I am standing still.
Below me the earth spins
relentlessly endlessly
slowly. I dig my feet
into the cool grass
to hold on, to ground
my senses, to still myself
completely, and then
I look up.
The stars overhead sing,
they spin, they guide
the sailors and the mystics,
the secret whispered wishers,
the silent night fishers.
They burn as they turn
hotter than heart’s fire.
They try to warm the night sky,
that cold abyss of ancient dust
and beams of light traveling.
Traveling, traveling
farther than I can comprehend
only to land in the end
on my upturned eyes,
as I ask with heady bliss
for the stars to grant my wish.
The Soufflé isn’t the soufflé; the soufflé is the recipe. --Clara
The off-worlders are the quiet ones. Discourse puzzles them and language is met with smiles and blinking eyes. They covet the rings on our fingers which they caress taking deep breaths followed by what we take to be sighs. They enjoy crowds and always move in pairs, holding hands behind their backs a though about to perform some acrobatic act. Their visits occur from invisible portals that seem linked to the arias in La Bohème. It’s been three years since they first arrived. They are left to wander at will, and we no longer respond with wonder but savor their company and the fortunate few who know them best are silent, keeping them safe from the unsympathetic. It’s a happy alliance for the family of man and they seem to know that their presence is a blessing for the least among us and act accordingly.
What funny things they are
so many layers
full of stones and strings
and all manner of squishy things.
Their minds are closed
to one another
their thoughts are secret and solitary
they keep them that way
by telling lies and battening their eyes.
Their outsides are precarious,
disposed to fail
from slightly changing temperature,
a sliver of lead,
or bacteria on their bread.
And yet. Inside,
the invisible inside,
they have infinite possibilities,
full of hope and creativity,
fierce application of raw innovation.
They change and rearrange
their thoughts and lives
always trying to improve their hives.
The Soufflé isn’t the soufflé; the soufflé is the recipe. --Clara
The first True Martians arrived
at the beginning of the 25th century
to huge fanfare- aerial parades,
and festivals that lasted for two weeks
across Pangea. The World Ministry
accepted the fabled Red Diamond
and Earth's people marveled
curiously at the Martians.
By the Third Visitation
barely anyone took notice.
Those Visitors were able to discover
their ancestral homelands, and many
were reunited with the remaining
lineage of their Earthly ancestors.
All were awestruck by the expanse
of blue skies, and oceans, that were
only ever experienced in Holospace.
Still, few felt truly at home on Earth-
their generation had become accustomed
to life in The Blue Shell-
Mars was all they had ever known.
09-07-2023, 08:54 PM (This post was last modified: 09-07-2023, 08:58 PM by TranquillityBase.)
Astral Stampede
The star drover surmounted the empty black shoulder of a glowing ridge gazed down into the sparkling arroyo that marked the edge of the range in light years.
Red and gold dust settled thick on his nape, he let the circuitry of his reins go loose and the solid bulk of his midnight mare shook its head against the interrupted dark.
Softly lowing orbs moved expectantly on the smoking plain behind nuzzling the sinking phosphor light, candle grass like flames spread thin on the deep blue and airless void.
The star drover expected no stutter of trouble or fire working dragon to poison the lymph clear night as his calloused palm rubbed the knuckles of his other hand in prayer.
Suddenly he caught the skip and stare of fire out of the corner of a last word and grabbed for his rocketing whip even before the screaming brand had seized an infant star.
Like a rain of lightning his wary herd was instantly burning into a roaring river the crack of his green flared whip a bare whisper in his ear.
The fear maddened, dire falling herd streamed across the drowning night sky. His startled mare was hurled against those ceaseless waves and the star drover and his mount went down before the glassy hell of the stampede.
09-08-2023, 05:11 AM (This post was last modified: 09-08-2023, 05:13 AM by Tiger the Lion.)
Blind Date
She said her name was Curpuk
and extended her trobla to greet me.
Always the cliche alien
she was trying to escape
her dull and sterile home
in small town Vobbinsak
for a new flitgo
and earth seemed as fresh
as a hot cup of slopka.
We drank wine and bugla all night,
ostensibly flirting,
while talking about politics and fumgum
till she passed out on my couch
and I retired to bed.
I woke to her eating me
for breakfast with HP sauce
and Loctarian salsa.
Man’s failure to fare deeper into space:
an unresolved chord in his destiny
as he declines to father further men
and womankind to bear them if he tried.
Instead he cringes counting face by race
maims children to evade maternity
no stars for him or babies for them, then:
Earth’s room enough for doom when trust has died.
![[Image: Mars_Copter.jpg]](http://wordbiscuit.com/im21/Mars_Copter.jpg)
