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can I handle the season of older,
took my~love, and took it down,
till the hymnodist laughed,
do not forget,
she shrieked,
old and gold are symmetrically synchronized,
synced, not sink!

what you want to think, is always,
never what you
true believe,
as long as you breathe,
a miner for hearts of love you are,
start in the capillaries, onto the arteries, and deep into the
pumping machine,
which calls out in indignation,
you human, are mine,
and as long as you mine,
for the cup that-is-not-illusory,
always and eternal, l think not,
for you have already tasted love's holy water,
leaving you, leaving you with an undying thirst,
for more,
the gold apogee on our elliptical trajectory,
where the she~sharing-oxygen once displaced
in a race
to be supplanted,
but that must be won,

when/where  the golden aura supplants
the necessities,
and the liquid gold will
replace, re-p-aces your almost now used up blood,
endlessly re~circulating,
subject to the  the critical cortical critique of
insufficient,
no más, for never enough,

gold and love,
like sync and swim
together  in time,
in rhyme,
how could you not know
this absolute
is a
scientific fact?
“so long as you change something from the way it was before you touched it into something that's like you after you take your hands away.” Ray Bradbury

read these words in another’s poem
and I am changed, words from a page,
touch me and I hope ole Ray approaches
from the great beyond where he surely
abodes, and states with great solemnity,

“**** son, good way to start the day,
now stroke the woman, the dog, feed
the chickens and the birds, and for sure,
water those shrubs and plants in this one
hundred degree weather, whether you
like it or not, cause changing is a 24 hr
occupation and the need for touching
never ceases!” Ray
We are creatures of constant awe, curious at beauty, at leaf and blossom, at grief and pleasure, sun and shadow," U.S. poet laureate Ada Limón writes in her new poem that will fly to Jupiter's moon Europa aboard NASA's Europa Clipper mission.

"And it is not darkness that unites us, not the cold distance of space, but the offering of water, each drop of rain."
The poem, unveiled at an event tonight at the Library of Congress, is going to be engraved in Limón's handwriting and affixed to the spacecraft, expected to launch in October 2024, Miriam writes.
The big picture: The Europa Clipper mission follows in the tradition of others — like NASA's Voyagers — that have sent pieces of art representing humanity into the cosmos.

The poem uses water as a thread that binds Earth — and all of its humans — to Europa, a moon with an ocean beneath its icy shell.
For Limón, writing this poem was a very human endeavor.

"The thing I think that makes me the most beautifully overwhelmed is the idea of all the humans that are going to read it," she tells Axios.
The poem, called "In Praise of Mystery: A Poem for Europa," is featured on a NASA webpage where people can sign up to send their names to Europa with the spacecraft.
"I think to have it feel collective is really, really extraordinary to me, because it does feel like it's not my poem," Limón says. "It does feel like a collective poem. And as soon as I wrote it, it felt like oh, this belongs to Earth. This is our poem for Earth."
Between the lines: Sending this poem to Europa is an "evolution" of NASA's Golden Record, which is flying through space aboard the Voyager spacecraft, Robert Pappalardo, Europa Clipper project scientist, tells Axios.

Those records contain sounds from Earth — including music, laughter and animal noises — as well as a map of where we are in the galaxy. They are now billions of miles away, flying through interstellar space.
"This is an outgrowth in that we're not going to the stars," Pappalardo says. "There's no message to aliens here. This is purely a message to ourselves and a symbolic message to Europa."
never knew it,
never was I self-percepted,
that anything exceptional,
lay within, neither obvious
or dormant, was just an ordinary
if not, extra-ordinary pained
child by peers and my surrounders

and my own words yet today,
do not confer any distinction
when yours irradiate me into
a stunned and silenced reverie,
a reminder, a minder, that talent
recognizes no laws of equilibrium,
equality, and certainty not, equity

so I read with shocked, shocked, I tell you,

bemusement but comprehensive perception
when the young and extra~special confide,
their own misperceptions, overwhelmed by
the anxiety
of the billions of sky stars, and letters in their
twinkling orbs when forming identifiable comets with tagalong
dust trails^ of the debris of words that are formed by
their travels and travails on orbits
not necessarily predetermined
by gravitational adult pulleys, a gravity upon
their projected, sometimes directed,
sometimes not,
trajectory

"and yet, though an orbit is a type of trajectory,
not all trajectories are orbits"


nor are
"some comets, particularly
those from outside our solar system,
that move so fast that the Sun's gravity
is not strong enough to capture them
into a closed orbit


These comets follow an open, curved path
through the solar system and then
continue on into interstellar space,
never to be seen again
"

so be advised,
as you reassemble the debris from the multi~universe,
when assembling your owned,
unique~verse,
create your tail
and trail,
the futurity
of you is to be both
silent and loud,
absorbing and disgorging,
to awed and to be humbled,
by all that and those who went before,
all once younger and talented,
and knew this self-same anxiety,
but never let the fearing of their
the mystery of plotting of their
path
deter them
from exploring the skies and deep mines of the
sea trenches where undiscovered mysteries
abide

<nml>

4:59am
in the city where one can never see the
light of the stars,
particularly
by their owners
^ dust trails of comets
long-lasting streams of debris that can be seen for centuries
You thought I was that type:
That you could forget me,
And that I'd plead and weep
And throw myself under the hooves of a bay mare,

Or that I'd ask the sorcerers
For some magic potion made from roots and send you a terrible gift:
My precious perfumed handkerchief.

**** you! I will not grant your cursed soul
Vicarious tears or a single glance.

And I swear to you by the garden of the angels,
I swear by the miracle-working icon,
And by the fire and smoke of our nights:
I will never come back to you.
Young or old,
poetry is for all.
Some write soft,
some write bold,
sometimes cold.
Yet they are all
treasures like gold,
never to be sold.
I could have gone to the cemetery,
or back to my high school lab,
find him lecturing from a podium,
bony finger raised,
demagogue of the dead.
I could break him down piece by piece,
cram him in a duffle,
a femur jutting the zipper.
Ignore the groan-
Skeletons are
by nature
never satisfied.

Instead I found myself
in the carnival lot,
The dog was long dead,
the sign kept guard.
Rusty rides slouched like tumbleweeds.
Cotton candy in memory-
blue tack crunching my teeth.
Lewd.

Skeletons fixed on poles,
spiked up through pelvis and spine.
Use ****.
Grip shoulders. twist. lift.
When one slid free,
he collapsed into my arms
all bone-light, lovely,
mine at last.

I just brought him home.
Sat at the kitchen table.
Named him Curly.
Zoom howled: WAG’s gone weird!
What’s his name? What’s his name?

His name is Curly,
I said, but I knew
his name was You.

We drink wine by the pool.
He never sips.
Sometimes I pour a second glass for the glint.
Sometimes he tells me Danny Elfman
wants to play his ribs like a xylophone.
Sometimes he sighs,
he hates Oingo Boingo.
I laugh. Obliging.
So do I.

When the wind kicks up
he smells of sugar and rust.
Sometimes he rattles the glassware.
Sometimes he won’t sit still.
Skeletons are
by nature
never satisfied.
A Bluebird births new melodies
On its way back home, to its little nest
Beneath the soft powder blue skies

The moon peacefully rests,
wrapped in wispy sheets,
yet to awaken on the eastern side
On the canvas serene of the evening
Where the bluebirds births new melodies
While the sun swiftly glides on the western side
Sweeping off its rays from the powder blue skies

Turndown services done for the day
Lighting up the stars for the night
Was inspired by the evening sky
My friend Priti suggested that I should write, while gazing at the sky :)
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