Model Making As Sculpture


Gallery I  Naturally Finished Wood Models
Gallery II Naturally Finished Wood Models
Gallery III Painted Wood Models
Gallery IV  Card Models


Restoration Work

Doering B-24 Restoration

Guests and Tribute

Guest Gallery

Historical Models

Doering Bros I

Doering Bros II

Doering Bros III

Literature and Links








                               High Flight

Oh! I have slipped the surly bonds of Earth
    And danced the skies on laughter-silvered wings;
Sunward I’ve climbed, and joined the tumbling mirth
    Of sun-split clouds, --and done a hundred things
You have not dreamed of--wheeled and soared and swung
    High in the sunlit silence. Hov’ring there,
I’ve chased the shouting wind along, and flung
    My eager craft through footless halls of air…

Up, up the long delirious, burning blue
    I’ve topped the wind-swept heights with easy grace,
Where never lark, or even eagle flew--
    And, while with silent, lifting mind I’ve trod
    The high untrespassed sanctity of space,
Put out my hand and touched the face of God.

                                    John Gillespie Magee, Jr. 1941

Of course, since this is about the most famous aviation poem of all, there have been a number of parodies. The following is good:

Dedicated to all Helicopter Pilots

Oh! I’ve slipped the surely bonds of earth
    And hovered out of ground effect on semi-rigid blades;
Earthward I’ve auto’ed and met the rising brush
    Of non-paved terrain, --and done a thousand things
You would never care to--Skidded and dropped and flared
    Low in the heat soaked roar.   Confined there,
I’ve chased the earthbound traffic, and lost
    The race to insignificant headwinds...

Forward and up a little in ground effect
    I’ve topped the General’s hedge with drooping turns
Where never Skyhawk or even Phantom flew--
    Shaking and pulling collective, I’ve lumbered
    The low untrespassed halls of victor airways,
Put out my hand and touched a tree.   



The Gift

My talent lies
in combustion.
This is the thing
that draws the crowd –
that on my measured list
of life skills
ranks first.

looking for fire
recognize me.
At night,
they sit outside my window
They gasp and cheer
at the sudden burst of flame.

I was born
with fingers of sulphur.
They snap
and ignite.

Embers glow between my toes
like jewels in pagan idols.
My feet are hot as race cars,
taking corners well,
leaning into turns,
finding the line.

I am called dangerous,
doomed. But

there are times
when it feels holy,
opening my palms
to the sky,
releasing sparks
like firefish
swimming back to the sun.

            Lynnie Emmons 1985


There is something which goes along with the particular prestige of clouds which makes the dragons able to ride them.
                                       Shen Jao, 4th Century B.C.


Sing The Machine

Sing the machine,
                the fleeing, blinking, humming song.
Sing the whirring flowers of steam and smoke—
                follow them there…follow
                over mountains (before a barrier),
                over oceans,
                over vast lands once unknown—
                        and into the heavens.
Follow those roaring beasts,
                tamed by the empirical mind,
                created by those with
                        sure knowledge of being.

Sing their song.
Know their symmetry.
                Catch the graceful flare
                of boiler rooms
                and billowed sail.
                        Catch the turbulent prospect of new craft
                        and know the melancholy
                        of forgotten invention
                                aglow, rusting in the evening sun.

Sing, with jealous wonder, their skill
                in molten steel, free formed,
                And smell the acrid fumes
                            which precede the flexing, shining sheets.

Sing, with bated breath, those
                who sculpt this industry.
Believe, with critical distance,
                the knowledge that they share.
Hope, with suspended judgment,
                the value of their vision.

                                And always understand
                the passion of their intention.
                                Always respect the
                price of their commitment.

disparage them for their grave errors,
                lest you miss their meaning,
                and then your own.
                                Lest you crush the slightest blade of grass
                Which they, too, may have seen.

                                                 Doug Emmons 1990



Courage is the price that Life exacts
for granting peace.
The soul that knows it not
Knows no release from little things:
Knows not the livid loneliness of fear,
Nor mountain heights where bitter joy can hear 
The sound of wings.

How can life grant us boon of living, compensate
For dull gray ugliness and pregnant hate
Unless we dare
The soul's dominion?  Each time we make a choice, we pay
With courage to behold the resistless day
And count it fair.

                                Amelia Earhart


                    The Bird Man

Up there! Up there! A speck in the sky.
Away! Away! As a cloud on high;
A whir of wheels, a spread of sail,
A flash, a blur, as a comet’s tail,
The air! The air! The wind and blow,
The peaks, the mountains and white of snow.

 From South to North, a stretch of land,
‘Tis canyons deep and desert sand,
The track, the smoke and the winding trail,
A city, the meadow and haze of the grail;
The earth! The earth! Down to earth,
But a shadowy streak around its girth.

 A kiss of the breeze, a sweep of the gale,
A heart and a Soul that knows not fail;
Goggles and cap and gleam of the sun,
‘Tis conquered! ‘Tis conquered! A Kingdom won;
A flash, a whirl, a ship of the sky,
Away! Away as the wild birds fly.

Come Roman and Greek and Assyrian old,
You are wrapped in death the Ages hold;
We are the Living! We are the Life!
The Century this, the battle the strife;
A speck in the blue, Up there! Up there!
‘Tis ours at last! King of the air.

Higher and higher, then sweeping low,
A whir of the wing, the sun and its glow;
The ploughman, the shepherd shall cease from toil,
The Heavens! The Heavens! Away from the soil;
The wings of the wind from Jupiter wrest,
The triumph of Man from East to the West.

More than a crown, more than gold,
More than victory--than laurels to hold;
‘Tis the Age! The Age! The conquest of Mind,
The Soul of the world in the teeth of the Wind;
A whirl, a flash and a dim speck trace,
He is off! He is off! A wild world race!

            To Lieutenant Fred Young
                                By Julius Myron Alexander
                                Healdsburg, CA 1910

There are a number of web sites featuring aviation poetry. To begin, try Feel free to submit poems or sites to Doxaerie.