StarPoet Newsletter Vol. XIII, No. XXII

My phone rings constantly
But there's no one there,
Only a disembodied voice
Cold dialing my existence.

I know alone and silence
And this just ain't it,
A robotic flotilla cascading me,
Assaulting me with perpetual query

For long lost fugitives,
Desperate money-hungry charities,
And my vote and monetary support
In the upcoming elections.

A bit of silence would be appreciated,
Perhaps an afternoon, perhaps a Sunday,
Something that would argue against me
Making my ancient landline extinct.

She slipped through the jungles
Of nations we weren't in,
Slid silently across the desert
As B-52s flew overhead,
Dropped in on multiple countries
That troubled our existence,
And through all this,
Won no other notice
But my love.

Life is not an app, a university degree,
Or an occupation of a public square
-- Nothing is ever quite that easy.
We strive, we fail,
We climb back on our feet,
Continue on our way,
Hoping we succeed
Before we crash again.
Standing in place leads nowhere,
Giving up is the same as death;
Life is not easy, life is not serene,
We play, we struggle, and then we die
And the only game on the planet available
is normally and most always rigged.

— Lisa Jain Thompson (May 2012)

The number of the multiverse
Makes the improbable a sure bet;
We are the product of physics and time,
The sentient observer giving testimony
To our reality.

We are of the universe, one with star and planet,
The eyes of eternity made flesh on Earth
To wonder upon its infinite majesty,
Wanderers who give meaning to all the galaxies.

We are here at the singularity,
The moment we step off the shoreline
To sail beyond this pale blue world
Bravely into our future.

I've been possessed by Robert Johnson,
Spread wide upon the crossroads,
I'm a long playing vinyl record
Well spindled on his phonograph;

I've been down on my knees before him,
Pleading with poor Bob to come
Tell me how I can please him
Before the risin' sun goes down. 

Never will I a fallen comrade leave,
No matter what a president or a congress might do,
They are my sisters, my family and blood,
I will not retreat or consent we should leave,
For I have promises I must keep
And comrades to remember.

High aloft the rigging,
Where star and ocean meet, the poet goes to sea,
Jumps headlong into the galactic whirlpool,
Rises up the timeless darkness
To speak her words for the billion worlds
Awaiting the sound of footsteps.

Loosely as Lilacs on the Bush

I am not old as Whitman grew old,
Revising my well praised masterpiece,
Nor do I lay claim to America's Poet,
That would be Dylan or Lady Gaga.
My flesh, my blood ages inevitably,
My bones long made and vigorous,
Poems lay scattered across the internet,
Making case for skill and greatness.