Pluto
A Universal Clamoring
By Richard LeDue
The stars are singing,
but they’re too far away to hear,
and they also believe we’re silent,
so distance is a great equalizer
as alien orchestras are too busy
to look up and wonder.
Their symphonies yelling in the ear
of time, claiming immortality,
while another star disappears-
its dirge ended long ago.
The darkness of space inevitable,
yet so is the noise of life.
Wormholes
By Michael Estabrook
Aging. Another aspect
of the “human condition.”
Amazing how fast
70 years pass by.
Can he reverse time
return to when
he’d take her bowling or to a play
or a movie then to their favorite diner
for tuna sandwiches and onion rings
Einstein theorized we could move forward in time but not backwards.
He carried her books and walked her to her classes
so the other guys knew she was his girl
According to Stephen Hawking: “Any kind of time travel to the past through wormholes or any other method is probably impossible.”
A time when they dreamed of spending
their lives together never apart
until the end of time
But now string theory mathematics is postulating that we might be able to travel backwards through “geometric structures called closed timelike curves” (wormholes).
He’d protect her
provide for her, entertain her
she’d know that all he cared about was her
keeping her happy and safe
never able to say no to her
doing anything and everything in his power
to make sure she was always his
Wormholes just like they said on Star Trek 50 years ago!
None of this has changed for him
if only he could stop this slow dying
reverse time
return to the beginning
Kansas, Old Abandoned House
By Michael Lee Johnson
House, weathered, bashed in grays, spiders,
homespun surrounding yellows and pinks
on a Kansas, prairie appears lonely tonight.
The human theater lives once lived here
inside are gone now,
buried in the back, dark trail
behind that old outhouse.
Old wood chipper in the shed, rustic, worn, no gas, no thunder, no sound.
Remember the old coal bin, now open to the wind,
but no one left to shovel the coal.
Pumpkin patches, corn mazes, hayrides all gone.
Deserted ghostly children still swing abandoned in the prairie wind.
All unheated rooms no longer have children
to fret about, cheerleaders have long gone,
the banal house chills once again, it is winter,
three lone skinny crows perched out of sight
on barren branched trees silhouetted in early morning
hints of pink, those blues, wait with hunger strikes as winter
that snow starts to settle in against moonlight skies.
Kansas becomes a quiet place when those first snowfalls.
There is the dancing of the crows−
that lonely wind, that creaking of the doors, no oil in the joints.
A Mall Somewhere in the Midwest
By Bruce Gunther
Nobody goes there anymore
but I get old-school, drive
across town, park in the lot next
to a plow-risen snow pile,
enter through double doors, smell
the enticing loveliness of a bath and beauty
store, imagine a woman deep within a tub,
covered in soap suds, glass of Merlot on the edge,
but move on to my destination.
I shop as if in a sprint, make no eye contact,
ignore the kiosk selling I.D. tags and cheap
necklaces, wondering if the jewelry store
is in the same place near the shoe store,
which I’ll soon find is a nail shop – as in fingers
and toes – while the vacant bookstore next door
still advertises its Going Out of Business sale.
The saleswomen stare, smile, as I enter the hushed
light, Christmas music whispering from hidden speakers;
I tromp in with heavy strides, clad in a winter coat large
enough to cover a rhino, and already I’m sweating.
I answer “I hope you can,” almost before they finish
asking “Can I help you?” as they assume their positions
behind the cases of glass, which may or may not hold
the desperate, last minute gift – the end-all of my mission.
Meanwhile, up and down the nearly empty corridors
leading past storefronts, an older man pushes a floor
buffer while wondering what he can warm up for dinner,
once he’s safely home in 5 p.m. darkness.
