The second man on the Moon called it “magnificent desolation” when he first stood upon her powdery surface. I wasn’t even born then but in my spacesuit, patching solar panels, I find no better words.
We’re the invading aliens in our shells of titanium, surrounded by grays and shadows darker than the deepest night of my childhood on that blue-white orb hanging above the horizon.
While I consider Earth home, I’ve adapted to this gravity. If I returned, I’d collapse under unfamiliar weight but the colony’s recycled air is fresher and mined water cleaner than any found on that polluted tempest we left behind.
We lost Eden for all the profits to be made from the magnificent desolation that we laid.
During the 2020 April Poem-a-Day Challenge, I wrote The Last Pig in response to two prompts: “The Last blank” and “Piggy”. I never expected it to be one of the most viewed poems on my site for the past year! So, I offered it to Spillwords and they posted it today. Check it out and, since I crave external validation, don’t hesitate to click the little red heart just about the title. You don’t even have to sign-up for an account there.
Teenagers play in traffic I almost sacrifice one lamb on the altar of social media
I’m heading to a week-long writing retreat and something odd happened on the way. I was on I-95 in the middle of South Carolina, nice clear highway ahead except for a car which had just pulled over under an overpass. I see two people emerge from the car but they’re well on the shoulder so it’s no big deal.
Then they both run into the travel lanes as though they’re going to cross the highway! I slow to give them plenty of time and curse their stupidity but instead of heading into the median, they start running directly for my car which is still traveling at highway speeds.
Sing me no songs of the daylight for the sun is the enemy of lovers. Sing me instead of shadows and darkness and the memories of midnight.
Sing me no songs of domestic brews for the lite beers do not intoxicate. Sing me instead of red wine and absinthe and the grace of my intemperate muse.
Sing me no songs of everyday women for the office ladies do not inspire. Sing me instead of strippers on stage and late nights at the club.
Sing me no songs of bleached blonds for they have nothing ‘neath their curls. Sing me instead of smoldering red heads and the grave misfortunes of virtue.
Sharing a poem that appeared in my first book, Wednesday Night Regular. The first stanza is shamelessly stolen from the ancient Greek poet, Sappho. I made some minor changes to my three stanzas tonight to bring it into my current style and punch it up a little with what I’ve learned over the past decade.