T.G.I.F. 11/22/19
Hello! It’s time for T.G.I.F.!!! (Only now it’s almost Saturday, so T.G.I.S.??)  Confused

What this is:  A new prompt will be posted every Friday.  Everyone is welcome to participate in this thread at any time, no restrictions apply.  Don't overthink the prompts, just let loose and have a bit of fun. 

How it Works:   
1. Write a poem on the suggested topic using the form described.  (However, the prompt is more like guidelines, not a hard and fast rule.)
2. Each poem should appear as a separate reply to this thread.
3. The goal is to have FUN!!!   Comments, kudos, and questions are welcome responses.

Friday, Saturday November 23, 2019

Topic: Astronomy, Stars, Space ... basically it’s fair game as long as it’s outside the perimeter of Earth's exosphere. 

Form: any ... ‘cause forms are hard and I’m bone weary. 

Line Requirement:  any ... you’ll know when you’re done.

(Sorry this is late, it’s been a bit hectic over here in RL.  This week’s topic is inspired by a Stephen Hawking shoe-box diorama that took up a rather large portion of the day.)

If you have prompt suggestions, feel free to pm your ideas to Quix.    Big Grin 

Wish I'd never
compared you to the magic in stars,
only to discover distant suns,
long dead,
making light into a lie,
a collaboration with darkness.

I foolishly believed you revolved
around me
until you left
me cold as galaxies waiting to be named,
my faith the truest lie.
Time is the best editor.
The Magnificent Journey

I travelled with my Ma and Pa
to see (they say) our native star.
I hope my grandson born in space
may see one day that #@#$@ place.

This is the grandson: now my turn
it is to see a lifetime burn.
A glass of water: I dreamt urination
a thousand years in hiberanation.
When at last I rose to pee
it was but 4040.
I hope my grandson born in the void
may see that @#$@# asteroid.

The grandson's grandson: an hour to land
these past five years. My deepest fears
now fructify: these goddamn tables
if true, violate Neils Henrik Abel's
theorem of no solution to the quintic
in general form. What I mean, is this:
it's a thousand years since I've had a piss
and I can't countenance another thousand
of this journey that belongs in a cow's end.

I have no children, being a native
of this spaceship, all the girls were relatives.
It doesn’t make sense, how small we are.

If space were a soup full of galaxy balls and star beans, with moons for salt and asteroid pepper, we wouldn’t even register, let alone impact even the most discerning palate.

We are like germs crawling all over a hint of basil, worshiping the nearest bean, and wondering if there are other friendly germs out there.

We feel so big inside our minds, as we think deep thoughts and dream grand dreams. It doesn’t even occur to us that the nearest sentient being might be this very moment scooping us into a cosmic spoon oblivious to the importance of our existence.
The Soufflé isn’t the soufflé; the soufflé is the recipe. --Clara 
Hydrogen Birthday Balloon

Let’s do a different thing this solar day–
instead of majesty or void let’s find
sweet humor in these galaxies at play:
though years apart, they manage yet to bind
each other in a web of gravity,
expanding from a raucous birthday start,
ballooning through dark ether, family;
if start they had, then Time must have a heart.
So all this festive age they carol on
in songs of hydrogen’s light harmony,
alluring spectra flashing dusk and dawn
in colors carbon humans cannot see.
So listen close to giggles of the night
from swirling stars in choirs of high delight.

Sorry, I'm late, too. Smile
feedback award Non-practicing atheist
Hall Mark Heaven.

i lay outside the exosphere
a twinkle in your eye
and in the daylight of your star
i almost always die
a little bit of wonder lost
yet only for a day
because when evening comes a around
i'm out to fuckin' play.

The only thing the Zoloft does
is dumb me down to a level
where I forget the notion
that all of this is just

one bleak spiral
into absolute

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