No archeologist
has the power of Sol
summer soul unrelenting
court of last appeal
refuses a reprieve
the currents cease
the ripples end
the inhabitants flee
if they have the power
unearthed the hunger stones
our ancestors telling us
what we already know
the famine age
begun
beyond
the bed riven with
fissures in a kiln
crafted in greed
a mountain of gold
cannot buy a single drop
of the Loire
abundant to
sparse
endangered to
extinct
Eden to eternity
Moments long past
come forth, afresh
as if they arose
incorruptible, from the crypt
oblivious to the passage of time
each year since no more than
a mild nuisance
the bell rings on the dot
clear as dappled dew in the shade
8:30, first period geometry
on top of the hill, seven staircases up
the first day of the rest of my lfie
on an August day, unsure if school
means that summer weather is now
somehow improper
a continent, an ocean, a decade apart
yet no more distant than
the tips of my fingers
Written on rough
concrete, begging for
repair,
groaning with the stress
of elder trees whose roots
have been growing since
the sidewalk was merely a
distant blueprint
each letter takes form,
the energy drains into
slate-colored tiles
the off-white substance,
once as long as an old man’s
weathered hands
grows smaller and humbler
until there is nothing left
but dreams and aspirations
waiting for the infrequent rainstorm
to wash it all away
Recently the Opportunity rover on Mars made the news- after more than a decade on the surface, it has developed serious memory problems. As a project engineer said:
“The problems started off fairly benign, but now they’ve become more serious — much like an illness, the symptoms were mild, but now with the progression of time things have become more serious,”
We use spacecraft like Opportunity, Voyagers 1 and 2, and newer projects like Curiosity to teach kids about space, geology, and physics. Even though they are machines, they can teach us about one of the most important human journeys- death.
Space missions have a life expectancy. Probes we send to the Moon, Mars, and beyond the Solar System talk to us. Then over time their components fail, their signal grows weaker, and eventually we lose them. Voyager 2 was launched 13 years before I was born, and is still transmitting faintly from billions of miles away. Opportunity still roams, but its sister rover Spirit got stuck and went offline a few years ago. It lost a sibling, but soldiers on.
Death is a scary idea to everyone, and it’s difficult to bring the subject to youth. But what Opportunity is going through is an impersonal way to talk about a process that will affect their grandparents, parents, and eventually themselves. The probes have less energy. Their joints and arms don’t work the same as they used to. Their memory is spotty and they require more medical attention than before.
And like humans, these machines have life experience and leave a legacy. Opportunity has traveled almost 26 miles in the past decade, making several groundbreaking discoveries about the surface of Mars and its history. When it one day powers down, we will have a familiar debate about what to do with its body- will it stay there for eternity, or will we one day put it in a museum? How can we honor what has passed?
There is wisdom to be gained with the fact that even artificial things have a life cycle, and that machines and humans can have a great deal in common with their journeys. One day, like Voyager, I will stop talking. And how will the world remember me?
I do not know when it will end,
but history has given me the hint
the where will be the beginning
Earth,
wrapped in eternal autumn
decays, all that grows, all
that is built, is on the road
to oblivion
falling to the soil
nourishing the seeds of
futures yet unbuilt
for what is autumn
but a distant relative to
spring.
Perhaps one day
fog breaks
to bring forth sunbeams
eagerly queueing behind
slate-grey veils
instead of naked judgement
cutting a path
with fire and shattering force
Will, one day in the distant future
when my body has decayed
to feed a cypress tree
overlooking the churning, roiling surf
one day,
will those that find the Earth
as my kind bequeathed,
flaws and all
discover in a meadow
of overpowering green
the last of the rusted rifles
that we once used to commit
societal suicide
One day, will “one day”
cease to be an idea
and become
one day.
History
not a realm of
sun-streaked progress
among angelic choirs
but often
forged in rivers of mud
a thousand leagues from home
where young men die
and forever lie
to join the stones and loam.
A thousand tapping feet
in purgatory, proverbial
color and tone familiar
to a small-town
Amtrak station
waiting for
resolution, crisp
like drawing-room
mysteries, the kind
that clutter up old women’s
shelves, whip-smart
despite the gathering dust.
Taken by Andrew Mackay
A single shard
tells a tale
far beyond the
buoyant embrace
words supply
traced in toil
imbued with life
awoken from a crumbling tomb
to searing light
a collage of a thousand
rainbow colors!
day breaks –
rushing tide
clarity no soul
can live without
Unspoken Politics 