FLIGHT CHIEF

To the memory of M/Sgt
Walter G. Rhoads, 1907-2006

I feel its thunder every spring.
A lone survivor of the glorious war
lumbers low over the house, making
the windows rattle, adrenaline soar.

A local airport hosts the shrine—
tours eight dollars, rides three fifty.
I’ve taken the tour, but lately incline
toward taking flight, ignoring safety.

B-17s make a ravishing sound;
I’ve tried to pretend three hundred in flight.
But this one alone makes memories rebound—
memories imagined in black and white.

He knew the craft from tail to nose;
ordered repairs for the next-day’s run.
Those that came back were bloodied; those
that went down were replaced by next-morning’s sun.

I used to think he took it laid-back—
a good-day’s work in the old Air Corps;
but the loss of comrades by fighter and flak—
a memory full—was the hell he bore;

and he came back changed (my mother mused):
a vacant look, a distant air;
the wary view of a mind abused
by relentless death and silent despair.

Contemporary Rhyme Vol. 3 No. 1 Winter 2006
Poop From the Group (Newsletter of the 452 Bomb Group), March, 2007

THE OCCASIONAL FIRE

POEMS
Life Scroll
Spirit Wings
Death in the Family
Flight Chief
Legacy
Honeymoon Photo, October, 1939
49 Chevy
The Seed of Me
Land of Rest
On Allison's Leaving
Telecom's Bequest
Starbucks, Tuesday, 3:36 p.m.
Action Still
Vital Meaning
Fools

HYMNS
God will not let us go
The rising sun blazed out of night
Light! Light! A shattering light
Worship the Lord
As a doe

ABOUT MARK RHOADS