Science-Art

A code within a code
A mystery that is never solved
It is the universe that unfolds
Showing shadows of worlds untold
And so we look, and so we find
Questions to answer another time

Her face is round,
her days are old;
the Moon is sad
for she is cold.

She needs a cloak
to keep her warm,
to wrap around
her ghostly form.

She reaches out
across the sky,
with silver fingers
long and lithe,

to touch the cloth
she has in sight
so far across
the deep dark night.

A cloth so fluid
scintillating,
iridescent,
ever changing.

Abyssal hues
and liquid form,
silkier
than the finest shawl,

yet heavier even
than thick brocade
with constant play
of light and shade.

She pulls the cloth
towards her face,
but planet Earth
who has no grace,

has riches more
than she could need,
is mighty vain
and full of greed.

She pulls it back
towards her shores,
that deep blue ocean
she adores.

Poor Moon is left
all cold and bare
because her neighbour
just won’t share.

And so sad Moon
will try once more.

The two will tug
for ever more.

@ChloeJPoetry (22/2/16)

In the spring of 2016
The moon was supposed to turn green,
But it stayed a resolute shade of cream,
A moon conspirators green dream.

In 1969
NASA committed a crime,
They faked the moon landings at the time
According people who’d had too much wine.

In 1989 Wallace a Gromit gave us a tease,
As they flew to a moon made of cheese,
loaded up their ship with as much as they could heave,
And had it on crackers whenever they pleased.

In 2002
Someone decided to issue,
A statement that aliens lived in the moon.
They had a base hidden in a crater,
And would be sure to see us later,
As they would be invading us quite soon.

And every month to be had,
The moon makes us go mad,
Leading to the word ‘lunacy’
But also these moon conspiracy theories!!

Tanya Feasey.

Jupiter
Sitting there
Protector
Shielding us from rocky storms
Or
Sinister betrayer
Sling-shoting armageddon
Towards us
A Projectile wraith
For your rocky brethren
Nestled near the sun
What will the maths show Which way will the simulation swing
Gaseous Giants – Benevolent gods
Or Destroyers of Worlds
Wrapped in jealousy
That their own embryonic systems
Lay aborted, half formed in decaying rings

Bang from null
Gravity pull
Matters crushed
Planet from dust
Rock cools
Liquid drools
Primordial soup
Bacterial troop
Single cell
Creature swell
Populate seas
Soil now greens
Fish lose gills
Crawl to hills
Lizards grow hair
Fly to the air
Dinosaurs rule
Mammals no fool
Heat changes rules
Animals rule
Four feet
Two feet
Knuckles on ground
Standing sound
Grunts to teach
Divided by speech
Kill for brood
Tame our food
Clear a path
Forest in ash
Tribal migration
Civilization
Tools of bone
Homes in stone
Bronze cuts
Iron guts
Fight in arms
Atomic alarm
Steel machines
Electric dreams
Carbon fibres
Composite binds
Think it
Print it
Rape earth
Mineral worth
Pockets lined
Species decline
Sins atoned
DNA cloned
Sentient virus
Progress forges
Machines slink
Codes think
Smug omnipotence
Create in own image
Body now limits
Energy spirits
Voided reality
Eternal banality
Break the lull
Bang from null

By Jason Conway

I reached a new hemisphere
I have a feeling that you did with me too
Climbing my stairs to the stars

I want to be the kind of cliche I hate
Touching, killing cynicism
I want to look to the moon hand in hand
And try to compare it’s beauty to you
But fail
Beats in my chest skip and I feel
Breathless
I’m not sure if it’s the romcom way or
They type that’s the ending to Apollo 13

But it’s clear
We’re making like Bowie
Trying to find life on Mars

Abort Mission

By Polly Gannaway

The Dead Galaxy

Hung in the Vacuum

A dark remnant

Of a glittering time

A ghostly structure

Where the cogs seized

Where the fire died

Where there was an

end to annihilation

And the star birth

The cycle broken

the whisper of creation

Silenced

It drifted

Dense in blackness

With the Eater of Light

Still beating at its core

The only thing that

breathed motion

a deathly life

An eater of worlds

Super massive galactic

Cannibal forever

Hungry

It is the After Life

And the Gate to Hell

For the Stellar Host

That once shone so brightly

The moon is dangling from the ceiling of the night.
My grandson, eighteen months of age, totters
Along our quiet close in hot pursuit of it.

Frequent stumbles don’t discourage him. His grandma
Has him wrapped up like a mini-Michelin-man.
I follow closely, ears alert for traffic movement.

This shiny thing, he’s sure, is almost within reach.
Jumping’s an art he has mastered yet.
His outstretched, chubby fingers grasp in vain.

“Up, up, up,“ he babbles, clutching at my knee.
I hoist him skywards, one arm round my neck,
The other grabbing for what’s unattainable.

I tote him home the fifty yards or so
To warmth of bathroom, change to jim-jams
And the current bedtime story “IT WAS JAKE.”

No other book will do. It’s asked for every time.
Alternatives are vigorously waved aside.
We chant familiar sentences. His eyelids droop.

Tomorrow, with its fields of opportunity,
Will have his full attention when he wakes.
Meantime, my grandson’s dreaming only of the moon

And Jake!

By Peter Wyton

The mystical white hare appears on the hill,
ghost like, just before midnight.
Ever watchful, silent and still,
under shimmering stars so bright.

A creature so rare, a spectral sight,
Unknown omen of good or bad tidings.
So beware when the moon is luminous white
and you hear the church bells chiming.

Cursed or blessed you will never know,
to see this rare creature so white.
So beware when walking on the hill,
alone, just before midnight.

Carol Sheppard

Mysterious moonlings, what are they?
High-voiced, small statured;
The lingering other.
Moved like the tides.
Awakened wild-eyed by the full moon moonlight.
Sometimes they are crazy. Sometimes they nod
In a wisdom known only between themselves
And the white orb that guides them.
They know the moon as we do not know the moon.
Men dream:
Feet upon a rocky surface,
Dust between the fingertips,
Low-gravity buoyancy.
They drift. Wane and wax. Full to new.
Round as a mother. Refreshed and renewed.
They place their fingertips on their stomachs and their eyes to the skies
Waiting for another moon.

By Rowena Fletcher-Wood