A Poem for Non-Physicists

Be helium fueled, not hydrogen. Be love.

Photo by Luca Upper on Unsplash

Oh, the humanity!
Herb Morrison, reporter at the Hindenburg disaster

If we were helium,
tightly bound,
we could create miracles.
A burst of energy
that could power the world.
The right kind of energy –
not hydrogen, with its occult propensity
to explode in midair, killing.

Imagine if we were a giant bouquet
of helium balloons –
ribbons of grace entwined,
knotted with compassion.
Imagine how we could rise, rise, rise
above mountains of prejudices,
impervious to even the fiercest winds
of misperception –
fears igniting cruelty vanquished.

All the way to the stars,
we could ascend.

Yes, stars are fueled by hydrogen.
Yet ultimately – like us,
like all
the ever-expanding, ever-cooling universe –
their complicit element
is Love.

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A poem prompted by a discussion about cold fusion with my ex-husband, an astrophysicist. Obviously, I got fanciful. So please don’t blame the ex for any inaccuracies.

Thank you,

Thomas Gaudex

&

Louise Foerster

for the home at Scribe.
Gratitude ever-expanding (but never cooling) to you, dearest readers. Love.

Please feel free to check out my prose Substack, A Septuagenarian Sings.