Friday, October 31, 2008

Creation

The pilot said a prayer for fecund seas,
As millions of amoeba floated down,
Borne lightly on the soft primaeval breeze

To flourish in the ocean? Or to drown?
The hull was empty now. He turned for home,
As millions of amoeba floated down

To thrive or die beneath the rolling foam
Which scientists had deemed a likely place.
The hull was empty now. He turned for home,

Imagining the culture of this race
Light years from now upon this barren world,
Which scientists had deemed a likely place.

What wondrous future had he just unfurled?
The human race descended to its birth
Light years from now upon this barren world.

“It’s good,” he thought and, as he gazed on earth,
The pilot said a prayer for fecund seas.
The human race descended to its birth,
Borne lightly on the soft primaeval breeze.

Tuesday, October 21, 2008

Whoops!

The spacemen climbed out of the capsule,
And went for a walk on the moon.
They told the pilot to wait for an hour,
They were sure to be back pretty soon.
But one of their watches was faulty,
The one they were relying upon,
And when they got back to the launch pad,
Apollo 8-40 had gone.
The pilot splashed down in the ocean
To great universal applause,
Till somebody casually asked him
“Hey, Bob, where’s those comrades of yours?”