Making a flight back to Cobb County airport this morning from Asheville, N.C., I was inspired by MSFS 2020 to engage in poetry. My poem follows.
As the showers in April bring flowers in May,
and the weather vane slows to a stop,
into your airplane, you’ll take to the skies,
over forest and city and crop.
The blue skies will beckon, you’ll grin in your glee,
as the world slips away underneath you,
all worries dissolve, you are finally free,
puffy clouds and calm winds there to greet you.
All summer you’ll fly, like a pig in its sty,
rolling, pitching and tossing around,
joy will find you, 'cause the earth cannot bind you,
'til you finally decide to come down.
As the summer, though, ages, far off the sky rages,
the horizon will soon start to darken,
The Beasts of September will grow from an ember,
so this tale you all need to harken.
Those small fluffy clouds will become awfully loud,
and in darkness they’ll light up the sky,
Those walls that you see be a warnin’ to thee,
Heed that warnin’ so that you don’t die.
As the Beasts of September build out of the Gulf,
and the weather service starts up its talkin’,
the people below will take cover, you know,
even fowl of the air will start walkin’.
To the north is unknown, to the south fairer skies,
as you ponder your options for travel,
But westward is home, through that mess up ahead,
as your time table starts to unravel.
And home port is callin’, it’s shorter straight through,
A “sucker hole” shows you the way,
“It’s quicker through here, take this way in good cheer!”,
says that “sucker hole” in the dark gray.
So you slip through the gap, an oblivious chap,
as that hole in the Beast disappears,
and you’re met with a bump, you unfortunate chump,
seems good judgment is now in arrears.
The downpour now finds you, and lightening blinds you,
and updrafts and downdrafts come callin’,
you’re cleanin’ the cockpit with rudder and yoke,
to keep your poor aircraft from stallin’.
As chaos ascends like a demon from hell,
and your lessons you strive to remember,
controllers below offer nothing that helps;
You’re a victim of the Beasts of September.
Your attitude gyro succumbs to a tumble,
your HSI lost in a spin,
your compass is worthless and darkness surrounds you,
you’ll either say prayers, or you’ll sin!
When the prop joins the engine, and then joins your seat,
and your seat joins that once-pretty tail,
too late it will be to avoid or to flee,
from that fate that YOU made with this fail.
Grim be the task of the NTSB
When ye challenge the Beasts of September,
They sift through remains of the poor little planes,
that the Beasts of September dismember.
So take heed this advice, ye aviators green,
so your husbands and wives don’t get weepy:
Rent a car, take a bus, or just pedal a bike,
'til the Beasts of September grow sleepy.
And you may live 'til October, so creepy.