Tuesday, 21 March 2017

Star-people spinning through the universe

Take the super strings strung
through the darkest of spread matter
mysteriously strumming with tunes
none of us understand,
test the theory that if my hand
moves up and down
the sounds are dimensions of possible outcomes
meaning mistakes happened once
and once they didn’t
 or they did differently
or they weren’t mistakes at all.
Next, take the quantum leaps –
the fields that are waves
that are particles
that aren’t even there
just  a potential or a probability
and probably when I look here
something else happens there
 and when I look there
I have no idea of what happened here.
As for the cat;
who is counting that purring time bomb
of an infinite number of only one life?

With all this going on and we star-men and women
needing each other if only
so we can revisit all the things we wished we weren’t,
is it any wonder we all choose to travel
into the wild dark wonder
where stars blink our names
and we have time to defeat
before we ourselves are  irrevocably defeated?
And really, thinking about it, we are just
that damn cat anyway.

And for those that believe
we’re all waiting for Cosmic God to cast His baleful eye
our way (or is it the damning universal devil
that flips the lid, delivers judgment upon us)
truth is the strings
can make order out of chaos
but only for a fleeting moment
before the next chaos comes casually along
and firmly plants us
in the middle of it all – a singularity
of impossible, giddying movement as if
we all rode wild stallion rocket ships
through the wastelands of space
yet managing every so often
to discover new, innovative ways
of smashing our tiny tin cans
into each other, thus ending or starting
what had just begun
or inversely, finished – the cat put out and brought in
at the same time.

Saturday, 18 March 2017

Star-man is dead:

Something precious, something luminous
that shone inside my own heart was jettisoned
the day my star-man friend, died.
His funeral captured the ache of space, how all
that vacant expanse can stretch out before you,
colourless, so large the eyes must look down,
study toes and tiles, ponder minute things
like when will it be time for the next coffee.

I have so few, true my star-man friends,
his visits, like the rising of planets in the night sky
lifted my spirits, helped me avoid the collisions
space junk can deliver when you’re not looking.
Echoes of the funeral ripple through my mind,
the way leaves can rustle across the tarmac
warning the journey may mean leaving
but nothing meaningful can be left behind.

And sometimes, lying in bed, I can imagine
how Armstrong must have, perhaps secretly, felt -
 his dreams echoing with sights of the moon, the view
of all that white space in the rocket’s porthole;

the knowledge very few would ever really understand.

People think its the landing (a star-man's sonnet)

All those G’s, though not as many as many think,
the cheeks rippling in waves, a like a deck of cards
flicked, the isotonic heart pushed into the back
of the cushioned chair, considering the heck with it all;
the outside metal red-hot, a fluid shell of consideration –
“should we explode?”  The fear the angle is wrong, that the rocket
will bounce off the atmosphere, careen back into the void
with no more control than a pebble skimming the pond.

There is something, I grant you, in the landing, intensive heat
and free-falling, rockets stalling, and a peculiar acrid smell,
as if the devil’s  devious hand wafts hell’s painful promise
across your nostrils, but the landing, in the end, is the easy part;
the difficulty is the decision to return; all star-men recognize
that taking flight, and remaining absent, is the easiest option.

Friday, 17 March 2017

A Comet's Tale

Through the freeze of Pluto
and the heat of Mercury,
beyond the breeze of  Saturn
and the scream of Mars
in the shadow of Jupiter’s dreams
and the lost hopes of Venus;
through, beside and ignorant of them all,
in a constant flight from reflection —
the comet heads for the outer planets,
hopes there the solitude may redeem
the failures that streak behind,
a tail of woe.

star-father to star-son (edit 1)



my son, it seems,
begs to differ
with everything I have been
and everything I have thought.

Visors misty with our words,
we sit, smug in the bloated suits we don,
on opposite sides of the universe,
prepare to re-plunder each other
with words and looks
in an out of control spiral,
two hearts re-create the bitter belt
we call asteroids.

Thursday, 16 March 2017

Conference with shiny moonface:

Above the crackle of the helmet’s two-way,
words, like sticks expertly flicked,
stripped away the vulnerable creases
of my protective suit; the atmosphere
suffocating - his purpose was clear.

Young astronauts on fledgling journeys
should never forget the stepping order;
the ladder, the dust, the gravity-reduced leaps
demand an order or consequence.

Others sat and listened, in visors,
like plastic travelling birds,
their occupied heads sagely nodded -
I am certain I heard them swallow
in sympathy and relief; the scraped goat
is preferred to personal flesh and blood
forced to bear the brunt.

I knew
even as the silence fell
swifter than an eclipse
the journey home
would be long and awkward –
its sails spread like an angel’s wings,
a rocket can soar upon the solar waves
and still encompass hell.

Tuesday, 14 March 2017

space poem #9

Out in the ether
floating outside the cage
the line no better
than a monkey’s tail
promise it will one day let go

Visor captures the sound
of breathing within
hollowing it
carving breath into moments of birthing

Outside silence is given free rein
no language exists
in that place of speculation
possibilities and debris
past rotations, failed novas

In the void
insatiably whirling through galaxies
seeds chase their own tails
while unhatched stars
cry to be found

Starman spins slowly
waiting for sunrise
to sear away black holes
his singularity
bears the smell of used fuel

A million miles away
three children backs resting on dry grass
stare up at the night sky
see if in the patterns of the stars
they can discern their father