Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
Nat Lipstadt Apr 2016
~for lovejunkie, who loved this poem best~

so many reasons,
so many stones
yet unturned,
for each poem
a season,
for every season,
a given reason

eyes, dimmer,
hearing, harder,
memories, ha,
disappear as fast as
footsteps upon
my island beach

this then
my log,
of places momentarily visited,
capturing the of,
of me,
the exactitude of
where, when and what
I felt

what felled me,
the long and lat,
of the attitudes
of breeze and currents,
the happenstance that carries
a desperate soul
eager and afraid
to remember


"how fragile we are"

so memorized records here,
for his storage and his places,
both filled and unfulfilled,


poems, nothing more,
flawed each,
product of a flawed man,

here, for all to see,
most of all,
for the man,
to see himself
when the eyes of his mind
at last be shuttered
4/11/16 8:04am nyc
Nat Lipstadt Feb 2015
this is a very important poem to me,
about me, and how Obama slurred my people. and never apologized

<•>

there are mornings when I wake up
in my nativity,
in my born/bred,
these struggling to be happy,
United States,
strangely hebrew-speaking,
Jamaican coffee
morning-thinking,
tallying up
what I am,
who I am,
commanded to be,
on this Earth

the labels that the
outward-looking apply,
the tags,
that you have caused
yourself to be defined,
been staked
to your claim,
in infamy and in fame,
that you have
by action and indeed,

have allow
to be presented
as entries on your
global entry passport,
with visas from the
lows and highs,
places where
your have sinned and saved,
all the acts accumulated,
and those,
in pain,
you have been a witness to

word titles that
tinge and suffuse,
summation of my presentation,
sampler of words
like
father, poet,
American,
even,
a for-real
community organizer,
and of course,
bien sûr,
a
Jew

the quality of all these life's papers,
which I grade myself,
I,
the harshest marker
of all

once a young man,
safely away in college,
under the fresh-air freedom of the
university's in loco parentis,
in the early years
spent quantifying oneself

nearly fifty years ago,
now he,
revealed and recalled
when
his college typed-letter,
lately uncovered amidst his,
recently passed mother's papers

"Don't know what kind of
Jew
I will be, but be assured,
that I will be a
Jew
all my life"

so here I am doing my post-sabbath,
top of the week,
right it down,
qualifying myself,
coffee enraged engaged,
a new Sunday tally

taking all my terms,
reordering,
re-prior-itizing,
what was prior, first,
is no longer

decades decay,
events sway,
simple words change me, stain me

nearing on five decades later,
when this
son of speakers,
son of humanists and 
son of
 writers,
son of proud
Jews
rewrites his list

today I write/substitute,
a new order,
a tag gladly taken,
a marker given,
some what in pride,
some in shame too,
first and foremost,
à la manière d'Lincoln
I am
of, by and for

"a bunch of folks in a deli"

proud member of them
that so identify,
for they are among those
that shall not perish from the Earth

those
happenstance-not,
bunch of folks in a deli,
I claim as
mine own,
as they would
have claimed me

no subtly professed,
a diminishment intended,
and now
an honorific taken,
Medal of Honor provoked and embraced,
proudly inscribed,
visible on my forehead,
in the black ink of mourning,
a Presidential Cain Citation,
a tattoo of letters,
not numbers,
now moves up to
head of the list,
I am
now and forever,
a member of that corps
(appreciate that double entendre)
I am
Je suis
JE JUIF

*"a bunch of folks in a deli"
Just google that phrase

Obama’s slur
King Panda Feb 2016
she described it as ice
in her chest
like
a lance that tightroped from
her chest to mine
fought over at the breakfast table
because her end was bigger than mine
or mine had more blood than hers
or she always got to look at my good side
and why couldn’t I look at her without laughing

mother always said it was a blessing
that two people were so close to each other
not through birth
but by journey
and life
and happenstance
two people that tasted grilled cheese the same way
that heard the same voices of joy
loss
despair
but always stuck to the roof of the mouth like peanut butter
and not the generic brand
no
the 10 dollar organic stuff

two people that couldn’t help but
crack jokes at the dinner table
when everyone else was talking about
death because
what is death without life?
she would ask
and everyone would go silent
and float up through the
limitless sky
while we stayed grounded in
the life that whiskey brings

sister
if you ever hear me calling
know that I’d give you the bigger half
every time and that
you may borrow my three-hole puncher
without asking
because
I love you
and love stitches time without holes
and moments without the train station goodbye
and the rocks
well
they will always be rippling the stream so you
can go whitewater rafting and I can write poems
about how you fell in and found
a fleck of gold
L B Jul 2018
Writing,
for you
--is a river
a revelation
a sleepless constant gift-- so out-to-see
in a flimsy boat
you built by mathematic rote and laced with ivy
to hold together ******* boards of crazy
with the ease of breathing
Your giant storehouse
wealth-of-words
Your granary of data
the grist of
Music
You imagine wine
from mind
almost without limits
You command it all!
Dancing
in the grapes of moonlight
with tides of words
Their endless-- almost blind
come-ons and gone
in waves!

(my sullen heart)....
still stays

I am digging here
in a low spot
seeking water
with robins and a sparrow
in the puddles
Awaiting rain
Flipping-off the muddy shallows with our wings
I suppose their songs
will count for something
Tasting happenstance
of bugs in flight
maybe catch a firefly or two
at the edge of day
Tearing half a worm
from weeds...the brown of drying grass
near the small lagoon
collecting
'neath my car
Hiding
in an afternoon
too warm for flight
resorting to a place of shade
to smell the fresh-mown
sweet grass

Riding with my training-wheels
in the parade
Like a fool between those bikers' “Hogs”
Turning down my street
by mistake
laughing at the dead-end
of it all

Pulling poetry out my ***
_
This was not meant to make fun of you.
I so admire your writing (you know who).
I appreciate all you do for us, poets here.  
It was only meant to contrast
all our differences, and point out that anything can be
a poem, given a moment of insight and time.
This one took a morning into afternoon.


Items for a high school test:

1. Compare and contrast the two poets in this.

2. Find and explain two allusions/metonymies in this piece.
Dan Hess Feb 2014
Happenstance to the melancholic gives leave the sin of pride.
Inbound reconnaissance tells not the bearer of influence.
Squeamish at first: a foreshadowing of calamitous bonding.

A space between the mark of corporeal and the ethereal; a stringent hiatus
That which rattles the concrete foundation of morality is scarcely a malleable recourse.
Regret stains the unfounded soul: an enigma of ephemeral perforations.

A separation of the unmitigated humanities; misandry topples the writhing snake.
Impact; a cleansing of the maker's flaws integrated solemnly.
Complacency arrests the administration of the abhorred; unbridled is the autonomy of a guru.  

Ambivalent giftedness burdens the reliant and haughty.
A flick of the tongue brings forth the cinema mortem.
Castaway: alone to wade in the sea of obscenities.

A temporal causality allows no mourning to abscond.
Negligence is not the enemy, but indulgent wrath.
Hesitant: a stroke of qualia begets the end of a maiden.
False Poets Oct 2017
does the moon get tired?

~for the children who never tire of moon gazing upon the dock,
by the light of the fireflies,
till the angels are dispatched by Nana,
to sprinkle sleepy dust in their eyelashes so long and fine~


<•>
while walking the dog I no longer have,
a happenstance glanceable up over the River East,
there you were, mr. moon, in all your fulsomeness ,
surrounded by a potpourri of courtier clouds,
all deferentially bowing, waving,
passing past you at a demure royal speed on their way
perhaps,
to Rebecca's northern London,
of was it south to grace of  v V v's Texas^,
in any event,
the cloudy ladies, all bustling and curvaceous,  
all high stepping in recognition of your exalted place,
Master of the Night Sky

We,
the word careless, poets excessive,
sometimes called silly poppies, old men,
left footed, still crazy after many years,
most assuredly poets false all of us,
without a proper prior organized thought train,
outed,
bludgeon blurted,
an inquiry preposterous and strange,
strait directed to the sombre face,
to mister moon himself!

tell me moon, do you ever tire?*

the obeisant clouds shocked
as that face we all uniform know,
unchanged anywhere you might go  to gaze, be looking upon it,
watched the moon's face turn askew.

He looking down at our rude puzzlement,
with a Most Parisian askance,
a look of French ahem moustacheoed disbelief,
while we watched as the moon cherubic cheeks
filled with airy atmosphere,
then he sighed

so windy winding, was it,
so mountain high and river deep,
that those chubby clouds were blown off course,
from a starless NYC sky
all the way past Victoria Station,
only to stop at Pradip and Bala's
mysterious land of
bolly-dancing India,
on their way to Sally's Bay of Manila,
magic places all!

Mr. Moon looked down at this one tremulous fool representative  
(me) and in a voice
basso beaming and starry sonorous,
befitting its stellar positioning,
squinting to get a closer look at the
who in whom
dare address him in such an emboldened manner!

Mmmmm, recognize you, you are among those
who use my presence, steal my lighted beams, my silver aura,
my supermoon powered light, borrow my eclipses,
reveal my changeling shaped mystery without permission,
only mine to give, you tiny borrowers who write that thing,
p o e t r y

head and kneed, bowed and bent,
I confessed
(on y'alls behalf)

we take your luminosity and don't spare you
even a tuppence, a lonely rupee, no royalties paid
to you-up-so-highness,
and we hereby apologize for all the poets
without exception,
especially those moon besotted,
only love poem writing,
vraiment misbegotten scoundrels....

with another sigh equality powerful,
mr moon pushed those clouds across the Pacifica,
all the way to the  US's West Coast,
up to Colorado,
where moon-takings from the lake's reflecting light
so perfect for rhyming, kayaking,
and moonlight overthrowing,
once more, the moon taken and begotten,
nightly,
as heaven- freely-granted

yes, I tire
and though  here I am much beloved,
usually admired though sometimes even blackened cursed,
seen in every school child's drawing,
in Nasa's calculations,
of my influential gravitational pull,
moving human hearts
to love and giving Leonard a musical compositional hint,
and while this admirable devotion is most delighting,
would it upset some vast eternal plan,
if but one of you once asked,
you fiddler scribblers
my prior permission,
even by just, a lowly
mesmerizing evening tide's tenderizing glance?

yes, I tire,
even though my cycles are variable,
my shape shifting unique, my names so at variance
in all your many musical sing-song dialectical languages,
my sway, my tidal currents so powerful a deterrence,
unlike my boring older sunny cousine  who just cannot get over
how hot looking she is,
I,  so more personally interesting,
yet you use me as if I were a fixture,
on and off with
a tug of the chain string,
never failing to appear,
even when feeling pale yellow and orange wan,
and worse,
mocked as an amore pizza pie,
do you ever ask how I am doing?

yes, I tire,
of my constant circuitous route that changes ever so slowly,
but yet, too fast for me to make some nice human acquaintances, especially those young adoring children
who give me their morn pleasurable squeals when they awake and my presence still there,
a shining ghost of a guardianship protector still
watching over them

how oft in life do we presume,
take for granted
grants so extra-ordinary
that we forget to remember
the extra
and see only the ordinary

how oft in life do we assume,
the every day is always every,
until it is not,
only an only
a now and then,
till then,
is no longer a
now*

<>
oh moon, oh moon,
our richest apologies
we hereby tender and surrender,
our arrogance beyond belief,
what can we offer in relief?

silence heard loud and clear,
mr. moon was gone,
a satellite in motion,
so our words burnt up in the atmosphere
unheard

we did not weep
nor huff and puff,
blow those clouds back to us,
for we knew
the extraordinary
would return tomorrow,
we will be ready,
better another day,
to prepare
a lunar composition,
a psalm of hallelujah praise,
for mr. moon
of which
mr moon will never tire,
for filled with the perma-warmth
of our affection
for the one we call mr.moon
False Poets is a collective of different poets who write here, in a single voice,
hence the confusing interchangeable switching of the pronouns.    sorry bout that.


^ HP - give them back the claimed  V name!
Joel A Doetsch Feb 2012
He owned books on many subjects
leather bound, with complex concepts
on which he'd ponder and reflect

He had it all, in some respects.

He could lecture quantum physics,
English literature and economics
He was renowned in academics

Though many found him quite eccentric

He explored the world only to find
That there's more to life than a brilliant mind
That there was a piece of him...undefined

See, He had never loved. He'd never pined

He knew all the math, knew all equations
He'd been to every corner of every nation
He'd learned 28 languages, knew every translation

But he was distraught by this realization

The pain he felt was too great to bear
He sank into the deepest and darkest despair
His heart was in need of dire repair

Finding love was his only prayer

He bumped into her by happenstance
and what began as an ephemeral glance
became a sucker punch from romance

She thought he was sweet, so she gave him a chance

That's when the world's smartest man finally learned how to dance
Somewhat inspired by the Dr. Who episode "The Doctor Dances"
Logan Robertson Jul 2018
England you had your chance to dance
on soccers biggest stage with France
you had your chance to advance
but you fell to Croatia's lance
how two stricken spears quelled the romance
and now cinderellas laugh at your trance
as a sorry Big Ben now sits in a prance
while the Croats sip your tea and perchance
To continue.
Oh, my. Now Belgium takes third in your belly up dance
You reign now like a fish at the surface with its sad eyes askance
Where did it all go Big Ben, the spirited stance
Sigh. To wait four years lost to be tickled with waning happenstance


Logan Robertson

7/12/2018
The writer joins all the other England fans in the losses.
To continue.
Mark Edwards Jr Oct 2018
At wits' end,
he overextends,
as time was running low.
Yet his mind devised,
through blood-shot eyes,
a way to end his woes.

A chance, perhaps,
by happenstance,
to finally take control.
On a sliver of hope,
while dreams eloped,
an endeavor to mend his soul.

As the stars aligned,
the gods divined,
and the man would have his chance.
Through foreign lands,
devoid of plans,
on a razor's edge he danced.

Now settling in,
the outlook; grim,
... but was it all for naught?
As he looked in the mirror,
t'wasn't man, but his fear -
the demon he had sought.

Now face to face,
his heart; it raced,
but he knew what he must do.
He gazed inside,
and began to cry,
for the demon that he slew.

Though beaten and broken,
within him awoken,
a soul now free of strain.
With time to cleanse,
with himself - make amends,
no longer a life in vain.

And over time,
he's clear of mind,
seeing beauty in his days.
The ironic part,
is within his heart,
he still finds comfort in the Grey.

09/30 - 10/01
2018
Marla Apr 16
This path on which I've come so far,
It has neglected my condition and left me tired.
The fire within is fleeting like a dim star
As these legs move like thinned wires.
Premonitions of the precognitive sort
Project into my dearest slumbers
To lend a communicative report
Concerning the sweetest of encounters.
But that future seems so far away
And my will to move forward
May waver towards the end of days.

Yet happenstance will show me my way,
She hardly leads the lost astray.
Logan Robertson Oct 2018
A Workplace Rendezvous

My eyes
Always found hers.
Mischief,
The dangling host.
She was one
Of my workplace peers.
If it went any further
I could be toast.

Those cinnamon eyes
Of hers.
Butterscotch candy
Peers back at me,
I feel so dandy
Shoot me some brandy.

I see the loneliness
In hers.
Her cleavage
Cuts to the chase.
Happenstance now in place.

Our eyes did dance a duet.
Her words are the coquette.
Mine is a cadet.
We grabbed a ruse.
A pail and mop with a muse.

When we reached
The men's restroom
The coast was clear.
The sun shining above,
Holding a frown.
Say hello to the clown.

We fast break the court,
I dribble up and down.
She passes back and forth,
I shoot for the town.
We score at the bell,
That breaks the spell.

Our lunch break
Rendezvous
Was a first.
And last.
We filled our thirst
With
better scotch
we toast.

Logan Robertson

10/6/2018
A sentimental memory from my youth. We were both
from nearby college working at a fast-food restaurant. What
we had was a shot glass of dilution. A crutch. So the
last three lines unravel the knot.
What an ironic place of mind
When something I've wanted for awhile
Finally presents itself
And I'm overwhelmed so intensely
By anxiety and sadness

How long have I hoped to meet up?
How many times had I mentioned coffee?
Yet here I am
Three days before I see you
For the first time in a year and a half
And I feel so sad

It's as though
I am finally mourning the loss
Of someone who was my best friend
Finally letting myself feel about you
All of the things I've repressed

It has been a long time
We both must be so different now
What would that mean for this?
Do we meet up once
Play a game of catch up
Then resume the path of strangers?
Or do we try to be friends again
And run the risk of pain and heartache?

Does our intense shared anxiety
At just the sight of each other
Signal a similar message
A similar desire within us both?
Or am I stuck within a fantasy
Lying to myself that this could work
That you could be in my life again

We were not made to be lovers
And I don't believe in happenstance
I do think we came together for a reason
Just as we've become reconnected now
The city may be small
But this has to be more than coincidence
You were my best friend back then
And I know I hurt you deeply
But part of me hasn't stopped believing
That our lives staying connected
Is something that's meant to be

And I know that
When I'm sitting anxiously in my car
Outside the cafe where we're set to meet
Thoughts racing faster than my heart beats
I'll have to fully prepare myself
To find out that you disagree
RIH May 2016
82 weeks after.

I sit alone and look
At a picture of us from the
Day we first met
Happenstance that it was
Even captured.

I sit alone and wonder
About my life
Had that picture never
Been captured.

But that isn't how
Life works
Is it?
patty m Nov 2018
Poets don't pick the time or place, or the state of their lives.  Some write while trying to STAY ALIVE in a hellhole state of abuse. And yes like the homeless man on the street They don't mouth words, they write guts, and gall, and bruises, They write love, and levity and crazy rants or bits and pieces of hope and dreams. Poetry is  the other side of the mirror, the place of sanity/insanity and escape.

Tinny whine
by design
a wind-chime
blowing
words are snowing
trumpets blowing
where's the rhymer
the man who writes lines for two bucks
what the f- - k
Once poets were revered
now they sear through the mind
refined or unrefined, no
loving valentine.
And still I read in awe
chewing on a straw
drinking all the thoughts in
how does one begin to absorb
it all?
The aches the pain, the non-monetary gain,
the romance, and happenstance,
As to the question
Who writes poems like this?
the words were uttered like a breathless kiss

not a reprimand, or justification
supplication to that
unholy state of upper-hand,
on demand, testamentary of
vocabulary signature of solemn state
in which one contemplates tone and
that alone designates the way
one whispers when truly touched
by poetry that says so much.

Who writes poems like this?
I seek to amend,

Only the very best my friend
text is so easy to misunderstand, when one can't hear the tone expressed.  
hugs
Patty
Spenser Bennett Apr 2016
O' Miss Fortune, mother of joy
Daughter of Ol' Sorrow
Won't you be my savior?
Won't you call me your boy?

O' Miss Fortune, lover of happenstance
Murderer of Good Father Time
Would you come out to play?
Would you join with Decadence?

O' Mr. Misery, keeper of delights
Warrior of Love's Lost Heart
What could be your destiny?
What could you know of fair fights?

O' Mr. Misery, follower of my shadow
Burden of my shoulders
Won't you let me go home alone?
Won't you let me go?

O' Mother, O' Father
Please can't you see?
Fortune and Misery
Have made a mess of me.
Butch Decatoria Jul 2018
Diminutive minutes fly by and imbue.

Ennobled, hungers the second hand.

Verbose and loud, its villainous ticking;

Oxen heavy, that kneading sound,

Under skull and depth of dreams.

Rescind the mad lives we vitiate;

Enchanted by hollow, fear of ghosts,

Dancing in a pitch waiting room.


Happenstance for insomniacs,

Ogres and dark shadows howling

Unapologetic at the light and moon.

Riot of the quiet, against daylight

Star: quarry in the void of night / time / dark.
One
Somewhere in Vermont
I see the sky
Stars scattered
like lighting bugs back home

Clouds drift,
Cold breeze,
Threatening rain

Shaped like an unfamiliar constellation
Headlamps shine
Some red, some blue, some yellow
Some bright, some dim

There's a presence here
Neither scary
Or threatening

Or even mysterious

People breathe,
A guitar sounds,
Pens scribble
Each in unity with the other

Somewhere in Vermont
People write
Separated by space
Their own thoughts
Spilling around them

Combining as one
Yet still
Individual

Brought together
By happenstance

They breathe together
as
One
As you progress through this golden stream
Eyes stuck on the endless possibilities of a promising new horizon
You stand content in a revered acceptance

Like an echo of what seems
Gently floating feathers landing upon
Mountains agreed to never meet and greet,instead stood solid in their stance

What is some to the infinite?
Like an ethereal beam of light you turn on
Fragments of a blissful happenstance

Here you are, observing the elements blending
No anger, but a bow, In sincere resignation
Life gave you meaning in a flick of a glance

Altered Perception
Logan Robertson Nov 2017
Her orchards I often dream,
buries of my eye,
lost in my fairy book
of beaten pages,
of sunken tears and of mind.
I kept turning the pages, racing,
racing,
looking for her,
between the lines,
now gone,
gone ... are those
lovely high hanging trees,
elegant and so berried,
swaying and smiling,
her,
her saintly smile,
haunting,
yet shadowing me forever
in my mind.
Each page turned, a sad tear falls
deep and deeper,
for the pages are blank.
Her absence ferreting out
blackness,
skeletons and silhouettes,
the pages turning,
weeping ...
my heart pains
for the book of love
unwritten and unfinished.
The wishing well of ink unspent.
Her essence forever corked
from my heart ...
I now lay arrest,
peas in a pod,
aberration and distortion,
for
lovely those high hanging trees,
elegant and so berried,
gone.
Sullenly the music plays
to a different song.
Indelible was happenstance,
our chance encounter,
a special one at that,
puzzlement lays a longer shadow
... of why she walked,
without any words.

Logan Robertson

11/09/17
Jo Barber Mar 2018
I kissed a boy in France.
He asked me to save him a dance,
but I didn't like the speed of his advance.
He never had a chance.
Love -
is it all just happenstance?
Before you leave too soon
Head to the sand dunes;
Emptied out timers.
Infinity.

Evening clouds have pink linings
Burning. Positive discoveries beyond
expectations.
Every element alive.

Fairyland dreamscape
I didn’t plan for you
You taught me the lessons
I didn’t believe you
The fantasy of this reality
is in the eloquent interruption
of concertina happenstance.
Written August 2019
It all began when a gentle heart fell for a wild heart. And as their walls grew thinner it became more crystal clear that; them meeting was more of an alignment than a happenstance. They were indeed two sides of the same soul.
©Sonia Ettyang
....whichever direction they each chose to follow was their own decided fate.
Carlo C Gomez Nov 28
The shoe never fit,
But the clock was to blame
For her act of arson,
An unlucky stroke
Of midnight became
This story's carcinogen.
In high dudgeon,
She set fire to the dance,
Killed her fairy godmother,
And skipping to the merry end,
Ignited her way to a life
Of happenstance.
Logan Robertson May 2018
I tiptoed into your garden delight,
with blue jays singing in my eyes.
Those little birdies,
in flight formation,
to and from
your nest.
We had met earlier at a bar,
happenstance,
lit the candlestick.
Now in the soft meadow,
our breaths gasping,
as the flame grew.
So wild and passionate.
Suspended passiveness,
a winner.
You clawed.
You bit.
You echoed.
Flesh ripped from my back,
black of the night screaming,
as your cat rose.
Our pent out clouds bursting into the rain.
Your tail a wagging,
wagging,
beckoning the blue jays
onto another flight.
Battle wounded
but feeling good.
Those little birdies,
found flight formation,
with a zip in their wings,
to and from
your nest.
The night stretched on,
planting a seed of friendship
beyond your garden delight.
Needed rain feed our drought.
And it was a hoot to perch
outside your window sill
the next night
and next
as you cupped your hands.

Logan Robertson

5/3/2018
I actually love this poem yet sadden that it now sits in anonymity.
Pyrrha Oct 2018
I don’t believe in her
But how else could I explain
What phenomenon it was
That drew us to the same place
The same time
The same moment
How could I formulate an answer
To define the reason why
Our eyes fit so perfectly
In the same gaze
And why our minds
Seem to mold
Together into one
Single entity?

Was it luck or happenstance
That crossed our paths
And joined our lives?
Robert C Ellis Aug 2018
Atoms beading on infinity, hosting planets
Call this fold a century, the air cool with derision of
Time, a happenstance of the rhyme
Of persisting extending fingers of denigrating cells
Crushing my skull when it dwells
The child can name nine planets
The adult cowers from infinity
I reach for chalk streams bearing her life
And scream to be
Brian Oarr Aug 2018
"Boy were we wrong!  We're the oddball.  We're the freaks." --- Dr. Michio Kaku

We looked at trillions of those stars and knew,
that somewhere out there was another Planet Blue.
Those were not canals we saw on Mars;
optical illusions, lensed figment memoirs.

Stare into trillions, space mind overwhelms.
Rimbaud entrapped in countless ethereal realms.
Not the goal of evolution, merely happenstance,
the search for elsewhere leads a merry dance.

Planets a dime a dozen, yet no Goldilocks Zone
produces signals bearing SETI transient tones.
Birds more subtly impact our lives,
than do the aliens our universe provides.
Next page