Posts Tagged ‘Space’

I’m a spaceman,
With a fishbowl on my noggin,
Setting off to explore,
Touring a galaxy of stars and art,
And charting the supernova in my heart,

I’m in a space shuttle,
Surging through the atmosphere,
A confident rocket,
Leaving self-deprecation on the launch pad,
Burned away at last,

The turbulence doesn’t scare me,
The journey has begun,
I’m in a space shuttle,
And I’m going up.

Heed this message,
Lady Lunar sees all,
Watching from her ballroom of constellations,
Her cold eyes falling upon us,
Like a gravitational force,

Though her face be pockmarked and severe,
The moon must have a heart,
She sees all of our vice,
Our innate enmity,
And doesn’t choose to end us,

Through tidal waves or disdain,
Or falling upon us in apocalyptic fashion,
She could but resists the urge,
She remains our guardian,
Foil to her nuclear sister.

Even in your loneliest nights,
When the silence screeches in your ears,
The sky can deliver you love,
In the form of a cerulean comet,

An evanescent light in the sky,
Streaking across your eyes like a pleasing form,
The shape of a paramour,
Painted in azure trails,

This falling star,
It burns white-hot,
Like the throes of frenetic passion,
It conjures images of trysts and new families,

But comets are only brief interlopers,
And if you don’t grab it,
Pluck it from the universe,
It’ll pass by at light speed,

And proceed to the orbit of another.

In spite of our grand utterances,
And our Earthly self-importance,
It must be said,
We are but fleas in the cosmos,
Strands of dust on solar winds,

Though our plights do cut deep,
The universe is immeasurable,
Untold planes have already suffered,
You see their husks through that huge lens,
Stars burned themselves out before we even felt fire,

The void holds all manner of oddities,
Nebulae and quasars and black holes,
How can we feel so noteworthy?
When the universe both precedes us,
And will sigh after we’re gone.

Spawn of December and January,
Children of Saturn,
Listen to this,

Like the humble mountain goat,
A creature of work and advancement,
Salt of the Earth,
You’re practical and ambitious,
Hardy and wilful,
A horned beast of burden,

And like a scaled critter of the ocean,
You can be cold and calculated,
Vicious as the sea,
As unpredictably deadly as a stingray,
Even to those you are fond of,
A child of winter as you are,

Alas this is no horoscope,
But a simple analysis of a human,
From the outside looking in.

That time at the lake,
As the mist looked on expectedly,
When I cried sad crystals,
And they flew skyward,
Joining hands with constellations,
It was then that I knew,
As my eyes still spilled celestial ink,
That the night sky was built on hurt lovers,
Cosmic beauty derived from pain,
The night was an anthology of romantic tragedies,
A sky of stories,
A landscape painting of bloodily cut diamonds,
Bled on to the firmament by the brush of our tears.

There is indeed a man in the moon,
Shy for half of each day,
When the sun isn’t supervising,
He peers down to Earth timidly,
Our most dedicated spectator,
At times giving a crescent grin,
Cheesy and mischievous across his craters,
At other times freeing little comets as tears,
Sobbing into velvety nebulae,
It’s unclear what inspires these bouts of emotion,
But it’s said he sees all,
So maybe his lunar cranium holds our morrow,
Perhaps he knows what is coming,

For better or worse.

There are those whose eyes are fixed skyward,
Tinfoil uniforms and men of learning both,
Seeing circular conspiracies among distant roman gods,
Metal anomalies in the atmosphere,
Strange lights peeking from behind lady lunar,

They see patterns and smoke in the cosmos,
Little green men dance upon their chests,
Authorities choking them in their sleep,
Are they mad to breathe such perceptions?
Do the stars perceive us in turn?

Whether it is paranoia or prudence,
I cannot decide,
But as the saying goes,
When you peer over long into the void,
It might just be peering back.

That glamourous material,
A full spectrum of colour in my hands,
Sand of the very stars,
Both kaleidoscopic and slapdash,
Beautiful but messy,
It reflects the light,
Turning the dull into prismatic disorder,
Rainbows in powder form,
Scaring away the droll,
It rains down upon my head,
It feels good,
And looks even better,
I have become an aurora borealis,
And my joy is flaunted in response.

In my dreams,
I often take off in astral form,
Cheered on by stadiums of stars,
Off like a spectral rocket,
As I soar through the cosmos,
I take snapshots of the constellations,
Spying their empyrean forms,
Proving their fabled existence,
They dance sprightly about as I pass,
I’m an astrological tourist tonight,

I have flown so far already,
But there are more sights to see,
I stop for lunch upon the rings of Saturn,
Watching a show lightyears away,
A medical drama,
Starring the ministrations of Jupiter and Neptune,
They keep trying to revive Pluto,
Rambling onwards,
The sun is calling to me,
As I approach my eyes grow heavy,
The solar rays declare morning,
This astral vacation was over.