Sunday, 2 April 2017

The Call:

Star-men ride on solar winds, arms stretched
wide even though they remain inside,
not the spider look and feel, held by the fake
umbilical while around them distant stars
sing songs with words no star-man can understand,
yet they feel them, deep within, suited or naked,
floating in the lack of gravity or earthed, feet planted,
the weight they were born to hold giving them time
to stand and listen, to feel within the pulse that makes
the heart quicken ‑ yes star-men long for the hyper drive,
seek often the craziness of the wormhole, that elongation
of the mind and dreaming, time lost then re-found,
but nothing matches the wide-legged stance, unhelmeted
head thrown back, arms on the hips and the eyes, the eyes
for that certain sun’s light,  open to capture in sunrise
and at dusk, the first and last rites of stars, their light
like strands of hair, flickering in the solar wind as they beckon,
shyly as Sirens and the Odysseus post called Earth
must lose the battle as star-men seek  ever to answer
that unrelenting call, return, leaving again the planet home.

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