Girded by a pressure suit, guided by skill and science, an astronaut must learn the lessons of complete compliance. It requires trust and backbone to travel through the dark, trusting hands thousands of miles away to guide that ark
that speeds him through the solar system, up to regions where his surroundings are devoid of gravity and air. Accepting the unknown and resisting terror’s bark, he hurtles into outer space, accepting danger’s lark.
What prompts him to accept the threat of loneliness and death— to face an end from fire or from lack of breath? It is exceptional valor, proving bravery and worth to face his end so far from the comforts of this earth.
Does he face a different heaven in another clime, his molecules merged after death to a different time? Is he bound to spend infinity apart from worlds he’s known, blown into the universe, forever, now, alone?
No earth he knows to go to to blend back in the world. From his own nature’s cycle, now forever hurled. Does he merge into a wider world, another evolution, absorbed within the rules of a new orb’s revolution?
Will he travel back again in centuries far distant, in an alien craft, his molecules so insistent to return to their origins that they are drawn back home to the soil of this Earth or to the ocean’s foam?
Or can he find his way back home again solely on his own, intent on his not spending eternity alone? How wide is one’s soul’s orbit? How vast its gravity? Can it bring a shipless astronaut back from infinity?
We cast long shadows in the sun, but shorter as the day is done, and when we shrink into our selves, placing our souls upon their shelves, what shadows last? Are our souls made of Teflon or are they bowls? The world’s vendettas should be left back in the wide world lest their heft leave our spotless souls bereft and our inner natures cleft.
Those whom we honor with boundless fame and lionize in face and name might sport a very great divide if we were to see inside— their nature split between what they profess to be—what they might say and what their true intentions are. Their true motives might be far from what we perceive as their intentions. We cannot know a soul’s dimensions except by looking at the facts of how the outer person acts.
What they profess that they believe may often be used to deceive. But heart-to-heart, it is absurd to think truth is conveyed by word. Some part of us knows deeper meaning devoid of boasting, strutting, preening. The soul requires no advertisement, seeks no excess aggrandizement. In our soul of souls we know
what is authentic and what’s for show.
That shadow that we cast without within has very little clout.
This poem is both a commentary and assessment of those who have lately been much in the arena and about ourselves–including myself.
As we’ve evolved from scales to skin, growing the body we’re now in, Did our mind grow here inside? How did our soul come to abide secure within this human form? How did it come to be the norm? Did words form here in you and me simply because they yearned to be? Were they put here to link us to that in the eternal stew that unites us all, in our unknowing to a universal glowing? And if so, what an irony as words transform and set us free, they also split us wide apart–– placing the head before the heart. Substituting a dollar sign for solutions that should be divine. Can this be our ultimate goal, in our journey toward our own black hole? To grow our mind and freeze our heart until it blows us all apart? As science seeks to understand, it holds us all within its hand. It has the means, if it should please, to squeeze and squeeze and squeeze and squeeze. I wonder, then, can even a soul escape the pull of a black hole?