We can see fourteen billion light years out.
For those still here a billion years from now,
more light will have traveled to them, no doubt,
the billion light years that space will allow.
Distant descendants may not see much more,
however, than what we can now observe.
Despite larger radius to explore,
their view won’t be a sight they can conserve,
because space itself goes faster than light,
as it expands relatively through time.
This perspective’s loss is ever the plight
throughout our universe’s known lifetime.
We daily lose ability to see
the things furthest back in our history.

He looked into the lens-system and saw
an unimaginably small world grow.
Now does this image in history draw
from van Leeuwenhoek or Galileo?
Through lenses both passed to another realm
of being, since their broadened reference frame
allowed them visions that could overwhelm.
Then for everyone nothing stayed the same.
The vaster one’s view the clearer things get,
of cosmic, subatomic, even time,
and, while the masses may first be upset,
brought to some summit that they didn’t climb,
it’s crucial so all the ingenious might
be informed of the remarkable sight.

I think of him as flying, the universe his sky,
Beneath his wings the answers, to all his questions why.

His flight plan was preparing; to meet the maker of time,
So he could clear the runway, for those that are behind.

The instruments he will use, to lead him on his way,
Were scriptures from the Bible, he practiced every day.

He’s tuning in his radio, the one he holds so dear,
The gathering of his loved ones is what he wants to hear.

Directed through the universe, with undivided love,
He’s flying in his vessel, to Heaven up above.

His take off was a trial, his turbulence was pain,
The landing strip in heaven is what he has to gain.

He used his brilliant mind to prepare him for the flight,
Our savior and our Lord will be his source of light.

He’s flying through the sorrow; as he’s bypassing the tears,
The weather up in Heaven, will leave him no more fears.

My father was a pilot; He flew through life with grace,
Leaving us with memories to honor and embrace.

The severed head of a stag
Survives by machine.
Listlessly lifeless eyes
Silently mock the devil’s land.
Thoughts, the world ensconced inside;
Convulsions of infinite clockwork labyrinths,
Imprisoning from external death,
Drowning to survive.
Dreams, blended by thornbushes.
Reality suffocated by a murder of murdering crows getting murdered.
Heart became that of a dragon,
Big and artificial;
The crying arrow sponge
Imminent to concave.
Rays of sunlight are not to peak
Into the cave of endless gloomy meadows.
Time, the clock that cannot break,
Burning blank, flaunting pages.
Born to be but cannot be;
The rooster that cannot crow.
Perfection, the serenity swan
Dives infinitely above
To canopy its arms over the ruins,
Arriving when the circle is covetously born.
I am alive and I am dead.

The patients here are silent. Their machines
Speak for them, in rhythmic beeps and colored lines,
And numbers–lots of numbers. Which one means
He is getting better? Or worse? What are the signs
We should attend to? I choose to watch the heart
Monitor; for now, it is holding steady, if fast.
They’ve chilled his blood, in hopes his brain will start
To heal itself, but now two days have passed;
It’s time to warm him up. We hope for the best
And wait, and watch the numbers, and pace, and cry.
The doctor’s face confirms–we’ve failed this test.
There is no doubt; my brother soon will die.
We know, today, his heart will slow and stop,
And as we watch… the numbers start to drop.

The poem (or “gnomeo” in this case), is here:
http://gnomeo.com/geno-pheno/

I love science poetry and lit!

After the craniotomy to remove the enormous
Blood clot in the brain of this octogenarian
The children remained in the waiting room,
Allowing their parents a moment of privacy.
As he remained unresponsive,
His wife approached his side and spoke to him,
“I have been doing the cross-word puzzle without you.
It’s a good thing it’s Monday.”
He awoke on Tuesday.
A blood-clot to his lungs killed him on Friday.
Sunday the cross-word puzzle was no doubt
Excruciatingly difficult
But she certainly completed it
For what else was she to do?

Ezriel Kornel
2/8/05

In a mother’s heart
dreams tears laughs pride hurt ache anger
In her son’s body
throbbing
swelling
walking pain
not running
not breathing
exhaustive pain
embarrassing
unending
unyielding pain
what life is this?

Monster’s at the door again –
Touching the knob, stroking tips of
Fingers across the wood, a tiny noise of
Insect scratchings, maggots hatching
In a brain seething with more little
Monsters, itching to have their turn to
Choreograph the next dance steps
They’ll try together.
Room’s hot, the air is choking, thick
With tears and fears, as the nightcrawler
Moves against the last barrier, the sound
So soft, so almost not-sound, but not
Silence; no, silence is empty, still,
Silence is safe.
Change in air-pressure, the
Door opens, just a crack, and black gas of
Fetid breath, stale sweat-stench
Drifts in on dusty currents, oozing
Across the room to the bed;
Can’t breathe, can’t move, can’t think –
The stink is closer, guilt and horrified
Fascination, perversion slides in – clad
In odd socks, shirt, no tie, the sour smell
Of scotch on breath, hot with anticip
Ation –
Spiced by taboo and the rising terror;
A ghastly combo of desire to be loved, to
Be special, the flesh-ripping wrongness
Of how that love is paid for, over and
Over and over….
Monster’s in the room now, hovering
Huge and dark and growing larger,
Its face drifts into the pale patch of
Street light through the curtain crack
And, worst nightmare of all, its mask is
On, the monster hiding its putrid soul
Behind a most desirable thing,
A smiling, always smiling, familiar mask
While the real monster hides, stretching
And expanding within, weak and fallible,
So wracked with guilt and shame yet
Eaten by desire, a raging fire so deep
It could burn the world to ash and gone.
Flame demon flashes for a moment
In the eyes as the mask floats down –
“Hello sweetheart,” it breathes, alcohol
And lust hot as pus smeared
Across a mortuary furnace door –
“Here I am,” it whispers, huge
Hands pulling away blanket barriers, fortresses,
“Give me that special kiss,” it hisses, echoed by a
Zipper hissing like a sigh against tight
Clenched lips and blood stained teeth, as
Daddy engulfs her
Again….

Morriganscrow 05/08/10