The Red Wheelbarrow on Mars

The Red Wheelbarrow on Mars

so much depends
upon

a red wheel
barrow

glazed with rain
water

on Mars.


--William Carlos Edgar Rice Burroughs Williams

Pluto dog star [Science fiction poetry]

Pluto dog star

Pluto dog star
atomic blast, and a rocket
passed by
everythign else
but itself
in the deepest and darkest
of space,
even space passing by,
until there's nothing else
to stand by,
but this everpresent nothing
moving deeper
into itself
yet again,
as it once ever was.
never disappearing
always being more
of exactly
just the same

empty void
of a blackened out
space
kali-unwhitened,
no stars
sun, or sky
passing on by
their ever-distant lines

and the weight of the world
so ever-more
uranic, saturnic
plutonic. Platonic.
(The heaviest waters
and the darkening orb)
in the old,
and still new
to even yet be
but therefore: so much
ever-yet-more
in its darkening canvas
in the empty nothing of all.

possibilities to be
(or never more, still to be)
to be destroyed forevermore
become by something ever-still more
neither here
nor faraway there
always somewhere, "there", or inbetween
what had once almost come to be
in this moment of space


------
INspired bartly by the musings and speculations of Christopher Knowles about the pluto mission, and the possible extra-plutonic object (planet x) that is being searched and speculated about. As well as other writings about pluto and the solar system.

http://secretsun.blogspot.se/2015/09/nasas-new-horizons-other-shoe-dropping.html

Wolf in the flow

I wrote me a one poemetry. The oldest art, and often-times the most lively (or even... the most... DEADLY).

So, my friend. I wrote you this hopeless Werewolf enchantment. But please… my old friend. Pretty PLEASE. My dearest of friends. Just don’t go out and whisper it out loud… At least not wwhen you’re missing out there… all alone. So that only the shadows can hear. Yes, at least not when you're falling down under a red-blooded moon in the night.

Wolf in the flow

Wolf in the fold,
flows from the old.
Owl out of love,
hawk and a dove,
batterfly wings,
and one ring of all storms,
dogging it out,
digging it in,
in the skin of a man
flowing through how too soon
not every hand,
with each of its thought,
word and deed,
collected from ill
or the thought of a kind.

Wolf, in the fold
of a meat-space flesh-costu-mary
skin,
doubled-up hands,
leather belt, (jumping hoops)
many a' things,
reatttttatched
from this sheet
of a once-living thing
made of old.