Silver streams of cascading light,
blanch out across the glimmering sea.
The moon complete is in our sight,
her mountains dark and dancing free.

Towns slip by under the skirts of night,
their streets parade with amber glow.
Over Caspian and Black the seas of our flight,
the energy of life comes as a reflected glow.

A sliver of light betrays the dawn,
as our trusty guide heeds curtain call.
The clouds of dark conceal her form,
a new day arrives God pressed install.

What will it bring?
What new surprise?
An invigorating expectancy can be found,
between the deep blue of the stratosphere,
and the slumbering earth below.

Who will discover her secret?
Who will look below her veil?
To reveal an earth full of beauty,
full of wonder,
full of joy.

To see the glow,
to rise to her wonder.
To fly into another day,
Somewhere over Africa,
the Pink Pigeon beckons another day.

On Top
By J. MacNut

Resonant,
A bass and tenor chorus
In sublime harmony,
The engines pacify me.

In this pristine palace
Over a cotton landscape
With no world to see,
Only sky,
Horizonless heartland
Of near-space,
Keening,
Apart, we sail.

And here,
All the voices of God
Become distinct.

The Way
Therese Conroy

When I say.... "I am A Christian", I'm not trying to be strong.
I'm professing that I'm weak and pray for strength to carry on.

When I say...."I'm a Christian", I'm not bragging of success.
I'm admitting I have failed and cannot ever pay the debt.

When I say.... "I am a Christian", I'm not claiming to be perfect.
My flaws are too visible but God believes I'm worth it.

When I say ...."I am a Christian", I still feel the sting of pain.
I have my share of heartaches which is why I seek His name.

When I say ...."I am a Christian", I do not wish to judge.
I have no authority.  I only know I'm loved.

To All That Fly
By John D. Duvall 

May God grant you blue skies aloft,
With winds of calm by land,
As you play on the outskirts of heaven,
On the fragile wings of man.

Thanks for a Flying Profession
Capt. Pat Borderick
Eastern Airlines

It's a wonder to me, why
I'm allowed to fly
On man-made wings,
and cruise the sky
In a machine that sings
with a whispered roar.

It's a wonder to me, why
I'm allowed to see
An earth laid bare
quite clean beneath
While I haunt the lair of towering clouds,
And sights that delight and astound me.

It's a wonder to me, why
I'm allowed to work
In a place that reminds me
that I'm quite small
When compared to all that exists
Above and below and around me.

Thank you God,
for a job I love
And a task in life
that sets me free
From ground-bound strife
While I travel the airway most suited to me.

Viewed from Another Angle
By David Pedlow

Grey the wind, grey the earth, grey the sky:
Ragged nimbus fringes mist the view;
The engine's beat, turned back by earth and cloud
Pulses round my brain; flying in a world of grey.

Patches of sepia light brown the ripening crop
And then extinguish. The sun's full circle,
Paler than last evening's moon,
Washes the level barley fields, then disappears.

The grey cathedral roof writhes, warps, tears,
And for an instant perforates; creating space
In which I spiral tightly upwards,
Brushing against the breathing droplet walls of cloud.

I climb and climb past living cliffs, now black
Now grey, now white; bursting at last
Into an arctic world, whose powerful sun
Throws haloed shadows on the towering pack

Of icy crystals, that filter colour out from light
Still struggling down to earth.
Blue the sky, blinding the sun, brilliant the cloud,
That to those, earthbound, weeps down in shades of grey.

Pilot's Poem
Unknown Author / Unknown title

Someday we will know, where the pilots go
When their work on earth is through.
Where the air is clean, and the engines gleam,
And the skies are always blue.

They have flown alone, with the engine's moan,
As they sweat the great beyond,
And they take delight, at the awesome sight
of the world spread far and yon.

Yet not alone, for above the moan, 
when the earth is out of sight,
As they make their stand, He takes their hand,
and guides them through the night.

How near to God are these men of sod,
Who step near death's last door?
Oh, these men are real, not made of steel,
But He knows who goes before.

And how they live, and love and are beloved,
But their love is most for air.
And with death about, they will still fly out,
And leave their troubles there.

He knows these things, of men with wings,
And He knows they are surely true.
And He will give a hand, to such a man
'Cause He's a pilot too.

First Things First
By: Gill Robb Wilson (1938)

The boundary lamps were yellow blurs
Against the winter night
And I had checked the last ship in
And snapped the office light,
And paused a while to let the ghosts
Of bygone days and men
Roam down the skies of auld lang syne
As one will now and then ...
When fancy set me company,
A red cheeked lad to stand
With questions gleaming in his eyes,
A model in his hand.

He may have been your boy or mine,
I could not clearly see,
But there was no mistaking how
His eyes were questing me
For answers which all sons must have
Who build their toys in play
But pow'r them with valiant dreams
And fly them far away;
So down I sat with him beside
There in the dim lit shed
And with the ghost of better men
To check on me, I said:

"I cannot tell you, sonny boy,
The future of this art,
But one thing I can show you, lad,
An old time pilot's heart;
And you may judge what flight may give
Or hold in store for you
By knowing how true pilots feel
About the work they do;
And only he who dedicates
His life to some ideal
Becomes as one with what he dreams
His future will reveal.

Not one of us whose wings are dust
Would call his bargain in,
Not one of us would welsh his part
To save his bloomin' skin,
Not one would wish to walk again
Unless allowed to throw
His heart into the thing he loved
And go as he would go:
Not one would change for gold or pow'r
Nor fun nor love nor fame
The part he played and price he paid
In making good the game.

And of the living ... none, not one
Regrets the scars he bears,
The sheer uncertainty of plans,
The poverty he shares,
Remitted price for one mistake
That checks a bright career,
The shattered hopes, the scant rewards,
The future never clear:
And of the living ... none, not one
Who truly loves the sky
Would trade a hundred earth bound hours
For one that he could fly.

If that sleek model in your hand
Which you have brought to me
Most represents the thing you love,
The thing you want to be,
Then you will fill your curly head
With knowledge, fact and lore,
For there is no short cut which leads
To aviation's door;
And only those whose zeal is proved
By patient toil and will
Shall ever have a part to play
Or have a place to fill."

And suddenly the lad was gone
On wings I could not hear,
But from afar off came his voice
In studied tones and clear,
A prophet's message simply told
For this is what he said
And why his hand will someday lead
Formations overhead,
"Who wants to fly has got to know:
Now two times two is four:
I got to learn the first things first!"
... I closed the hangar door.

The First Time
by Rick Barlow

"I have a few questions...", I heard him say,
As my mind began to drift away,
To manuals, flow charts, systems and numbers,
Limitations, procedures, V-speeds, and NUMBERS!

So it began in that ice cold room,
Cold as the grave, heavy with doom.
I watched the clock as my mouth rattled on,
I'm frozen in  night, longing for dawn.

Soon I was walking on to "the box!",
Time moved so slowly....what's wrong with these clocks?
V1, Vr, "Fire in number two!"
Murphy you bastard! Now what do I do ?!?

Then....it was over, and I in a haze,
Emerged to the sunlight and one-eighty more days.
Till the next time, same place, different day,
"I have a few questions..." I'll hear him say.