#interstellarromance

[anima-galattica]

Some Poetry, from the past, now kinda makes sense now.

The Moon to your Stars Look at the moon look at the stars  Sometimes we wonder where we are Sometimes we wonder why we are here The things we hold so near and dear Look at the mirror Sometimes we pray to see clearer Sometimes we wonder “why bother” Just take a look in the water Take a look in the sky And watch the clouds go by Take a look at the sun glowing  This is what the world needs to be showing As you smile painfully And think this all make believe As long as there is earth and sky The world will still pass by The pain and the fear  The ones we hold so dear The choices we choose The doors we closed So as we dream our dreams  Even though it seems There is nothing we can do Remember there is someone like you Looking at the moon and the stars Wondering where they are Trying to find their place Lost in everything including space Searching up and down Looking at the clouds They also smile painfully Thinking this is all make believe So as you dream your dreams tonight  Remember there just might Be the moon to your stars  Wondering where you are

-Jessi

I wrote this back in 2006, it makes sense now....

[jupiterregionalenterprises]

SOPHIA

You flung your lasso to the corner of the room,

also you've sewn your cheek upon the brightness of the moon.

You knotted copper bells with lengths of string to pinpoint stars,

you ferried for us gifts of pinwheels from Venus to the planet Mars.

---

I pilot a spaceship:

salvaged, makeshift, mine. Solder, 

elf-hammered rivets nearly glinting,

then don’t. 

It’s the dullest scuffed silver.

Marble cold midnight, unlit 

(black as black-box insides) 

envelopes my no-name vessel. 

Across the cold cosmos

You are hot and arcing...

But. 

My meals are freeze-dried and challenging to unpackage,

the silverware is flimsy, floats away when I’m inattentive,          

plus I forget what wind feels like.

---

Opening the vacuum hatch requires gut strength.

It is old.

On this morning - I will not relinquish the idea of morning -

On this morning like all others,

My waist is tethered to a ladder rung,

old home planet occasionally in view, 

watery, a fleck; faint blue.

I see the nosecone needs repairing,

a wing sags irrelevantly. Weightless,

I take my shaken spray-paint can,

add highlights to another comet tail.  

---

There is no authority here.

Anchorless & nestled in an asteroid belt,

I surf icy slag-like lopped off mountain tops, 

somersault nickel-iron furrows strung like long braids of snowflakes,

or a gravel path tossed, floating.

I’ve combed the Horsehead Nebula, 

sifted sugar & stirred la Voie Lactée,

spotted pawprints of the phosphorescent Lynx,

held conferences with yellow hypergiants,

picked at fuzzballs in my downtime.

I tell myself not to tell lies  

to the mini-fridge

about the duration of night.

No wood, no popping campfires; pitiless 

dark matter inhaled my harmonica.

So. I retire to the console, the cabin (it's still called "cabin"),

to twist knobs and levers behind thick tempered windows. 

I set, I tune. I turn, turn, calibrate.

I dial to find your pulse.                   

I listen for the radio-quiet neutron star,

wonder what’s the matter with my magnets,

remember my old dogs and clean running water,

and the night when I saw starlight

shuffling along a wide creek’s sleeping current,

like needlepoint stitched onto its traveling skin.

Saw all this reflected in my pony’s eyes too.