"pulsars" poems
*Milky way around me
stars, sun, planets, the moon
interstellar, interplanetary
orbits, i commune
The heavens surround me
galaxies, constellations, nebulae
across my cosmic journey
for revolutions i'll stay
The cosmos envelope me
dark stars, black holes, supernova
flames in my tail I see
celestial brightness of my strata
Heavenly bodies you and me
falling star, giant star, dwarf star
my love is quasar-like energy
a bolide of us is not far
Astronomical intensity
alpha centauri,sirius, achernar
encompasses their enormity
unlike pulsars, we are shooting stars*
Jan 12, 2013
Jan 12, 2013 at 8:19 AM UTC
The farthest man made object in space, Voyager 1,
is over 20 billion km away from Earth.
On board is a phonograph record, brilliant gold,
containing sounds and images of what life is like on earth,
A message to whoever is able to listen, a literal shot in the dark.
On it is an inscription that is perhaps the most beautiful sentence
I have ever read
TO THE MAKERS OF MUSIC
ALL TIMES
ALL WORLDS
a time capsule, a gift, from us
To anywhere and everywhere
A hundred years from now or a thousand
Our belief that no matter what time
Or world you belong to, melody and harmony and rhythm, can bring us together, can communicate.
On the cover
Are figures, explaining how to operate this record
Hieroglyphics from what by then
Would be ancient history
Messages in binary, the 1s and 0s
Our position in the universe marked by our distances
from gigantic pulsars, the star map to our home,
the creators of this message
There's beauty in this marriage of math and art
Code and music
As a way to communicate with the universe.
Some of the images on the record are
the most beautifully simple ones,
Of us, humans, drinking and eating, laughing,
of animals, nature, food and architecture.
Then there are images of our scientific observations,
mathematical calculations, our discoveries,
Like a child showing off
Look, look what I can do!
Black and white and in colour,
Pictures, proof that we, indeed have lived and achieved.
The music, classical, our very best from Bach and Mozart
to Blind Willie Johnson's Dark was the Night.
But all of this can only matter, can come to fruition
if someone exists to receive it, and is evolved enough
to comprehend what it means.
But that's the thing, everybody knows,
That's there's a slim chance of this record ever being heard,
and it's much more possible that the Voyager will simply end up as floating debris in the cosmos, but it doesn't matter!
We just want someone to know that there was a species of bipedal, intelligent animals on this blue planet,
no different than finding graffiti in alleys that read I WAS HERE.
WE WERE HERE, WE EXISTED.
And it's all about that hope, the hope that someone will see us,
our pictures, listen to our languages, our greetings, our music, and remember us, even after we're long gone.
Or perhaps we will one day be interstellar space faring people as well, following the path of the Voyager, doing what we do best,
Explore.
Jan 2, 2016
Jan 2, 2016 at 9:32 AM UTC
Somewhere in the South Pacific
a human-shaped speck casts a bottle
from the shore of a tiny island
into the interminable sea.
The bottle contains a note
which bears:
a name
an approximate location
and a desperate plea.
The bottle drifts slowly away
flashing in and out of view
on the crests of passing swells.
It glides on mysterious currents
and a quiet modicum of hope.
Simultaneously,
Above a particular point in the Northern Hemisphere,
a ball of tin foil
labeled Voyager I
is crossing the threshold
into the world outside
the solar system.
On board are a pair of golden discs
engraved with:
images and voices of human beings
the relative location of the Sun to fourteen nearby pulsars
and a plea,
naively disguised to look like a proud declaration of identity
but what proud and accomplished
race of beings
would need to search for
companionship
among the stars?
The little metal ball floats away
blinking bits of data back to Earth
each grainier than
the last
tugged by the gravity of distant bodies
and a quiet modicum of
hope.
Jul 21, 2018
Jul 21, 2018 at 1:21 AM UTC
Nothingness.
Imagine nothingness.
That nothingness which is nothing of the nothingness we are all familiar with:
Not that nothingness which is nothing but empty space and time
Like when you open an empty room.
No.
That nothingness where nothing truly exists:
Not space,
Not even time.
A singular point.
Imagine a singular point.
The ultimate singular point that contains all possible points
In the development of the universe
Come out and expand
From the birthing of time, the instance of The Big Bang,
(Which by the way is not a large explosion, as the words imply, but a silent rapid expansion)
Pushing the envelope
Where nothingness begins.
Chance.
Imagine chance.
The random occurrence of events:
Of fundamental particles colliding and uniting
Or annihilating each other,
Giving rise to protons, neutrons and electrons;
Giving rise to the periodic table,
To compounds, both organic and inorganic,
To macromolecules.
Billions of years.
Imagine billions of years
Gone by,
And billions of galaxies filling the sky:
Stars and quasars and pulsars
Planets and comets and meteors
***** nilly hurtling through
Dark matter and ever expanding space,
Yet inanimate still
,
A single cell.
Imagine a single cell
Form inexplicably so,
In a staggeringly highly improbable way
As carbon molecules combine,
Start to throb and pulsate:
Chance bringing forth life
In a barren and otherwise
Lifeless universe.
Consciousness
Imagine consciousness
Purposive, willful, deliberate
Feelings
Imagine feelings
Love, compassion, hatred
Imagine all in a universe that came out of itself from nothingness.
It is hard, of course,
For after all, we are creatures of somethingness!
But at this point
You must have seen the Point
Of all the ramblings and turns in the trajectory of my thought
Tracing the evolutionary course of the universe
From nothingness and that singular point
That without God
All things are
After all
Pointless!
.
And so,
Let us not deplore, as a great poet once did,
That this world “so various, so beautiful, so new
Hath no joy, nor love, nor light
Nor certitude, nor peace, nor help for pain…”
For what else should we expect
Of a cold, unfeeling universe?
What?
Give us some Novocain?
Jul 16, 2013
Jul 16, 2013 at 4:36 PM UTC
I gave away my heartbeats to a black dark night
sculpted a stone into a new heart
with each daily news break hanging from my dreams
like silk shrouds for all the dead of just one day on Earth
while the night unfolded her mystery
and my heartbeats were pulsars in a distance too great to travel
while my stone heart was stoic and hardened to grief
I make paper flowers , now, out of black crape, for all those about to enter the land of the dead.
Jan 5, 2016
Jan 5, 2016 at 11:54 AM UTC
I make my home in the heart of stars
Pulled in by their massive gravity
Fiery furnace burning the core of me
Skin incinerated in a fury of white orange
Quasars spewing my light filled essence
Out in either direction
Pulsars spinning like a lighthouse
Beckoning what’s left of me
Until the black holes gobble up
What remains of my scattered particles
Aug 15, 2015
Aug 15, 2015 at 9:27 AM UTC
Galactic curls in spirals swirl, entwining twisted mystery,
where time unrolls in blackened holes, no longer bright and blistery,
but writ like runes on starry dunes enclosed in cosmic history
Galactic dust, from novas' gusts, congesting empty spaces
once fatefully flung beyond the tongue of burnt out astral traces,
may recompress and coalesce in distant times and places
Galactic dwarves, like ancient wharves with silent planets mooring
yet still in spin though long done in, hide flares no longer soaring -
magnetic webs of eons ebb, in thermal fusion roaring
Galactic tides warp space divides, call forth sublime creation
while bending clocks in rippled shocks, unfolding time dilation
that seems to crown the flowing gown of pulsars' pulsed gyration
Galactic stew, a seething brew, midst background noise and chatter
like Chaos reigns, the sole remains of missing antimatter,
with just a trace to form a space-time, curved or somewhat flatter
Galactic glue holds something new: dark energy and matter
that interacts and counteracts the ancient Big Bang splatter:
a cosmic soup of strings and loops, a universal batter
Galactic life's replete and rife 'neath lactic milky wafer,
though solar gales leave unseen trails of cosmic rays, the strafer;
but nonetheless, one must confess, it seems there's nowhere safer
Aug 21, 2016
Aug 21, 2016 at 8:54 AM UTC
the wrong atmospherics of transmission
move in uninvestigated chaotic archives
red and pink turbulent storms swarm across
deep space frequencies in imaginative
currents of pulsars
that are translated into phases
each represented in diverse
conflicting modes of expression
in obsessive grooves of consciousness
cut up components of recycled narratives
audibly fixating on vibrations
that sound across the universe
in diffused spirals of manic fluctuations
converting archaic symbols into equivalents
of dust surfaces that oxidise in intermittent epochs
and deposit a rediscovered earth
an expansive transferable construction
of accidental providence
that allows for expression in artificially generated realities
hallucinated images that float
across the consciousness of the cosmos
producing visions that punctuate rational thought
become preoccupied with the conception
of interplanetary transpeciation
counting the chronological diversity
of those that occupy the black, blank
vacuum of space
Aug 4, 2013
Aug 4, 2013 at 7:54 PM UTC
the language of light fills the sky once more
comes down to share our table
- life pulsating from out the Earth
clear clean water.
We eat our bread and drink our wine
while the Sun shines on all we do.
the language of light throughout the Universe
- crackling stars
our hearts pulsars
love a river, an ocean wide
dive on in, in reckless abandon.
Apr 4, 2017
Apr 4, 2017 at 3:36 AM UTC
I just want to be
a Duke of a Universe
is this too much to ask?
I could use
The Black Hole as a pool pocket
and the planets as pool-balls
and declare you
Vice Duke inspecting graffiti
on planet restroom walls,
and you report to me
those words of wisdom
of Plato, Nietzsche, Kilroy and cornbread...
I just want to watch
comets streek across
the heavens
and watch tiny pulsars blink minute rotations,
and newly created stars explode
and belch their heavenly gases
And see masses and masses
of nebulae
stretching outward
like blowy-toy-pinwheels
And I'll take the " Big Dipped"
and dip it in the " Milky Way"
while playing marbles
with tiny asteroids
And use the heavens as my
painter's canvas
and splash on newly Constellations
And use the many Suns
to warm my chilly hands,
The return from farthermost
planets of Sunless Lands
Oh my BOSS!!
I'm getting too serious
as you can easily see
And why worry?
Because I'm already
a Duke of a Universe,
The talk of the playground campus
The talk among every prominent
Neo-Freudian and Neo-Skinnerian
The talk about my wisdom writings
found near almost flushing toilet
at "QUACKSVILLE UNIVERSAL UNIVERSITY"
Here come the med cart
Here come the med cart
That's all folks
Sep 20, 2014
Sep 20, 2014 at 5:30 PM UTC
Once the levers are pulled down
squealing and removing themselves from silence,
once we become noisy
and our baritones are barges
across rivers that separate us,
once you become the Rock of Gibraltar
and I can point my nose at you in the fog
to gauge not only distance,
but time as well,
then I think
it will resume.
But as the night holds your tongue
on its own tongue, moving you around
inside its mouth in a *** of dense
violet clouds, as so many cities burn in the sky,
I will never hear a thing.
I will only see
your eyes running the gauntlet
of a dense violet night and its violence
of lighthouses revolving quicker than pulsars,
increasing the walls of space.
They scream in the void
for some empty barge and its horn
of compassion.
Feb 17, 2012
Feb 17, 2012 at 7:31 AM UTC
We fall hunting for laurels,
shredding
our purple bruises
into rose hips.
Our silversmith rings lose their fingers,
cracked irreparable.
Our lives of lavish luxury
lives as lapis lazuli.
The banks of the Ipswich
call out:
silhouettes behind birch bark.
Remember
how we used to swim
her waters;
tread her auric ebb?
We aim at deer, at ripening
persimmons. They chew
the fruit pretty.
We aim at killdeer.
Kiss a wasp.
We were dead fireworks
under Laniakea eyes.
As midnight, we are
films noir:
we imagine *******
Lauren Bacall from behind,
speaking and kissing in tongues,
her mouth tasting
of unfiltered smoke,
breathing the snow
melting
down her rose hips.
We stuff the stuff of nightmares
into a cardboard box.
We howl at solar winds and polar vortexes.
We are a vesica; both/and.
We fall hunting for laurels,
adolescent pulsars with persimmon eyes.
Feb 26, 2015
Feb 26, 2015 at 3:46 PM UTC
spilled blood
in galaxies made of tears,
candles that blow
dark photons in my chest,
my brain that emits ideas
with pulsars in cosmos
and the hot of the sun
turns into a neutron star,
who is carrying me
into a confusing geodesic road
and this road...
are just coordinates
into wormholes
that provides me the possibility
to travel into parallels worlds
in the fourth dimensions
of my complicated mind
lighting spectrums
of information into my empty heart
who was a black hole for long time
but now
that I find you
this black hole
it's turning again
into a beautiful star
#poetry #dreamingforawhile #imagination
Jul 24, 2018
Jul 24, 2018 at 6:22 PM UTC
Your eyes are not portals to your soul
They are not some archaic metaphysical equation
Ancient mathematicians formulated to confound
They are pastures for nymphs
They are branches for fruit
They are laurels for poets
They rend me open like a flaming axe
They tie my stomach like knotted roots
I lose myself in their dusky wilderness
In them, I observe universes
Perpetually exploding and collapsing
Your pupils are black holes
At the center of galaxies
Balancing energy and force
Bending light inward
Like a sickle glistening high over hayfields
In them I hear songs
And sagas narrated by savage tongues
Of catastrophic floods and rebirth
Aryan myths about oneness
In them I see IVs dripping
Candles flickering behind carved pumpkins
I loiter in them like a pauper
With a styrofoam cup
Gazing on them is nearly intolerable
Like glaring at hydrogen bombs blinding
It is like Hebrews
Uttering the name of El- who cannot be named
El- who is above mortal matrices
The eye that never sleeps
The ear that always comprehends
The self that waivers like the sea
Eternity ends when you blink
Infernos extinguish when you sob
I tremble before them
As if they're holy relics
Decaying into perfection
Oh look upon me one last time
My love
Oh glance at me before
I petrify into pillars of salt
Look upon me
Before I transfigure into an amnestic god
Bearing light pure
Peer once more into my binary pulsars, frozen
In a fathomless abyss.
Apr 16, 2015
Apr 16, 2015 at 6:22 AM UTC
To sit back, and behold the universe, she of old
her magnificence dwarfed, by only her silence
a cold calm it is, a true death to fantasies
to her is anger unknown, and pretense a disease
she makes no claims, of a past of yore
no books, no bones, no ancient folklore
She is at once wide awake, and in a deep sleep
but she has no dreams, just stars in streams
Millions of burning giants, tumbling around in a race
thrown apart and hurtling radiantly through space
But even with vast and glorious citizens
naively do we pretend a grasp of her essence
some content to accuse a creator for her presence
she treats our illusions with no derision
she destroys with ease, what took her millenia to create
but nothing is destroyed, just reshaped, in a new fate
a picture of modesty is the Universe so immense
she abhors all show, avoids all pretense
not a word does she speak, nor a glance too intense
She feigns no knowledge of her timeless existence
Often does one wonder, what plans she foments
but she has no motive, nor desires that her torment
All one can truly say, is that she feels no bias
She wanted to see herself, so she tried us.
But here we sit in arrogance, calling her just a creation
when what she really is, is endless, an eternal congregation
of stars and novas and pulsars and a billion others
She invites us to look, to look ever further
to see the nothing, and the everything all together.
Oct 15, 2014
Oct 15, 2014 at 11:10 PM UTC
There is a pathway to the stars
Mapped out for us by
Tiny cherubs—faint, pulsating
Trail of constellations scattered:
The universe is
Vast
And I’m out here,
Stuttering to find the words
By which to capture
The very ends
Of our corner of the world
Lost
In this sea of light,
Transmissions,
Pulsars beating its heavenly
Drum as a sign that maybe
God
Has not left us for dead
Yet. God has not left
Us for dead
Yet
This noise we run away from:
These nauseating horns
And screams of
Wounded children
Have a heaven, God bless you.
Have a heaven
Transmitting
Its “love yous”
And “miss yous”
And “thank yous”
Singing
To a sky beyond our corner of
Dec 4, 2014
Dec 4, 2014 at 9:38 AM UTC
We are star stuff recycled over and over again.
You are a reflection and an injection
of all the stars, cosmic junk, and other stuff
that cluttered space. Your pale face
wears billions of years of history.
Your eyes that watch the heavens
were once that which burnt the brightest
in the heavens.
Your heart pulses like the particles in pulsars,
which now constitute the core of your being
So, when we die, when the sun collapses
and all our mass is ****** in and spewed out,
I hope my particles play with yours.
I hope our atoms give birth to a new universe.
Let our being be together in purple clouds
that cross the cosmos singing song of static
in infinity
swirling in a universal dance.
Let me orbit you as my heart is want to do;
Even, if your molecules would rather
orbit another.
Aug 17, 2016
Aug 17, 2016 at 3:33 PM UTC
The pulsars flash in space.
Hydrogen bombs explode
Sending waves to warm my face
Light to make the day
An unintended consequence
A thought of hope and beauty
Warmth on my skin
Sparkling pools
Reflect old memories
Who I was
Is not who I am
And I can always be better
A seeker swimming
Barely floating
Almost drowning
Always getting wetter
Stuck in the thick of quick thoughts
Rising faster than ocean tides
Dancing on the edge of death
Barely a breaths distance away from
Insight or despair
Today I am alive
I am alive
I am alive
God **** it is great
To be alive
Aug 17, 2016
Aug 17, 2016 at 11:43 AM UTC
A feeling of the pulse, the flow of the galactic.
Energy in the veins to a core of white static.
Pulsars in the eyes, a ruby soul on fire.
An ascent through the seven and the gates
to the designer.
Dec 15, 2015
Dec 15, 2015 at 10:54 PM UTC
*Perhaps the truly 'alien' things out there isn't other life.
Its the planets and pulsars, the nebulae and all other matter.
They are massive, incomprehensibly distant and incomprehensibly old.
Totally indiffernt to us, they will be there long after we're all gone and have there been long before.*
Jan 16, 2016
Jan 16, 2016 at 5:05 AM UTC
Audible unspoken soliloquies
wandering from room to room
Resonation in minor scale oddities
Color the gathering gloom
For I know not from whence they come
Music from my soul
These keys which I’ve always succumb
not from reluctance are they extolled.
For it is the music of the universe
that continually rewinds itself
in light years across the steely perverse
from some interstellar shelf
Rhythm from some random pulsars
in galactic syncopation
in quantum entanglement these stars
this meter by synchrotron radiation
Beamed into me and I know not why
Sometimes I can feel it
Sometime its grace makes me cry
But most of all it will permit
Me to see the purity within it
and the beauty in all things
for it is never-ending and will not quit
this music in my own cosmic strings
I thank God for this celestial download
I am a better human because of it
Am I worthy of this honor bestowed?
I will not question His wisdom forthwith
Parts of it because I am a musician
and the other parts of astronomers
these two in the synergy of fission
of notes, telescopes and binoculars
So if you visit my house and hear strange melodies
playing in the back of your minds
it’s the music of the spheres strange soliloquies
within your minds beginning to sublime.
Dave Proffitt
8/11/2016
6:03 PM
Oct 1, 2016
Oct 1, 2016 at 6:22 AM UTC
The stars are leaving again..
Pulsars stop spinning..
Forgotten light seen again..
They were already gone..
Pulsars start spinning..
Remembered light was never gone..
Dream nebulas mix together..
Mind paint brush of the cosmos..
Colors of my soul shine together..
Portrait of distant thoughts..
Mind paint brush strokes..
Are the memories of light and your beautiful thoughts..
I'll see you again...
You were never gone..
Because you are still in my thoughts..
Apr 10, 2019
Apr 10, 2019 at 12:38 PM UTC
It started with an S. Humbly mumbling yes no maybe i dont know oh **** vertigo should i let go. my brain was blasted, a cocktail of chemicals and superfluidious ether. The push pull ying yang fung shui grabs the heat seeking missle and grabs the brain, attracts sychronized vertacies but the magnitism flips as imaginary consequence givesway to repulsion of the imaginary sense. Pulsars pulsating sending shock waves through space time highways a terrible silence is heard then music then woah. Gravity wells staring me down warping and warming WARNING particle collision is immenent a stellar nurersy might be born of this hyperspace supernova scintilating energies might synchronize for the bonding of bodies creating a binary star system carefully dancing and explosivly romancing or it could be too much the system overloads entropy wins hot matter turned cold a black hole is formed.
Complicated intracacies to be sure. I think a caphonany was born if only i could phrophasize and figure out where my head flipped out and if there would be any imminent fallout. Wise to withhold or a missed chance to experience an amazing incredible moment where time and space may have seperated and two bodies joined in between the seams. Just amazing.
Dec 25, 2016
Dec 25, 2016 at 10:07 AM UTC
I can warm you like a
cup of tea on a winter's day,
I can chill you like a
winter in the U.K.
I can lift you up and
send you reaching for the stars
or I can make you feel
the weight of a thousand pulsars.
I am the worst feeling in this paradigm,
while, at the same time,
I am the best feeling you can conjure;
I am nostalgia.
Jan 2, 2019
Jan 2, 2019 at 12:33 AM UTC