aboard the aircraft metaphorical
bearing those employed
by companies large and small

a moment arrives when the cryptic
overhead lights instruct
that the time to leave has come

passengers are led to the open door
at the rear of the fuselage
where they will leap into the mist

the happy few will be strapped
into a designer backpack
filled with a carefully packaged parachute
of luminous gold

others are handed
a sturdy bundle which holds a
lifesaving paraglider of shining silver

a group somewhat more numerous
gratefully accept their sustaining dome
of spun silk and exit with confidence

the greatest number will be in a line
leading past a toilet paper dispenser
each individual to be ejected will be allotted
a single sheet

the one ply tissue will be printed as follows
“Grasp tissue firmly on opposite sides
hold tissue above head parallel with ground”

a hearty cry of “Good luck!” follows them
as they are assisted through the door
by a well placed boot

Ian rules the skies, or so he thinks.
He sweeps, swoops and flies.
Ian flies high, but often sinks.
This chimp thinks he is a master of the skies.

Wind strong, gusty and more east.
#Ianthechimp eyes up his strong launch stance.
Paragliding wing is placed in full view of the beast.
The beast, the east, sees his chance.

With gusto, malice and a cheeky blast.
The east wind has no regret.
Ian, launch, lifted as he is turned fast.
Words wafted up high ... OH ****.

A wild swing as the chimp holds rake.
The beastly east tries some more.
One eye closed, Ian applies brake.
East is beaten, Ian is secure.

Yet the east, the beast, lies at height wait.
Ian climbs out of Cayton Bay.
The wind is hiding high with lifty bait.
Ian takes the leaving line, refusing to stay.

The beast announces himself with malice.
Ian regrets his cross country aim.
Losing speed and height palace.
Reach for Filey Brigg, or run without shame.

Turn, aim home and fly fast.
The beast has one more trick.
Return to the bay with turn last.
He hits the paraglider like a brick.

Wobble, rotor, accelerated flight.
A return to the safety of the bay.
To land on top would cause fright.
****** that Ian, beach landing with obey.

What have we learnt about the beastly east.
With its mean, malice and playful unfun.
Don't challenge, else decease.
Play in the air, climb and top land shun.

The Paragliders Wish

High in the sky a paraglider does soar, fast and swift asking no more.

It beckons wing lift, as the thermals drift.
With majestic breath, and avoiding Death.

Flying is so free, he doesn't agree.
For he who is Death, beckons all those fools drawing last breath.

I wish those failing, choosing to ballot.
Land safely without break, avoiding sadness and forsaken pilot.

Free flight is freedom in its purest form,
To cloud play with must to avoid storm.
To roll, glide, dive, spiral and avoid spin,
To feel the scream that swells within.

Climb thermals, leave the earth, troubles and fly,
Know thermic air warmth of a clear spring sky.
Back to ground at the end of a day,
Tensions, stress and worries which have melted away.

Should my terminal come while I am in flight,
Sky clear, rain or darkest blight;
Your unwanted pity, I shrug off the pain.
My knowledge is secure that I'd do it again.

For each paraglider pilot was created to fly,
Gravity, earth and water defy.
And within me I know, I was born to soar,
With life, to live, to fly and restore.