Quotes about radar, page 11
Their Little Existence
In ‘Mars Mystery' Graham Hancock represents
the sentiments of alternative scientists, though
he seems far from the lunatic fringe - he asks
the reader to imagine a dead universe with
only the earth as the last outpost of life since
both Mars and Venus have been killed, and
I sighed; happy to be free from complying with
such requests, this is where spiritualists are
worth their weight in gold
Whereas materialists, bless their lonely souls,
think of this as a dumb lifeless universe in which
only they, brilliant materialist thinkers, are alive
and intelligent - and the intricate, complicated
universe in which electricity, magnetism & radar
are used by animals - how exceedingly dumb,
n'est-ce pas - cannot keep anything safe and
so they already lament their own likely demise,
so dead universe will be dead forever
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poem by Margaret Alice Second
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Chokecherries
Thirty feet from my windows,
an old kennel-wire fence
thickly grown over with honeysuckle,
poison ivy, and wild roses
just beginning to open
into the loose sort of droopy garlands
an aesthetic young farmer
might drape around Elsie
or Dobbin.
....................Where the wire ends
and the knotted up, spiraling vines
paw toward more light, six slim
grey trunks of chokecherry
feather into leaves and
clusters of blossoming fronds
that lift and fall with the breeze
like diminutive mare's tails
--each separate flower a rose,
each separate flower
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poem by Peter Klappert
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Blitzkreig
Children sleeping in a shed deep under the garden clay,
Covered overhead with massive pine tree spars, as bombs rained
Ruthless down on London, heard thousands of our guns fall silent,
Unexplained! “Why? ” I whispered scared, my sister had no answer
Unknowing how that great warrior Churchill had agreed
Night fighters be deployed to stop the cruel armada, high
Above the balloons. A different duel now, with men the same breed
As themselves. But across the broad swathe of London sky,
Sombre and formidable, first in dozens then in hundreds,
Heinkels marched in dark battalions, flaunting the balkenkreuz,
Lit by London’s ring of fire, loosing an avalanche of cannon shell;
Drumfest of TNT’s murderous death-knell scything the streets.
Three nights we listened fearful, my sister and I, to the roar
And tremble, crash and smash, break and shake of Nazi’s proud
Might. Hearing only the distant rumble of battle as raw,
Naked searchlights swept in vain the pink underbelly of cloud,
Far above us in the moonless night. But we knew the blind
Whirlwind flail of machine guns was shredding our Blenheims.
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poem by Peter J White
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Ceyx And Alcione lll
So she worried-really worried-when Ceyx announced at breakfast one morning his intention of going on a sea voyage. It made no difference that he was going to Delphi on business. She worried because she loved him dearly, and, better than him, knew the power of the winds, before which taverns collapsed and chairs, cats, small children flew through the air like birds.
'No! '
'Honey, I must! I will! Delphi is definitely on my agenda. Frankly, it could make a big difference in our life style'.
'Absolutely not. I have a bad feeling about this one, trust me'.
'I'm going'.
'Then I'm going, too.'
'Forget it.'
Yes, no, etcetera...back and forth-it would make your head spin.
Finally she said 'ok.go'
The day of departure dawned. The ship was ready. Ceyx boarded and turned to bid his wife goodbye. She could barely look at him. Did she know what was to come? Maybe yes, maybe no.
'Don't worry, honey, it's only for a while. I'll come back to you- promise.
Maybe yes, maybe no. And the ship disappeared over the horizon, its sails filled with gentle winds. But this was before the days of radar,
weather forecasts and hurricane warnings, so the sailors could scarcely anticipate foul weather such as befell them next morning. Sure enough, a storm blew up, worse than any Alcione could imagine, spinning and capsizing the ship in a furor of ill-winds. In a short time the ship was in pieces and its hands walking the undersea currents. Ceyx himself was pulled under. His last word, as the wave crashed over his head was 'Alcione'. His fate was the dread of all mortals-to remain unburied in the sight of the gods, without even so much as an oar planted in the sand to mark the spot where the ship's carcass was cast ashore.
poem by Morgan Michaels
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You Are Such An Actor
You have been a highly acclaimed person,
For a number of years.
And yet you do not appear to be on anyone's radar.
Very few people know who you are.
Why are you flying so low?
Is that intentional?
'What are you saying?
What point are you making? '
If more people knew who you were,
You would be respected more.
'And that is a very sad commentary to make,
About today's people.
Isn't it?
To think one has to first impress others,
With a doing that gets attention mentioned...
To then be treated as a human being?
Oh, I just wake up everyday praying,
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poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Cynical Point of View
Perceptions you have are yours.
That is not in question.
All I'm saying is that fortuitous opportunities...
Seem not to be dancing, of late, on their agendas.
Selling propaganda seems no longer an issue for them.
I know how it is to be blinded by dazzle.
And making payments to fulfill tax collectors' dreams.
I am not completely a nonconformist!
I have suffered dearly to keep up images myself.
With not a dime in my pocket!
Right now...
I could use a flashlight,
To see the depths of my low credit rating!
Don't laugh!
Laugh when we discuss my current finances!
If Richard Pryor was alive...
He'd be crying right now!
My checking account has more dust in it,
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poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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It Comes - Part 2
(It is suggested that the reader reads Part 1 first)
August 1979
Seven fishing boats set sail
into the evening on the South China Sea.
Before the midnight chimed
all seven boats vanished without trace,
no wreckage, debris or survivors were ever found,
it was if the fishing boats had sailed
into oblivion on a calm moonlit sea.
Countries around the world wondered
when the next tragedy would strike
as their navies and fishing fleets sailed the seas.
The seas at night were becoming
more dangerous than normal
especially south of the equator.
Top scientists and marine biologist
gathered for an urgent meeting in Mexico
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poem by David Harris
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Battle Of Britain: Attacking Enemy Aircraft
Life is diced in fatal split seconds agonized flying.
Hurricane's weakness is comparative acceleration
offset by frame design extreme strength ruggedness.
Spitfire Me109 are dueling paired equals between
12,000 and 17,000 feet but above cut 20,000 feet;
Messerschmitt preys supreme out dived opponents;
but required much more skilled physical effort to fly.
Weak narrow undercarriage caused many fatal accidents
in take off especially landings in cramped cockpit but;
over Battle of Britain skies skill fate decides who dies?
Nazi Germany flies fighter aircraft veteran blood bathed legions.
Me109B-C models achieved blooded success in Civil War Spain.
Legion Condor's fighter unit spat swift death in floods of flames.
Lufwaffe's most successful wartime fighter pilots many received
operational blooding in Spain on developing early Me109 models.
August 1940 twenty-three Gruppen are in action on Channel front;
equipped mainly with new improved Me109E-3 which mounted;
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poem by Terence George Craddock
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Unburdened.
It's not the sort of house
You'd want to go to again,
Mildred said, the smell hits
You first, the kind of smell
That climbed in your nose
And didn't leave for days.
She sipped her wine and
Sat down on the couch,
Carefully holding the glass
With her other ringed hand.
There was an unhappy
Feel About the place as
You entered in, a feel
Of neglect. She looked
At the black and white
Mat under the coffee
Table, at the books lying
There: Fashion books, art,
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poem by Terry Collett
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The Mind's Strange Beauty, with Its Smile
It’s said, that when our mind
awakes, out of that sweetest place
in which it sleeps, rests, is refreshed;
in the morning; or in those
rare moments when we let it take its rest;
this wondrous instrument, invisible,
yet holding all we think is ours…
in the twinkling before it spreads our world
before us, like some awed geographer
unrolling with two hands a map from polished rods,
inviting exploration, conquest, or desire…
in that great moment, as it emerges from that place
which is to us no place… that holy place,
of universal mind before it’s individual –
that bran tub where we thrust our eager arm –
splits its precious unity, which some mighty force
beyond place and time itself, has decreed that mind
may find itself, or lose itself, in multiplicity –
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poem by Michael Shepherd
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