Monday, July 21, 2014

Alan Catlin- Three Poems

Alien Presence: Things Fall Apart

The who-knows-how-old-woman
on the bar stool next to him was
stuck in some self-perpetuating
talking binge that could drive a
man to violence.  She was somewhere
between thirty and ageless,
all of her body functions in cessation
except that center of speech,
rambling on without benefit
of human constraint, a kind of alien
possession making her an automaton
in human skin fueled by alcohol
and stuck in high gear no one could
down shift to neutral.  He considered
suggesting they go to her room, cell,
cloister, on the off-chance she might
have a pair of rolled up gym socks
he could use as gag to maybe muffle
the sound emanating from her like
a death ray or a Star Trek stun gun.
It was probably hopeless but maybe
worth a shot. Even considered trying
her on for size: she wasn’t half-bad
in a certain kind of light. Not here, in
various shades of neon, but in the dark
of a room with black out curtains pulled
tight.  Somehow, he just knew the inevitable
would happen in mid-whatever: one or
both of them would lapse into an alcoholic
coma and eventually she’d come to,
transform herself from whatever into
a migraine with tits.  Much as he was not
inclined to moving: a body at rest and
all that, he knew it was time to sail, said,
“Ship ahoy, mates. Ship ahoy.”
Staggered through the pub door into
a vast unknown as she talked on, oblivious
to his passing on.  In the dark, ripped out
of his gourd, in the confusion of all this
new, nebulous stimulation, nothing looked
familiar, He thought,” I’ve reached
the end of the world and I’m about to
fall off.”  Took one more step

Space Junkies

If it were Halloween, these guys
would have fit right in or even
if it had been New Year’s Eve or
Mardi Gras and they had been on
the way to some end of the world
as we know it party, but it was none
of those, not the kind of place that
dressing like Gary Glitters, Ziggy
Stardust  clones on some kind of
Velvet Goldmine club quest,
ostentatiously pierced all about their
bodies, tacky make up and costume
clothes like stiff out of Harper’s Bizarre,
Warhol’s Pandora Box wardrobe, body
art by some demented freak on speed
with a butcher’s knife instead of a tattooist’s
tools, the only discernible images, death
cultist symbols and the leader of the pack’s
Gothic lettered phrase” PISS FACTORY,
forming a semi-circle around his navel,
all of them stoned to the gills and clearly
hostile, in need of sedatives to slow
the virtual China syndrome chemical mix
threatening to flatline their vital organs,
close their bodies down, the take-me-to-
your-leader gesturing at the barman,
pointing at the back bar high octane rocket fuel
bottles, waving fifty dollar bills as an attention
getting aid, trying to bridge a considerable
language gap with guttural noise making
and even more frantic waving, succeeding
only in creating an image of Euro trash on tour,
way lost on some highway to hell they were
building as they went, oblivious to their
surroundings and determined to stay that way.

Space Cowboy

like some kind of urbane cowpoke
in second hand store bought jeans
and shirts only worn on the range
for cooking dinners on electric
stove tops or for warming instant
coffee to pour in a Trailblazers mug
he mistakes for the emblem of some
Wild West Show. Even after hours,
Perfecting his image and stride in
full length mirror, he’s spotted as a
dude walking into a bar, singled out
for some major attitude adjustment
by unspoken agreement among regulars
he asks about the real Area 51, they’d
send him looking for by shortcuts and
made up state highways that would lead
him all the way up to Wyoming once
he’d recovered from all the mind altering
stuff they’d put in hi shots and beers,
telling him it was the local custom,
and he’d gleefully agreed without pausing
to ask what the special ingredients were,
not that they would have told him; these
recipes were a carefully guarded secret
as these things should be.

Friday, July 18, 2014

Nancy May- Three Poems

alien autopsy
eight fingers, two thumbs
on this strange creature

trophy on the wall
human eyes in awe of
new surroundings

flames chase the clouds
through the treetops
alien crash site below

Nancy May has haiku published in Haiku Journal, Three Line Poetry, Poetry Quarterly, Inclement Poetry, Twisted Dreams Magazine, Vox Poetica, Eskimo Pie, Icebox, Dark Pens, Daily Love, Leaves of Ink, The Blue Hour Magazine, Kernels, Mused – The BellaOnline Literary Review, Danse Macabre – An online literary Magazine, High Coupe, A Handful of Stones, Lyrical Passion Poetry E-Zine, Dead Snakes, 50 Haikus, The Germ, Boston Literary Review, Be happy Zone, Every Day Poets, Cattails, Ppigpenn, Creatrix Journal and Artvilla. Haiku will soon appear in M58.
She is a monthly contributor at The Camel Saloon and Poems and Poetry. She has reached The Heron’s Nest consideration stage twice and the Chrysanthemum consideration stage once. She is working on her first haiku collection.​

David S. Pointer- Three Poems

UFO repair
drop yard mechanics
greasing the unknown

vampire sweat shop
dental extraction room
for low achievers

beached whale
rebuilt with double sonar
sub soon washes ashore

Ayaz Daryl Nielsen- Two Poems


her sewing basket
a collection of
orphan eyeballs

early morning coffee
and the usual 
emailed death curse

ant antennae
feeling for missing
back legs

locked ward
hides my shadow
hides my claws

full moon
blood cousins and I
hunt as a pack

this time,
tired of the same old
she lets me live

Contemplating an Unknown

Our computers have no records of your
shattered starship’s design nor where
it was built.  We have no data about 
your species.  Dying alone on an 
uncharted moon...acidic mists
from surface craters were a
sudden death, even if you 
survived an obviously 
brutal crash landing  
Your remote home...
you may have been
their hero, perhaps
even their savior...
there is sadness.
There is this sorrow.
I’ll never know your name

ayaz daryl nielsen, husband, father, veteran, x-roughneck (as on oil rigs)/hospice nurse, editor of bear creek haiku (25+ years/120+ issues), homes include Lilliput Review, Jellyfish Whispers, Eye On Life, Shamrock, UFO Gigoglo, and! (translates as joie de vivre)

Friday, June 27, 2014

Ayaz Daryl Nielsen- Three Poems

an earthy affair
your cool, green skin
pressing against mine

another new species
our linguist composes love sonnets 
on the starship’s computer

situation normal
she turns the heat up
as she leave for work
stuck here, again, 
with our hungry larvae

ayaz daryl nielsen, husband, father, veteran, x-roughneck (as on oil rigs)/hospice nurse, editor of bear creek haiku (25+ years/120+ issues), homes include Lilliput Review, Jellyfish Whispers, Eye On Life, Shamrock, UFO Gigoglo, and! (translates as joie de vivre)

John Pursch- A Poem

Veterinary Aliens
Shy conundrums hover offstage left,
wishing for patented cumuli
and mothballed dimorphisms
to hear our ogling sheepskin cries
from daisy chain gang seminarians
in mottled mainframe sponge house zipper plight.

Bathing grooms careen in broken whistle blots,
eclectic but anonymously clinging
to unshuffled dart tryst dueling flurry syzygy,
gashed by stirrup gopher votes from subtle bounties,
recollecting pools of fries.

Shirkers mumble by the marbled minions,
cashing in on Prussian cashew dreck’s
naphthalene incursion belt
of situation desecration silt
and widowed urchin carriers.

Plastic sheep erode an amniotic fare curd from oodles
of stenciled chop ducts to whipped emergent glory,
certified in tundra lingo’s barely axial
donation mint of finery.

Walls glide broomstick curry pipes
beside anterior illusion tributaries,
golfing pneumatic hopscotch pickles
into pausing dumpster scars
of freighter drainage barriers
in sanded bagman ateliers above nude foragers
entrained to diatonic bleeding.

Daylight carcinomas cavil bloated ceremony fish
for pseudopodal veterinary aliens
on topsoil feeder ampule sift of flashy iffy lamprey prey,
defeating surreptitious Mylar metronomes of selfish steel.

John Pursch lives in Tucson, Arizona. His work has been nominated for Best of the Net and has appeared in many literary journals. A collection of his poetry,Intunesia, is available at His recently released experimental lit-rap video is at He’s @johnpursch on Twitter and john.pursch on Facebook.

Tim Gardiner- UFO Haiku Sequence

Cold Fire

Rendlesham Forest (Suffolk, UK) is renowned for the supposed sightings of UFOs in late December 1980, an incident often referred to as Britain's Roswell. The Forest is just outside RAF Woodbridge which was used at the time by the US Airforce. Dozens of USAF personnel were eyewitnesses to various phenomena over a three day period. The Rendlesham Forest Incident is acknowledged as one of the most significant UFO sightings in Britain. The main sightings refer to mysterious lights which were allegedly seen to descend into the Forest and the landing of an alien craft. There were claims of a cover-up by the Ministry of Defence (MoD) and the case has never been properly investigated. The following haiku reflect the incident and the wildlife found in the Forest (e.g. cold fire of glow-worms and wing clapping of nightjars).

burn marks
broken branches -
a lady screams

a lighthouse's 
blinking eye -
Orford illusion

frenzied beasts
in the barn -
a muntjac barks

strange lights
in the sky -
cold fire

flying object -
wings clap

alien craft
of unknown origin -
touching deception

tripod triangles
in loose earth -
an empty clearing

the remains
of Britain's Roswell -
a trail of ice cream