Through the Wormhole, or Go Ask Alice

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Should you ever decide to visit a black hole,

fall perhaps, on your way in space

brace yourself, there could be sound

found there,

beware, oh!

No, not that you’d hear the song,

long as you might want to, but in space

bass notes aren’t heard at will

still, the black holes sing.

 

Those who study such things

(strings and theories and time)

minds more clever than my own,

tone academic, say space-time curves,

swerves, in a gravitational singularity.

 

But–

but should you survive,

alive, say after your starship takes a wrong turn,

learn this now,

somehow, look for the back door

for at its center

enter, and this leads to a wormhole.

 

There you’ll get “spaghettified”

Up-and-downsified, stretched, enlarged,

charged, or changed

rearranged, like Alice after she ate the cake,

mistake, or like the largest piece of pasta ever,

never say never, (I won’t judge) and then pushed whoop-de-doo

through the wormhole, You,

to another part of the universe.

 

I’d say, the sharpest trick ever,

whenever, yet not for me.

See, I prefer spaghetti to eat,

feet on ground, plate on table

stable, and able from there I

sigh, and gaze up high.

 

This is in response to Secret Keeper’s Writing Prompt

Using these words: Sound/Sharp/Clever/Judge/Still

I wrote an echo poem.

Here’s some information on “spaghettification”

And on the songs of black holes

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

NaPoWriMo: The Cruelest Month

Can I choose the month most cruel?

Fool I’d be to try.

Why connect such human traits,

hates or loving, days

phrased sour or sublime,

align the sun and forge ahead

instead. Is there pain?

Refrain then, stay resilient.

Brilliant hues and sun-filled skies

fly away too soon,

moon-lit nights and fragrant blooms

zoom in rapid pace,

space out those days in your mind,

find love where you can.

Can I choose the month most cruel?

Fool, I acquiesce.

Yes,

Yes, any month can be too cruel.

Cruel, if it does not have you.

 

An echo poem. NaPoWriMo, Day 4

The prompt was to write a poem on the cruelest month, in response to T.S. Eliot’s well-known line, “April is the cruelest month, “from “The Wasteland.”

 

The Cold, Grey Days of Winter

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Now the cold, grey days of winter,

Splinter

Sunshine through the clouds.

Shrouds

Of snow cover green fir and pine.

Pine

For warmth, for shoots of green

Seen

And birds heard as they return to sing.

Sing!

Loudly their joy at the return of Spring

Bring

Hope that the end of frost is near

Here

We wait under a thick cover

Recover

With soup, bread, and wine

Dine

And watch for dawn’s break, for midnight’s end

Suspend

The cold, bring forth the light,

Bright

Sight

No more the cold, grey days of winter.

Splinter.

 

This is an echo poem in response to Jane Doughterty’s Poetry Challenge