Best Messier Poems
My mother didn’t cook too well
Although she fed us fine.
Her house was not immaculate,
Much messier than mine.
She didn’t knit, crochet or quilt
But she was great at sports;
She swam and bowled and tennised
Really well, by all reports.
And oh, could she dance up a storm!
She crossword-puzzled, too.
When things were good or bad for me,
Somehow, she always knew.
She passed down many of her traits
But no, I cannot dance
And barely swim but I can bowl,
Though rarely have the chance.
I do the crossword every day
But like her, hate to cook.
While she escaped in naps,
I disappear inside a book.
We all have inclinations
That our parents have bestowed,
Though babies make us wonder
What is waiting down the road.
We hope that they’ll inherit
Just those qualities we’d pick
But we have no way of knowing
What will fade and what will stick.
Ever try eating a Soft Taco Supreme
And not appear like a glutton
With stuff squirting out all over yourself
Down to your old bellybutton
It's all about this amazing experience
Wouldn't be as enjoyable without it
So forget about all those damn cleaning bills
They're part of the joyous trip
As you chomp away with gay abandon
The messier the better, for sure
Without the mess, you ain't no aficionado
Just someone trying to act mature
Acting prim and proper when eating a taco
Has never been part of the scene
So dig right in, the messier the better
Be a proud taco eating machine
© Jack Ellison 2014
Beaming brilliant beautiful bright stars.
These diamonds, twinkling, sparkling.
Diamonds hung in the black velvet night.
They shinning like diamond crystal lights.
The Sun’s radiant light.
A heavenly hot heavy circular sphere.
Our planetary system is orbiting it.
Icy comets are extending their tail and rolling by.
Rocky asteroids, saying hi and good-bye.
Meteorites, streaking, passing in the day and night skies.
Multicolor are the cloudy nebulae.
These are Orion, Helix, Crab, Eagle and Ring.
Horsehead, Owl, Tarantula and Omega.
All having stunning stars in them.
Galaxies with different shapes: some are Spirals.
Some Galaxies shapes are called a Bar-Spiral.
Galaxies shapes that are Elliptical.
Galaxies shapes that are most Irregular.
Galaxies names like: Milky Way - looking milky,
Whirlpool is whirly, Tadpole looks like a tadpole,
The Sombrero - looking like a Sombrero,
The Crown of Thorns - looks like a crown of thorns,
The Cartwheel, that cartwheels,
Andromeda, Messier 87 and Sunflower, etc.
An over estimated 200 billion and more galaxies.
A Super Massive Black Hole are in most of their middle.
Over time there are big bangs, of Super-Novas exploding.
A Quasar, brightest of all the Cosmos lights.
The Universe filled with stars with colors of all various types.
An over estimated 200 billion and more galaxies.
A Super Massive Black Hole are in most of their middle.
Over time there are big bangs, of Super-Novas exploding.
A Quasar, brightest of all the Cosmos lights.
The Universe filled with stars with colors of all various types.
A panorama, full of spectacular, splendid visual sites.
A God made amazing showcase theater thriller, block buster.
If I could do magic
I'd bring my grandma back
Always very encouraging
Wisdom, she'd never lack
On Christmas Eve, we'd gather together
Just like the rest of some you do
So many laughs, happiness there
You knew grandma's love was true
Midnight finally came around
Seemed like eternity for some
Gifts were then allowed opened
We'd then find out who it's from
We'd then hear a knock
There standing was Santa Clause
The little kids were shocked
Each child then got a gift.
We would wad up the wrapping paper
throw it at our cousins, and more
By the time it was over, Grandma's home
Was messier then it was before
Most people need to see Magic in technicolor
because they want to see all of the bright creatures
like Brownies and Pixies.
I don't want to see the façades
that Brownies and Pixies
present to the majority of Society.
But I need to see the Dirtier and Grittier
side of Magic because that is where I belong.
The Truth of Magic is messier and more dangerous
than People truly understand or want to know.
I am one of those People
who put their lives on line
To make the World a safer place.
And Society refuses
to recognize our contribution.
And I hate them for that.
There came a Leopard in a form of cat
And pur Zeus did as the Dali pet that
Cute kitten, Cassiopeia said at last
While Cepheus questioned
what the dear had in mind…
.
Ruchbah rode with her gleaming knows
Seeking peace in the LapLand groves
But there, what she came to find
Was a change of name for the same of her kind.
Counting sheep and milking cow
She turned to the Ram wondering how
The Pleiades could have left her out…
.
Taurus came and to him she ran
The reindeer games where no longer fun
She was about to come around Orion
When she saw the club that struck the Lion…
so she rolled to shadow
and she LepTus on by,
turning to the right, and up the Gemini…
.
Sirius.ly… that was close. Custos almost
thought but not quite, made a mess I say…
Then Messier came to save the play.
Guardian of the Harvest.
Plate 2
sometimes my words aren’t as beautiful as usual
sometimes my thoughts cannot be gathered and the words violently crash onto the page instead of flowing out of my pen
and sometimes i have nothing to write about other than the emptiness that has eaten away at me, leaving me numb
some days i am much messier than usual
my hands won’t stop shaking as my mind is stuck in outer space and Saturn’s ring is locked around my head, despite the amount of Advil i take
finally i pull myself out of it and my feet are nailed to the floorboards in my room
i’m stuck to the ground and can’t escape no matter how hard i try
even if i did escape i wouldn’t stop bleeding.
as i stand frozen i look at what i have become, i run my eyes over my transparent skin and wonder when a gun replaced my brain since the only thing my brain can process is how easy it would be to stop breathing
because breathing isn’t as simple as it once was, i even forget to breathe sometimes
i have to force the air out of me as a ton of dirt sits on my chests and pushes me further and further into my grave
but then the gun in my head reminds me i’m not screwed up enough to actually make use of it, so i continue to breathe.
m.r.
You're beautiful
I say to my faultless boy
holding him like a mother
my love cleansing all the trouble
my fingers soft on his baby skin
and smooth forehead
You're beautiful- but you always change
You don't stay the same
You can't fake when you're asleep
and you terrorize me
when I see all my broken jewelry
a snapped shoulder strap
the button from my jeans
the violent remains
of my worthy presentation
messier than my frizzy blonde hair
in which you tied knots with clumsy hands
Your sheets and I are stripped and stretched
in a sort of desperation
in a sort of hunt, or a game
I can see my name
never really mattered much
food is food when you're hungry
like hips and lips when it's dark
and "you're beautiful" is a cloud
dissipating
over the stoked fire of your flexing legs
My broken back feels less than
my broken heart that uttered
strangely broken words
that may have suited another man well
one who could've painted me a picture
or only grabbed me with his happy eyes
who might have made my heart bare
before my body
who might have said
"You're Beautiful"
Instead I sink into
your foreign arms like
a fractured jaw
reigning in forever flooded eyes
I guess I'll never learn
The word sombrero in Spanish was made
from Late Latin origin, meaning shade.
Predating Mexican type of headwear
that’s commonly presupposed, instead they’re
more generally hats designed with brim.
Therefore the galaxy’s wide-ranging rim,
through pareidolia’s visual drift
causing our human perception to shift,
gave it to stargazers sombrero guise
as seen in Virgo’s sidereal skies.
Hence nickname ‘Sombrero’ has taken hold
with globular clustered stars in its fold
which swarm quite abundantly ‘round the core.
Its technical tag is M One O Four
From Earth we perceive it almost edge-on,
a factor inducing some to hedge on
whether the galaxy, like Milky Way,
is spiral or has an elliptic splay
or might be a hybrid blending the two,
a question left hanging from earthly view.
It’s said to be fifty thousand light-years
across, roughly thirty million from spheres
where we dwell, with ten times as many groups
of star clusters globular as the troops
in Milky Way’s multitudinous realms—
such grandeur galactic indeed o’erwhelms—
which orbit in circular halo’s verge.
Aye myriad worlds for life to emerge!
Dust lanes birthing stars about it are wed,
ringed paths poetic for dreamers to tread.
A white dwarf companion perhaps may be
midst all the clusters of huge stellar spree.
If wonders abound in this ‘hat’ on high,
how many more lie beyond earthly eye?
While one must not lose sight of doings here,
someday human antics will disappear.
When miseries render our stance downcast
why not gaze above at the cosmos vast
whose infinite fathomlessness steadfast
shall troublesome worries ever outlast?
~ Harley White
* * * * * * * *
Image and info ~ Hubble mosaic of the majestic Sombrero Galaxy…
Image explanation ~ NASA/ESA Hubble Space Telescope has its eye on the Sombrero galaxy, Messier 104 (M104), which has a white, bulbous core encircled by the thick dust lanes comprising the spiral structure of the galaxy. As seen from Earth, the galaxy is tilted nearly edge-on. This galaxy was named the Sombrero because of its resemblance to the Mexican hat. It lies at the southern edge of the rich Virgo cluster of galaxies and is one of the most massive objects in that group, equivalent to 800 billion suns. The galaxy is 50,000 light-years across and is located 30 million light-years from Earth.
Ever try eating a Soft Taco Supreme
And not appear like a glutton
With stuff squirting out all over yourself
Down to your old bellybutton
It's all about this amazing experience
Wouldn't be as enjoyable without it
So forget about all those damn cleaning bills
They're part of the joyous trip
As you chomp away with gay abandon
The messier the better, for sure
Without the mess, you ain't no aficionado
Just someone trying to act mature
Acting prim and proper when eating a taco
Has never been part of the scene
So dig right in, the messier the better
Be a proud taco eating machine
When you see God, your Maker
Be sure that he sees you
You’ll know what really matters
You’ll know just what is true
This world with its opinions
Its teachings that confuse
And taint all inspiration
If God is not your muse
Creation becomes creature
Deciding its own lot
Ignoring their Creator
His guidance they want not
And so they dabble and they dare
They go for what they crave
The messy mess gets messier
Lord help us all be brave.
Wendy Nipas
Star Wars day came to an end, spent it wisely with my best friend,
We had different paths to ascend.
We still reminisce to this day of good times had.
And to the other friend I lost connection with I’m not mad.
We all take the good with the bad.
But we out grow ourselves and most performances are fads.
I spent many years more laying on the floor,
Drooling and insecure,
Looking for answers in bottles and doubting my troubles obscured.
It took a lot of work, real work not fun,
It’s the day to day and fighting the feeling to run for the rum.
I lost friends too, like the one I called hun now thinks I’m a bum.
That day taught me something real and raw,
I didn’t have to play that old role anymore.
It’s a choice and you deserve better,
It’s not always clean, in fact it’s messier than ever, but better than before.
But better feeling is great when you don’t have existential prangs accompanied by a physical shiver.
That day the force got stronger and the Death Star was destroyed,
Like my journey don’t ask me about how never ending Star Wars is, I’ll be annoyed.
I hope you see, you can just be, be me, feel free, identity is just expression of glee, Lordy trust me, breaking free of escapee devotee, addressee to anyone holding a key.
Don’t ask me don’t tell me, how a bumble bee sees. I’ll humbly disagree with any lesson not fought be anyone that won’t travel by stars and sea.
The eagle mistook me for a bunny. She swooped down and picked me up from the field, and we went soaring high in the sky, past the swing set, past the fence, past the tree line, up, up, up.
She tightened her grasp, but I did not mind. I had never flown like this before, out in the open, with the robins who gawked as we flew past. It was fun looking down at my house from the sky, and not from an airplane window. I waved at my neighbor, and was disappointed that she did not see me.
This magnificent bird got me to a mountain ledge and dropped me where three adorable eaglets were waiting. “LUNCH!” she announced, and she flew off. I made them grilled cheese sandwiches and tomato soup, and we had chocolate pie with whipped cream for dessert. Then we took a little nap.
These eaglets were much more appreciative than my own children, so I decided to stay. I fixed them banana pancakes, and blackberry cobbler, and meatloaf, and hot bread. After a month or so, they started to take advantage of me. They wanted me to start cleaning their bedrooms, and they were a lot messier than my own children, so I climbed down and walked back home.
Was it insanity or brilliance that stood calling my name?
I woke out of a deep sleep, disoriented, desiring an explanation.
My heart was beating triple time. Was this a heart attack then?
Don’t be any crazier than you have been, urged my persnickety muse.
Let’s get up and write something.
I knew it would not be anything that could appeal to the masses.
I have never related to any of them.
They want clean sheets and neat drawers.
I am not one to iron clothes or sweep a driveway.
The messier the room, the better; I have a hoarder’s habits.
Don’t write that! Said my muse.
My anti-muse laughed, wanting me to.
My heart had stopped beating now.
Not entirely, probably, but it had slowed down.
Pick up that pen! I rolled my eyes at the voice.
Cognizant that whatever I wrote today I would not recognize tomorrow.
I am a frenzied writer, channeling spirit, insanely clairaudient.
poems become
interchangeable
remove
the image
the poem
remains
when synapses
misfire
identity
disperses
before death
arrives
when the hands
forget
the song
the Martin
OM-45 Deluxe
inscribed in spruce
and mother-of-pearl
the third fret
worn smooth
by G
an archive
of vanished
movements
most poems
observe
others collect
surfaces
fallen leaves
frozen ponds
abandoned chapels
secondhand
transcendence
rehearsed
astonishment
mistaking
recognition
for revelation
few descend
into
distressed
consciousness
where nothing
remains
clean
is messier
no idle
observations
consciousness
a spiral
of repitition
residue—
not the subject
only the
substitution
the mosquito
bite
of fungibility
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