Dark was the Night, Cold was the Ground

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Maybe some day,

The whole world will know my name,

Hang on my every word,

Hum, clap, dance and nod to my songs,

But tonight, I just strum on my cigar box.

Maybe some day,

I’ll travel all over Texas,

Or leave this state,

On a cross-country tour,

Cap it all off with a worldwide voyage,

But tonight, for anyone in earshot, I’ll just strum on my cigar box.

Maybe some day,

I’ll be all over the radio,

The stars themselves would dance,

Because I’ve gone platinum,

Hell, I’d settle for gold,

But tonight, for anyone who’ll stick around, I’ll just strum on my cigar box.

Extremophiles

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Bacteria,

Stuck to the side,

Of a hydrothermal vent,

Metabolizing,

With black smoke,

Rising,

Or,

Encased,

In ancient salt crystals,

Photosynthesizing.

Processing cyanide

Or sulfur,

To grow,

Then split.

Residing,

Where it’s corrosive,

With high temperatures,

And/or,

Intense pressure,

Dissolved metals,

Minerals,

Or chemicals.

Found,

In massive, arid, vacuous deserts,

The bottom of the arctic,

Or gaps inside boulders,

Or the vacuum of space.

Extremes are not insurmountable,

Just because they are not conducive,

To life.

It’s full of proverbial suprises,

After all.

I Hope You Find What You’re Looking for

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The aperture

of a telescope

cannot get

cataracts,

but it can be scratched,

through carelessness,

or callousness.

When you don’t need it,

it collapses

like a bashful brass,

Matryoshka.

The mount

will need to be screwed on,

swiveled,

tilted,

and tightened.

The eyepiece

will fatigue

if you strain,

but that’s only if

you spend too much time searching

and not enough time

finding.

There’s no rewinding,

If you missed Saturn’s rings

because you blinked,

or a lunar eclipse,

because you happened to drift.

So whatever it is you’re looking for

I hope you find it,

because it comes down to timing sometimes,

even with the right tools,

even when you know what you’re looking for,

even when you think you’ve found it.

Lost in Space

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The whole family,

Can join in,

On this white-knuckle thrill ride.

An action-packed,

Tour-de-force,

About wayfarers in a massive vacuum,

Alone,

For millions of lightyears,

Of course.

What great TV,

With which to live vicariously!

The troublesome son,

The authoritarian father,

The doting mother,

The precocious daughter,

And a robot with a heart of gold.

Staving off boredom,

By playing card games,

And charades,

And moving forward uninhibited,

Except by an occasional asteroid.

Tune in,

Or don’t.