When we surveyed the planet Earth from deep in outer space

We found that she was giving birth, to you–the human race

And when we came down from above to teach you right from wrong

And show you of the ways of love and how to get along

You said you needed to be free to learn things on your own

And so we listened to your plea and left you all alone

But then, alas, when we returned, we found much to our horror

That what the human race had learned was weaponry and war

So now we watch you from afar, and patiently we wait

Perhaps we’ll wish upon a star while you decide your fate

While driving down the road to town

One moonless summer night,

Oncoming cars, like shooting stars

Seemed merely streaks of light,

And as we passed, so close, so fast

Our lives depended on

That we remain within our lane

Or chance to meet head-on,

So now when I see cars go by

I check my mirror with care,

And hopefully, I’ll never see

An accident back there.

I like poems that rhyme, obviously.  Almost all of my favorite poems from The Raven to Invictus rhyme. I still like Dr. Seuss!  Well, it really boils down to whether the poem is good or not, whatever the form. Still, I have seen some poetry that looked like chopped-up prose. I guess everyone has their own preferences.

The great white limousine rolled down the road to Destiny

And in it sat four revered men of great authority.

Religion and Tradition graced the seat that faced the rear

While in the back Philosophy and Science sat so near.

Now when the road became so rough that forward progress slowed,

Philosophy said, “Gentlemen, let’s try another road.”

“I think he’s right,” said Science, shuffling papers on his lap,

“I’ve been collecting data, and I’ve made a little map.”

Religion would not hear of it, ” ‘Tis blasphemy,” said he,

“For God himself has set us on this road to Destiny.”

“Religion’s right,” Tradition chimed, “it’s been agreed upon.”

And as they argued endlessly, the limousine rolled on,

And in the end, their driver, who was named Necessity,

Would find that he would have to choose the road to Destiny.

From deep within the cosmic din flows music, loud and strong

But few men ’round can hear the sound, still fewer yet — The Song.

With graceful ease, the melodies of Venus, Earth, and Mars

Dance ever on the notes upon a tablature of stars.

On distant lands, the marching bands of Jupiter resound

And hearts take wing when ringlets ring in Saturn’s jeweled crown.

The trumpets sound!  The drummers pound!  Great Uranus rolls on

And no less grand is Neptune’s stand a billion miles beyond.

Amid the swells, faint tinkling bells add depth that few can hear

For Mercury and Pluto flee all but the chastened ear.

To guide the flux, the Sun conducts the symphony along

But few men ’round can hear the sound, still fewer yet — The Song.

Once upon a time machine he fashioned from a box

With nothing more than crayons and a cache of broken clocks,

The little boy went scooting down the corridors of time

And it was all so easy for a young and open mind.

But now the boy’s a physicist and studies all his days

To learn to build a time machine in complicated ways,

And every day it’s clearer what his facts and figures mean:

That only little boys can build a real time machine.

The end is come, the veil falls

An earthquake breaks the temple walls

Hell freezes over, donkeys fly

In Chicken Little’s falling sky

The Son of God comes back again

A comet brings a fiery end

The Mayan calendar runs out

The trumpets sound, the angels shout

Atomic war destroys the nations

Shiva’s wrath aborts creation

The Universe implodes at last

For Time itself has come and passed.

Time. I don’t believe in it. It’s not a real thing, it’s a convenient construct for our everyday lives.  Think of a theoretical point in space. Where is time? There is none.  Now add a second point, and by moving them relative to each other, time, or the concept of time is born.  Whether it’s about your hour hand on your watch moving relative to the Earths movement around the sun, or any movement in relationship to any other, its not some all-pervading fluid called time. I don’t think traveling back “in time” could ever happen, because that would mean returning every atom in the universe back where it was and as it was — it gets a little complex — especially if you (like Fry on Futurama) fall for your gramma.

In darkness just before the dawn

The madmen dance out on the lawn

Spin, scuttle, clop,

For in the light a toothless grin

A sunken eye or drooling chin

Betrays the madness deep within

Spin, scuttle, clop.

They promenade and curtsy low

They all join hands and do-si-do

Spin, scuttle, clop,

And as the threat of daylight spreads

They waltz their way back to their beds

To dance all day inside their heads

Spin, scuttle, clop.