Star-people spinning through the universe: (edit 2)

Take the super strings strung (not “up”

 like a failed god, Odin in cosmic attire) as stage lights —

they dangle; decorations for the universe,

an eccentric design that calls to mind an intelligence

so sense can be made — throughout the obscurity

of spread matter (what knife, what hand, what majesty

 covered the cosmic bread with the dark butter?)

mysteriously strumming with mathematical tunes

none understand, though we dance,  we mortal

marionettes on the playground’s whirling stage.

Test the theory that if a hand moves up and down

(like a cello player’s fingers plucking cosmic jazz)

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 vaulting 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

offering us an infinite number of only one life?)

With all this going on and we star-men and women

brimming with the need of each other (if only

so we 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 Morse our names as we attempt to forget

that we have nemesis Time to defeat before we ourselves

are irrevocably defeated (monsters rejected

by unseen, unheard creators already off plundering

new experiments in dimensions forever closed to us)?

(And really, thinking about it, we are just

that damn cat anyway, a pet, caged and forgotten,

dead and living, the ying and yang of us all.)

And for those that believe, waiting for a Cosmic God

to cast His baleful eye our way (or is it

the damning universal devil nova

that flips the lid, delivers judgment upon us)

truth is, the strings can make order out of chaos

but only for the fleetest of moments

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 ride wild stallion rocket ships

through the wastelands of space, 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 (Schrodinger’s cat put out

and brought in at the same time ‑ ad infinitum).

An Alzheimer's evening sonnet:

Childhood, early sixties, less populated times, less a flurry

of all that could be got, more a dance, a release, the night skies

bewildered the innocent mind as if each twinkling star,

each marauding nebulae, was a whisper from gods long lost

in time’s funnel to follow them into the dark and discover

the source of light; my sister and I, dizzy from whirling

because the atoms in our bodies demanded movement,

would fall to the grass, the crickets serenading the whole night,

and stare up at numerous stars so bright: now I have lost the gods

and so many humans fill this city, the stars appear less, dwindled,

shrunken into themselves, old star-men and old star- women

twitching, scrambling for memories of those faraway days

while fearful, lost in the terror of the bewildering present

and above their grey heads the stars fade further from view.

Star-people spinning through the universe: (edit 1)

Take the super strings strung (not “up” like a failed god

but dangling, decorating the universe in a strange manner)

through the darkest of spread matter (what knife, what hand,

what majestic intent covered the cosmic bread with the dark butter?)

mysteriously strumming with tunes none of us understand,

though we dance, marionettes on the playground’s stage.

Test the theory that if a hand moves up and down

(like a cello player’s fingers plucking the cosmic jazz)

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 vaulting 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

brimming with the need of 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 nemesis time to defeat

before we ourselves are irrevocably defeated (monsters rejected

by unseen, unheard creators already off plundering

new experiments in dimensions forever closed to us?)

(And really, thinking about it, we are just

that damn cat anyway, a pet caged and forgotten.)

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 the fleetest of moments

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 ride wild stallion rocket ships

through the wastelands of space, 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 Flintstones cat

put out and brought in at the same time).

Before 1969:

In early life we swam in the time

before man had left the planet,

a dream time then, the savannah before us,

our imagination rippling

with the hunt of self pulling away from the sphere

without concrete proof we could - or if we did

what we would see: It is hard then, now,

to settle on an everyman’s couch and explain

the difference between that then

and this improbable now where everything appears the same

except in the gathered percolator of our psyche

where drips an insistent truth - we did leave,

did step on the moon’s dusty crust,

planted that flag so many of us detest,

yet ponder sometimes the truth - it is there still,

a monument unseen, poignant as it waits, frozen,

for a return to the dreaming of the great beyond.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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

space poem #8 (edit 2)

Beyond the belt,

planets undone by circumstance,

out where light dwindles into dreams

of all that will one day be and then not;

recurrent themes orbiting,

a line of lovers all different, all the same.

Out with the small rocks, planetoids, comets,

the bang and the whimper, tied with strings

or severed knots, a starman can think -

though, with the absence of light,

ideas fold in upon themselves, become  wormholes-

and in the warp of all that contemplation,

a starman can drown beneath the memories of what is

compared to what could have been

if only opportunity was weighed

instead of the reinvention of past whorls.

experiment with heroin (edit 2):

It is understood by people adorned in white coats,

expertise hanging off them like bright lights

flickering on the conifer trees,

that mice and starmen succumb to the white taste

when denied access to companionship,

when freedom and interests are deprived,

when the sun and stars are hid,

the lid closed, the maze too well known.

Astronauts understand the white coats

they once had a smile as worthy as any

but the smile

came at a cost and the payment

when it came

took the smile and flung them back into the cosmos.

It hangs there still, orbiting forever,

a slipper frozen…if studied, the shimmer

of a dance, listened to,

the joy they once held perpetuated

as flickering cries into the void; a hope they might return,

unable to fathom — permanence is

the fluid state of letting go.

star-father to star-son:

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 —

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.

experiment in heroin (edit 1)

It is said by people adorned in white coats,

expertise hanging off them like bright lights

flickering on the conifer trees,

that mice and starmen succumb to the white taste

when denied access to companionship,

when freedom and interests are deprived,

when the sun and stars are hid,

the lid closed, the maze too well known.

Astronauts know what the white coats mean

they once had a smile as worthy as any

but that smile

came at a cost and the payment

when it came

took that smile and flung it back into the cosmos.

It hangs there still, orbiting forever,

a slipper frozen…if studied, the shimmer

of a dance, listened to,

the joy they once held perpetuated

as flickering cries into the void; a hope they might return,

they can never — for permanence is

the fluid state of letting go.

experiment with heroin:

It is said by people adorned in white coats,

expertise hanging off them like white lights

flickering on the confer trees, that mice and starmen

only succumb to the white taste when denied access

to the companionship of others, when freedom

and interests are deprived, when the sun and stars

are hid, the lid closed, the maze too well known.

Astronauts know what the scientists in white coats mean

they once had a smile as worthy as any

no worse than most no better than the least ‑

but that smile

came at a cost and the payment

when it came

took that smile and flung back into the cosmos.

It hangs there still, orbiting forever,

a slipper frozen…if studied, the shimmer

of a dance can still be discerned, listened to

the joy they once held perpetuates itself out loud,

crying into the void that they might one day return

though they can never stay no matter how hard

it is desired— for permanence is

the fluid state of letting go.

space poem #8 (edit 1)

Out passed the belt,

planets undone by circumstance,

out where light dwindles into dreams

of all that has been conceived but not yet,

out where things will one day be and then not,

over and over again;

a recurrent theme, a line of lovers all different,

all the same.

Out beyond the small rocks,

sometimes planetoids, sometimes comets,

the bang and the whimper, tied with strings or severed knots,

out there a person can think for days,

that, with the absence of light,

fold in upon themselves, become alternate realities,

about decisions made

and under the swell of all that time -

for without light and in the vacuum, time is a guest

at best, at worst

a shape-shifter between past and future tensions -

and in the warp of all that thinking

lose themselves to human red shift;

drown beneath memories of what is

compared to what could have been

if only selections were made by weighing the opportunity

instead of escaping (and so reinventing) past whorls.

space poem #8

 

Out passed the belt,

a planet undone by circumstance,

out where the light dwindles into dreams

of all that might have happened

if the choices had been different,

out with the small rocks,

sometimes planets, sometimes not,

a person can think for days -

or should that be nights -

about decisions made

and under the swell of all that time,

for without light time becomes almost meaningless,

and in the warp of all that thinking,

lose themselves to shame, to regret, to missed chances

and drown beneath the memories of what is

compared to what could have been

if only selections were made on weighing the opportunity 

instead of escaping (and so reinventing) the past.

space history (edit 1)

Space History

Frozen now, my mind forever replays
those days before the leaving; highlights
your eyes, empty holes, alternate universes,
how they never looked my way, perched
already ahead, in that realm without me,
in that space filled behind me, and in my ears,
now, the sound of dirt hitting the wooden lid,
my hands banging against the other side of,
as if the darkness had evolved downwards
to become a grave, a singularity, a forlorn cry
into the expanding then collapsing vacant spaces
between the memories of all that had been.

space poem #7

The space ship stank of old tears
of hugs withheld in greed;
as if love could ever run out…
and yet it did, it does,
time and time again, first a steady light
and then the explosion into hell.

Ironic space poem concerning Saturn mostly: (edit 1)

 Because I am able, and hungry as a ship’s waking crew,

I swallow Saturn’s cables, aware of them as they ring

my throat on the inside; I feel like a Kayan woman

but different. My hands rub the throat’s parched skin,

especially the apple of my Adam, help each and every ring

escape the many words spoken, find their home within.

Saturn appears not to mind my needs, has none

of her own, or if she does, they are needs I cannot

fathom - the thing about planets is their silence,

the way they drift through the void never needing

to draw attention to themselves yet managing

to do just that; thousands of planets, like eyes,

watching, as they wait for the moment consciousness

lets go of the trajectory and floats also in the void - apart

and a part; finding solace in space and companionship,

in the letting go of words; and yes I understand the irony.

space history

The decision, like a closet,

musty with old tears, the darkness smelt  

of hugs ungiven, hugs withheld in greed;

as if love could ever run out…

and yet it did, it does,

time and time again, first a steady light

and then the explosion into hell.

That is how it felt,

those days before the leaving;

your eyes, empty holes, alternate universes,

never looking my way, perched already ahead

in that realm without me, in that space

filled behind me, and in my ears the sound

of dirt hitting the wooden lid -

my hands banging, the darkness evolving downwards;

a grave, a singularity, a forlorn cry

into the expanding vacant spaces between the memories

of all that had been.