"cosmonaut" poems
There in the field she came to me,
The last of the silver honeybees.
I could see the years worn in her face,
Lost in the dark, one foot in the grave.
She held the ache behind her eyes,
So young to have her throat closed tight.
Poor girl, an orphan, with ribs of steel
Bone cage laced too tight to feel.
Then came the lonesome cosmonaut,
Betwixt the stars, those years he lost;
A nomad’s tale, nor here nor there
Too high up to come down for air.
Celestial darlings, they go round and round,
Dysphoric we hasten the final burnout:
From birth to evanesce, the hedons expire
Would love rot my teeth for afflictions less dire?
Last came the poet, out from the gloam
******* on pennies, and ink soaked through bones.
She gathered her strength and fell from the sky
While friends in high places twinkled goodbye.
Jan 9, 2023
Jan 9, 2023 at 4:23 PM UTC
He’s a chain smoker in his head
And a businessman with his hands
He was a cosmonaut at the bar
And a bear with the North Star
Jun 1, 2012
Jun 1, 2012 at 1:49 PM UTC
You're a solar system,
and I'm a rogue cosmonaut who
(having fallen in love with you through a telescope)
has built a ship from the salvage
of lesser explorations;
now I spend my days
(or nights— hard to tell)
looking at you, chin in hand,
waiting for a place to land.
Feb 23, 2011
Feb 23, 2011 at 8:17 AM UTC
Her name,
passing over your lips
like the cosmonaut's smile
at first sight of the Earth.
Since birth, she has been
swimming the stars, but still
never goes beyond dipping her toes
when the shoreline hisses withdraw.
As her earth gives
my sea his home, I wonder-
Would she let me
take her hand, gently,
walk her out a bit deeper.
Would she hold me, fiercely,
lift up from the wet sand,
her bare feet, trust the sea, trusting me.
While earth, sea, and stars all hold each other dearly,
however distant they may be,
Her deepest fears all devoured
by a pack of wild ladybugs.
Jul 23, 2014
Jul 23, 2014 at 9:36 PM UTC
Service
the sections
we skim
on
four limbs,
integral
to the insect
cause
and effectively
crippling
the cross culture,
dumb and
auspicious
in the year
of the
opposable
thumb.
Feline
friction
in
the way
you
hug the fuzz
and
tug at
the tension,
a conscious
show of
subterfuge
and
pretentious
pretenses
concludes
in the dismal
aftermath
of a
stamped
and sent
ten cent
envelope
filled with
nothing
but hope.
Sacrilegious
privileges
construct
reality,
obstructing
the
graffiti art
along the
cosmonaut
crosswalk.
The fire,
fought
with wine
in the dark
etched an
imprint
in ash
where
the
cadre had
left its' mark
in the colors
of a
corroded
battery.
Under
spray
paint stars,
hollow,
half
sunken
sights
echo
through
the
illegitimate
children
of a
wind
chime.
Sulfurous
silver
lining
igniting
the ego.
A blue
reaction
in a black
field,
refraction
with a
maximum
yield,
it all glows.
Feline
friction
in
the way
you
hug the fuzz
and
tug at
the tension,
smooth
and rigid,
we fit in
the grooves
and service
the sections
in a
crippled
cross
culture
that
crawls
on all fours,
integral
to an insect
cause.
Oct 11, 2010
Oct 11, 2010 at 5:27 PM UTC
Never Takes The Bus.
And
At the same time
He
Is
Cute
Rather Good
Looking
Dancing all
Night
May 16, 2015
May 16, 2015 at 4:35 PM UTC
Prompt: Write about a recurring dream.
…………
*They say it’s nice to drown,
peaceful to drown,
swallow your tongue,
shut yourself up like a pearl in a clam,
let it rush into every hole in your face -*
I plough like a cosmonaut losing memories
Surrounded by diaphanous tremblings,
Surfacing every three moons or so
To set my eyes on the prize of a particular liner,
To swipe wetly upwards
At the sky and her yellow jewellery.
I’m not surprised by the cold,
I welcome the white frail blaze of it -
Let me break the surface with a
Frothy lace collar
and then
Rain on me,
Pelt me,
‘Til we all become one another,
And I will feel it like a tremulous applause of tiny fists,
Knocking on the sand ten miles away.
I am shivering between shoals,
Joyfully sailing with silver starlings,
(How have I come to it so late -
This joy of flying?)
The water is at times a tortured mask
That I wear like a shifting grey veil,
I wrap my thighs around it’s efforts,
And we churn our legs like a billion dying insects.
(The green will reach out and mouth you,
But the splinters will not stick.)
Colours:
Bleached,
Frigid grey,
Dark wholesome,
Bible black,
My lips part for the waves blowing back -
And my body has no blood,
No organs,
Hollow but for the colours of the gloom.
I am a drifting column,
An angel of sand
knobbled stars **** at my head -
(So this is it -
This is what it is to be dead.)
I will meet you here
in this fantasy of glass,
We won’t even speak,
And we never needed words anyhow,
We will just elegantly teeter on the very edge of dreams -
Floating together loose and unsinkable
Like two formless sheets of hooked reflections
That drape and move and are never lost.
And I could cry now just thinking of it,
I’m crying now just thinking of it,
I want us to live in a miracle,
Two spectres between the spectrum of the layers -
*I can’t be up there anymore,
I can’t be part of the sculptures….
and neither can you.*
Am I any closer?
How many leagues?
How many times do I have to visit?
How much closer can I get?
And when I wake up saved,
Will I wear this dream upon me...?
Will I stick to my blue sheets?
Will my hair be wet?
Sep 12, 2013
Sep 12, 2013 at 3:35 PM UTC
LONG AGO,
I S P R A W L E D.
I WAS THE OCEAN FLOOR
I WAS AN ASTRONAUT, A COSMONAUT
Still impressive,
I am now
Harry Houdini
in the worlds'
smallest box
Less impressive,
I am covered in my own ****
which is soaking into the cracks between the linoleum tiles
in the ****** kitchen
of the ****** apartment
i live in
with my ****** ex boyfriend
(But he is not home)
Serenity, alone
It's rare
To feel love
From inside
Serenity, together
It's hard
To have help
from outside
An hour and a phone call later
A friend hoists you up and carries you
Mopping your floor
wiping your genitals
Tenderly, platonically
The way we hoped had already happened for the last time
A moment between you as a baby and you as a parent
Before you gained a real memory
But that moment is happening right now
But, somehow, your whole childhood is ahead of you still
Dec 3, 2020
Dec 3, 2020 at 4:57 PM UTC
After seeing her stars and collection of astronomy posters, Ellis once asked if she wanted to be an astronaut.
She simply replied, “What would be the point? It wouldn’t be any different than watching it on television.”
Ellis found this to be a pretty daft assumption but couldn’t find any real reasoning to contest it.
This memory came back to him.
He attempted to empathize a second time as he stared at the ceiling stars when the idea of the glass of an old television mimicking the glass of a cosmonaut’s helmet came to him.
As he peered through the glass, it became apparent it wasn’t that being in space didn’t feel real, but that the television was more real than people gave it credit.
Even other screens, which rarely projected the experience of walking around living, felt more real than reality.
One doesn’t need to travel to see the world, and one doesn’t need to be near someone to feel close to them.
A line that has always be present, that very glass pane, began to weaken.
Ellis began to notice a headache as he traveled down the cavernous hole of existential metaphysics.
He looked down at Ada.
This vision had blurred unknowingly while lost in thought, and he frantically attempted to re-establish himself as a being existing in this plane of reality.
Nov 16, 2018
Nov 16, 2018 at 10:49 AM UTC
Jenny and Malcolm
lie in a field
on a hill
straddling the countryside
at midnight.
The grass tickles
their toes and noses
as it flows up
getting the stars.
Jenny passes the roach
and sings the blues.
Malcolm casts
a long line of smoke,
fishing for meteors.
"You think
there's anyone
out there?"
Jenny asks.
"I knew a kid,"
Malcolm says,
bobbing his head
to Hendrix,
"18, in Philly,
went to grab
a bag of dope,
but his buddy's brother,
he was nine at the time,
wouldn't go,
so he had to go,
thought it would be quick
so he brought him
but forgot the cash
and tried to dash,
but the kid wasn't so fast.
They caught him
and laid him to rest
with his head on the curb
and teeth in the gutter.
After that, he said
he couldn't be the same,
forever paranoid,
society pushing him
towards suicide
or addiction.
Desensitized
he decided
he wasn't made for this place
so he got high
and rode a cloud
out beyond
where we stare now."
Mar 4, 2016
Mar 4, 2016 at 7:04 PM UTC
My Cosmonaut
Scouring the stars for me
His life is all night and glitter
As I watch from my little marble
He floats
He flies
My Cosmonaut will rise
To the challenge
And bring a little space back
For me
May 3, 2016
May 3, 2016 at 2:57 AM UTC
The astronaut and the cosmonaut
Met while in orbit
And danced the waltz
Beneath a ray of Moonlight-opaque.
All hands and feet battle your space stations!
Jun 1, 2015
Jun 1, 2015 at 5:07 PM UTC
All I hear are muffled sounds
as I walk slowly, closer toward the light.
Today is the final step in which I’m bound
by duty and history I’m about to write.
Everywhere I look are cheers
from people I do not know;
their spirits are high above the skies.
Beneath my mask is a certainty unclear
of the task I am about to undergo;
no time now to say proper goodbyes.
Up calmly, ascending the stairway to the unknown,
my heart pacing more rapidly than before.
Though safe in numbers I feel more alone,
all courage and might I now implore.
Radio sounds buzzed and fed through the lines;
the countdown now comes down to Five, four,
three, two, one—my ears ring from the sounds combined;
this is what it means, what it feels to be alive.
All signs seem well, so far so good;
though I feel as if my weight is pulled down.
Everything looks so small, so minute,
so close yet so far as it really is should;
it’s into unfamiliar ground we’re abound.
Left and struck with awe, I see no one up here;
dark matter clouds all thoughts of fear,
as the stars shimmer even closer in space.
This memory, this single moment will never disappear—
up and away into a sweet unfamiliar embrace.
Apr 28, 2016
Apr 28, 2016 at 5:40 AM UTC
It is like silence
collapsing on you with the force of a black hole.
And it is very dark
and you feel so completely, utterly alone.
And far away, you can see the light of the stars.
You’d never doubt that they’re there, of course
you can even see them, just out of arms reach.
But for the life of you,
you don’t know how to get to them.
So you wait
and you bide your time
until you find a ship to sail you to the stars.
But until then,
you spend your time convincing yourself
that you don’t mind the dark.
You watch other people sailing over to the stars
on their own ships.
Maybe one day, one of them will stop for you.
But not yet.
And you just want to scream.
You want so badly to scream and cry and thrash about
within your little black hole
You want to grab the universe by it’s seams
and pull it apart and rip it to shreds and stomp on it
maybe if the anger’s enough, you’ll *** it up
and eat it
just because you can.
But your screams are lost to others.
In fact, they never even leave your little black hole.
They are simply crushed back into you
and they become dark and heavy
and begin to weigh on your heart.
So you watch,
with a growing blackness within you
at the others who reach the stars
and see the light, and feel the warmth.
But not you.
Maybe your ship will come someday
but not today.
So you sit in silence, and you wait.
A morose, forsaken cosmonaut
adrift, alone, in space.
Nov 12, 2013
Nov 12, 2013 at 12:20 PM UTC
You don't need crutches when you have wings
I do believe people are always changing, for better or worse - ever fascinating. I'm no saint, and I strive only to be, the me better than the individual I used to see. Our fractals react to every train of thought on the track. Once we live with intent our cells fully-optimized will reflect. Beyond our body, we are being. We are the space between our sub-atomic particles resonating. Now how do you want your vibe to sound? We transcend to new peaks when we allow our feet to leave the ground.
Let's choose to grow beyond the person we were yesterday, or even 3 hours ago,
1 second
Eyes closed, purge the mold, develop sensations and unravel the soul~
Talk to those without something physical to hold.. if you don't already. Send out intent with the individual in your mind's gaze, and don't wait until you're ready. The action has been healing for me, and in a way, helps me see our timelessness. Years have passed since yesterday, but the presence within is here to stay. May seem cliche but I am who I am because of the love at play.
Thank you
Forever blessed, moving forward with my eyes closed. Walls fall, allowing my light inside to be exposed. When was the last time I granted myself permission to be vulnerable? This life is a limited-time offer and our body is returnable.
Eventual satisfaction guarantee, for every star explodes, only to create galaxies. Look to the sky tonight to feel grounded. When you feel the effortless love, you are always surrounded. Waves talk, but the depths listen. I honor you, fellow cosmonaut, and appreciate your mission
Home
Feb 11, 2016
Feb 11, 2016 at 10:52 PM UTC
My life had become unhinged, bereft indeed.
You came into my heart and I believed.
Oh love. The great. The one.
Oh how you've stood by me.
A brain sick, cosmonaut.
My mind would lead.
I blushed when you came in.
The brush was crimson on my cheek.
My adoration for you leaked.
You are what with all my life I've longed to seek.
Dec 7, 2018
Dec 7, 2018 at 2:10 PM UTC
Already accepted that he is the one of his kind;
he is never going to happen again, though,
he has shed and shared too much blood
for keeping himself alive -
always on the still
I am the cosmonaut of his existence;
the explorer of his oneness
for he is the macrocosm of my blooming.
Dec 9, 2017
Dec 9, 2017 at 6:40 AM UTC
i.
dear cosmonaut,
some days
i am in love with you.
some days
i am in love with you
and i ache in every language i know
and a thousand i don't;
your name spilling from
constellations like some
pure wor(l)d built
elysium.
ii.
there are days
i am ador(n)ed
by the skin of those
who matter
when kindness blisters
and it burns;
i am spitfire conflagrations
and no respite, no shelter
when comfort is the
flame
you fly from.
iii.
in the between
moments
i am paused
floating lonesome
interstellar satellites
in orbit;
these are days
that feel like all days
and none
and i cry out to believe
i am. not broken,
yet sacred and longing
sca(r)red, and
wanting.
you,
perhaps.
iv.
dear cosmonaut,
some days
you are everything;
but the sun
must always
set.
Feb 7, 2016
Feb 7, 2016 at 1:14 PM UTC
Feeling the moment slip away
Losing direction out here in space
Trying to find myself
Tracing a path from the sun’s rays
Across the stars to that one place
Beyond the moon that bares your face
Out past the field where asteroids play
Carried out of the Milky Way
Into the void my journey takes
Through the holes carved out of endless space
Spiraling around for what feels like days
Suddenly, light illuminates my face
Flashes of life create this wave
That carries me back from whence I came
Back on Earth
Don’t feel the same
The stars out there call my name
I can hear them say
A journey through life is built on pain
Even the brightest of us lose our flame
When we are weak, we do not pretend
We burn out
So to shine again
Nov 14, 2020
Nov 14, 2020 at 2:57 PM UTC
How many are walking through this life
With Helen Keller borrowed eyes
Not seeing what's in front of them
Or what is coming round the bend
Like some spaced out cosmonaut
A porthole view is all they've got
Or a 5th grader at recess
Not much going on in their heads
Reality for most of them
Is seen on T.V. in a darkened den
Not knowing all along that in time
We've become a society, deaf, dumb, and blind
Jul 28, 2016
Jul 28, 2016 at 8:10 AM UTC
i'm ready to misspell your name
and ready to write a poem, and weep,
and drink: no sight of Saturn's meteor rings
to quench all lunar orbits could ever equal
you: whether in painting,
or in mirror, or in ghostly glass of an atlas....
god.... i'm abstracting you
by way of erasing memory!
in acronym s.t.a.y.
i'll give you my bog shelf of time,
the stinking pit of worthy portrait;
but then the canvas of constellations
is too unfathomable,
and even if i succeed at a body bound to
defeat, even if my thought rises
to a Martian soul of constant warring,
i am but
death's defeat,
on the consistency of repeated life;
for the Hindu credo speaks of the death
of death as the tongue lap dancing to the tune
of reincarnation, where nihilism is necessary,
to gather the self within the canvas of
knowing nothing, and yet painting something;
absolved on the banishment of signature with caricature.
Mar 2, 2016
Mar 2, 2016 at 6:07 PM UTC
when you live way beyond Pink Floyd and The Dark Side Of The Moon
a cosmonaut, a star ship trouper, space person, David Bowie, A Black Star
we will meet again.
Apr 13, 2017
Apr 13, 2017 at 11:17 AM UTC