PostPoems Be Artistic. Be Creative. Be Inspired!

after Ray Russell's story,

"Ounce Of Prevention"]

1
Midshipper, what you are about to see
is highly classified and to divulge
even the slightest detail is treason.
You graduated at your class's top
rank; and your talents, properly deployed,
will bring you swiftly to your own command.
And that is why you were selected for
this mission.  I know that you have noticed
the heading we have taken---to this star
before us, small and insignificant;
of no strategic use, wholly without
resources for commerce.  Its third planet
possesses a single and barren moon,
ostensibly useless.  But on its dark
and cratered surface, we have long interred
the pulverized remains of criminals,
far from our home and colonies, far from
the charted space lanes.  But the problem that
we have been tasked to solve is this:  somehow,
in ways entirely unknown to our science,
some portion of the criminal remains
transferred at some time to the blue planet,
by accident?---and it has now evolved
into a species with technology
to travel from their planet into space.
Not far---a venture to the graveyard moon
(our use of which none of them yet suspect)
has been the utmost that they can achieve;
most likely such an effort costs too much
to their society (however formed).
But, at some future time, they will progress
sufficiently far to invite themselves
to outer space.  That is the threat to us,
and to our customary way of life.
They are the very spawn of criminal
remains---its celullar material
that bears within itself original
traits tending to crime, violence, and mayhem.
Only utter destruction will prevent
excursion into our space.  Just the thought
of that disturbs me.  So the task is ours
to launch on to their planet and its moon
sufficient force that will reduce them to
a scattering of atoms that cannot
again bond into molecules of life.
And you, midshipper, have the privilege of
initiating this great action.  Yours
will be the tentacles that aim and fire
the mechanisms---although we two, alone,
will know this.  Young you are, with many moults
ahead of you; yet wise enough, discrete
enough, to understand why secrecy
must be maintained, nor ever compromised.
Now . . . your antennae upright, all your eyes
focused upon the targets, please commence.
Thank you.  Now we shall swerve away before
the blast ignites its lethal radius.

2
Of course, I feel like crap, spying on her
this way.  Who would have thought this day would come,
ever?  That she has broken up with me
is bad enough.  But after just a week,
she offers herself to that nerd, that geek,
that pimply-faced, four-eyed, and scrawney waste
of time and effort.  How can she be so
gorgeous and beautiful, and yet prefer
the company of that mutant to mine?
A public park bench is not bad enough:
she has a lot of nerve, alright, to wear
the combination I liked best on her:
that purple polo shirt, boot flare jeans,
and . . . wait! Look at that . . . I cannot believe
she slipped her suede heels off for him.  I might
have known . . . and, yes, with my own eyes, I see
that she has worn her special, striped socks
with darkest blue around her heels and toes.
Now he is kneeling down in front of her.
He used to be scared of his own shadow,
but he has grown bold---bold enough to put
his hands upon her shoeless feet and lift
them to his dirty lips.  Look at her smile:
she likes that, I think she is even turned
on by it.  I was never good enough.
She never took her shoes off willingly
for me, unless I threatened her.  But he
seemed just as, if not more, surprised that she
has done that for him.  Oh, now he is back
beside her on the bench.  They are kissing---
kisses with tongues, you can tell by the way
their mouths are open and pressed hard against
each other.  They are serious about
this stuff, and I am serious, also.
I will not be intimidated or
a laughing stock at school because of them.
I never really wanted to hurt her
before, but I cannot stand too much more.
A slice or two with this switchblade of mine
should frighten her new boy friend and persuade
her that she is much better off with me.
I think I will go over there . . . pretend
that I just happened to walk by . . . what is
that roar, coming eastward, that searing light---
blinding!  Ground shaking; how?  I feel . . . burning . . .

Starward