Wizz Jet Air

[FredFourth]

Our plane descended after
the Carpathian range. Sunlight
threw a last glint onto the titanium
wings as we dropped into the gloom of dusk

We landed with a tremendous jolt and
surprisingly asked by a Tannoy voice
to clap our pilot. I clapped thankful
he had not killed us

Is the Forint really a currency.
Ten thousand Forint buys a meal of sorts,

The Iron Curtain has lifted, has no
one told them. Sales staff snap, rip products
from our hands. Old ways appear in a
flash then disappear in a veneer

of forced charm. No we cannot laugh, not yet.
And then at the hotel, in the Sauna
a beauty, a body, a friendly face
fanning super heated steam my way. I

baked then roasted. I ran to the deep, deep bath
Don't do it they! cried, Don't do it! a close
death experience, a spiritual dawn,
an awakening to the divine.

[Bernie01]

alas---


these whimsical observations are too few to save the poem from a travel magazine like feeling...


can the poem turn a little of that journalism into more poetic observation?


bernie

[FredFourth]

Well Frankly
my poem may be Dire. : )

Nice to see you Mr. Bernie Sir. Welcome back.

Well, I am a very mundane person so my poems might seem that way too. I still have hopes for this one, soon maybe.

The real story is the beauty in the sauna, very nice gal but watched carefully by her man, not that I am a danger to any woman at my age.

The old lady at the airport was so sweet and kind, so poor I felt like giving her 50 000 Forint.

I just want to get back at Wizz Jet Air for frightening me.

Asking us to clap the pilot for such a landing was like a gladiator being forced to pay for his own funeral.

[FredFourth]

Come on Bernie, ole bean, I know you can do better than this. : )

Don't let the bastards grind you down.

[FredFourth]

If it has a a travel log feel then I suppose that is what it is.