What can I do for myself? Let’s get physical, get personal.
Stay strong, stretch, add muscle, do squats, get up from the chair, sit down in the chair, Repeat! Repeat.
Remember the sound of a body impacting the floor -- concrete, wood, carpet.
Stretch, balance, squat, squat, squat.

Ron Pickett is a retired naval aviator with over 250 combat missions and 500 carrier landings. His 90-plus articles have appeared in numerous publications. He enjoys writing fiction and has published five books: Perfect Crimes – I Got Away with It, Discovering Roots, Getting Published, EMPATHS, and Sixty Odd Short Stories.

.

PLEASE NOTE: ARTICLES CAN ONLY BE REPRODUCED IN OTHER SITES WITH DUE ACKNOWLEDGEMENT TO BORDERLESS JOURNAL