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Poem

We have hurled to heaven
a polished golden disk
inscribed with symbols of our race.
And night and day we beam
a stream of radio waves to space.
We broadcast diffuse and scattered signals
from here to where(?).
We also listen long and hard
for whatever we may hear.
In our attempts to span the void
what should we say to humanoid
or other minds that we might find?
Should we speak of rock; of crow of cock?
Of the once-fiery cores of stars -- collapsed
and denser now than densest stone?
Of light that's darker far than any
depth of night; of pulse; of tone?
Shall we speak of lairs, and air? Of hints?
Of lava, seeped or spewed from vents?
Of sea-borne or of plains-born zephyrs?
Of hanging plant or swaying palm?
Shall we touch upon the calm
of thin free ions strewn
through much of soupy space?
Shall we chat of heat and ice;
of energy unleashed? Of spark and flash;
of mean and nice -- of atoms, or of Eve?
Shall we speak of cosmos and of bowers?
Of farm? Of flowers? Of yours and ours?
Of nothing? Of zero or of hero?
Of evil and of good?
Shall we talk of hate and haste;
of love; of taste -- below; above;
around? Of iron and of wood?
Or should we stick to lectures on
celestial navigation and our tools?
Can we talk? May we sing?
Will our phones ever ring
providing good connections,
bringing news that pretensions
all aside we're not the universe's
only singular and lonely fools.

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