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Location:Texas, USA Naturalized US Citizen of Irish extract -   Fixed Wing and Helo trucker.Interests: "The Absurdity of Man". I am a proud supporter of Blarney, Nonsense, and Hooey. I enjoy being a chopper jockey, and trying to figure the world, people and belief systems out. I'm just not very good at it, so it keeps me real busy. I scribble, blog, run this website, mess with rental houses, ride motorbikes, and read as much as I can. I went solo 44 years ago, and I like to say I'm gonna get me a real job one day. When I grow up. ("but not just yet, Lord, not just yet") For my aviation scribbles see www.chopperstories.com.... enjoy! I wish you Peace in your Life. May you always walk with the sun on your face, and a breeze ruffling your hair. And may you cherish a quiet wonder for our awesome Universe. Life isn't always good. But it is always fascinating. Never quit.
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I miss the Darkness of her Light



I miss my Dreaming
      

(About my passionate love of flying, and the way the weather   changes suddenly and dramatically for the worse, and can trap an unwary pilot, even kill him. But it's also a frustrated metaphor of sorts,  for when I ache to read and write and quietly explore my simple, naive thinking, when I ache to 'pull pitch' and fly the hell away from superficiality, judgmentalism, stereotype and smothering convention, but find myself grounded, trapped, bewildered, unable to reach those skies, shackled by some dead weight.
Part of which, I admit, is fear, drawn from my experiences of being mocked and ridiculed by others .
What makes a man? A real man?  A good writer? A good pilot? He who is tough and hard? Resilient and self reliant?
Never shows or experiences weakness, uncertainty or sensitivity?
Ah.... the durability of plastic...)  



The wind is whipping up the gray,
a mournful, cold and lonely day
low scudding clouds and stinging rain
now cause the creatures of the air
with fretful caution to refrain
from venturing beyond their lair.

When birds are resting wearily
when clouds are drooping drearily
when gusts of cold pierce shriekingly
when foot steps hurry seekingly
what madness makes me want so much
to feel the quiver of her touch?

I miss my Dreaming through her Skies
I miss the Halls of streaming White
I miss the Darkness of her Light



I miss her Soft and whispered Sighs
and all because I never grew
beyond the simple child I knew.

A friend is one who never strays
a friend is one whose well known ways
are warming as a gentle word
so kindly said and often heard
and never meant to hurt or harm,
my resting hand upon their arm.

But she, my Mistress in the Sky
deceptively delights to lie
at times she changes on a whim
maternal kind to gallows grim
a strange betrayal of a sort
without the least remorseful thought.

She's not a friend who never turns
but is a fire that ever burns
she's not a refuge free and clear
but is a course I always steer
She's not that hand upon my sleeve
but is a calling I believe.

She looks at me with deep blue skies
and traps me with her probing eyes
I live to soar alone and free
and yet I follow timidly
because I struggle with a weight
the knowledge of this scribbler's fate.

My sight is dim, my senses frail
my pen is faint, my colors pale,
and yet I ache to climb so high
and if, dear friend, you wonder why...



it's all because I never grew
beyond that dreaming child I knew.




Francis Meyrick


Last edited by Francis Meyrick on March 19, 2014, 10:35 am
We little humans, hurtling through the Universe on our tiny, pale blue dot, will find few answers to Life's great mysteries. But we should at least find many of the questions. To write is to ask. To seek. To grope. With humility, and humor. Peace.
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