The squirrels are chirring in our backyard while
Birds tweet and twitter, squawk and sing their songs,
Each in its species’ customary style,
Declaring on which bough each one belongs.
IN THE COSMIC SEA
It cannot be, it cannot be that we
Are all alone in this vast universe,
We who have gained the capability
So many subtle mysteries to disperse,
And yet, for all our venturous reckoning
With scopes and probes into the depths of space,
We’ve found no sighting of a living thing,
And of cosmic intelligence no trace.
Well, let that be; we’ve better things to do,
If only just to get our house in order
Should aliens from elsewhere rendezvous
Not to make peace with us but to marauder.
We need to show we’re worthy of enduring
By proving amiable, indeed, alluring.
In a mess? Then address
The Prime Mover,
Who may clean up your mess
With His Hoover.
He’d view on his imagination’s stage,
While fondling his earlobe and his quill,
The scenes that he’d transcribe upon his page:
Sometimes in stately or colloquial prose,
Then rising into cadences of verse
That with a captivating ardor flows
As only his true genius might disburse,
One whose fervent imagination could
Inhabit sensibilities of all
His sundry characters, wicked or good,
A feat that every rival would appall,
Which leaves me now abashed, though reverent,
Supposing such a talent heaven sent.