Saturday, May 14, 2016

Mark Myavec- A Photo

                                                  "Big Eyes"

Alan Garfoot- A Poem

The Emz 

Fly with me my space bound beauty of the stars, 
And see the untold wonder of the universe, 
Your love is a bond stronger than life, 
And soul is the essence of purest infinity. 
Do not hurt my sweet tender angel, 
For your woe is because you love so deeply, 
Your heart though blue is as strong as sapphire, 
An immortal’s eternal love in crystalline time. 
As we fly in our immortal dream-ship, 
Time and space fold through our will, 
And we trace the skies in the colours of love, 
An unbeatable passion which will resurrect all hope. 
Your beauty is as flawless as perfect diamond, 
And love I cherish as like your soft tender touch, 
Your voice has healed me of the savage darkness, 
As your affection saved me from bitter despair. 
You are my soul-mate and companion forever, 
At night we drift as spirits through consciousness, 
Through the spirit-web we speak through our dreams, 
As our dragons slowly coil round each other’s forms.

Angelica Fuse- A Poem


when I looked
last at 
my arm
there was a small

but the bump
grew larger
a dark shadow
moving inside

moving in its

within weeks
it grew to the size
of a strawberry
then an apple

then a small leg
wiggling in the air

another leg
an arm
a smiling face

I was left with
an open wound
and a sense
of accomplishment.

Alan Catlin- Three Poems

The Monkey's Raincoat

He was
the monkey's
red raincoat
when he
came in
and it was
five sizes
too small
He looked
like a
thunder cloud
dripping dirty
wash and wear
water on my
Looked like
he might
be the point
man for
some kind
of strange

Music Men

They heard
tunes in
their heads
no one else
would ever
They were
so whacked out
on where they
had come from
and where they
were going
they didn't have
any time for
the here
and now
They were
Music Men
lost in
the ozone
and their
plane was
coming down
so fast
you could
see the
in their

Cold Meat

The way he's
going he should
have been dead
and buried a
hundred times
or more already
He's cold meat
in the ground
He's only
walking around
because his body
doesn't know yet
that his head
is gone

Ananya S. Guha- A Poem

Grandmother And Her Two Sons

I have taken this weight off,
the proverbial burden of responsibility
or irresponsibility, we call it whatever we will.

Once upon a time I sat on grandmother's lap
to listen to stories of ghosts, catcalls and her two sons
climbing up the wind, soaring skies after dying of  poisonous
fumes of the stomach. The narrative, unreal, surreal blended
into my apostasy, my image of myth maker, teller of fables and lies!

The weight suddenly lessened, slowly in life, when I realized
that truths told were untold ( lies!)
Grandmother, her fabulous world were lies, until she died
at a ripe old age of hundred and two. I looked at her frail self,
and wondered how this frailty could cause a string of lies!

Fabulous, untold stories, of her two sons, flying across
when space crafts did not exist. Now I know.

I know, unexplored terrains, I know grandmother as a psychic
teller of tales. Fantasy.

I know, she is still climbing across untenanted skies.
Grandmother's ghost is real. The house in Guwahati
shackled with ominous ruins is as true, or false as
Grandmother's tales. Her rickety fingers still point
at me. Her narratives give me a lull, and then
sleepless nights. Her two sons, dying of cholera
are my dying assets. I still live. Grandmother, her two sons...
They were twins.

Ananya S Guha
Shillong, INDIA.

Michael Ceraolo- Two Poems

Holiday Interlude

But first,
             the Seven settled in
to watch and experience one of the American Terrans'
famous holiday revelries,
they had previously experienced only virtually

Misty fog mingled with lingering smoke
from fireworks shot off the night of their arrival

People beat the sunrise to save places on the beach
for picnicking,
                     for swimming,
                                          for volleyball,
for tossing plastic discs and other objects
mostly spheroid,
                                 what the Seven
had determined was the most popular activity
to be engaged in,
the ritual murder of brain cells

Bi-planes flew by toting advertising signs

even a lone coyote were
the latest roadside casualties of the car,
the uneasy co-existence between the humans
and many of their fellow creatures

a crowd had assembled
a souvenir shop had sprung up

(definition of souvenir

-a doodad you don't really need
to serve as a reminder
of an outing or a trip
you wouldn't otherwise remember)

over the course of the day,
                                        the Seven's
other senses were engaged:
the smell of charcoal for cookouts,
the smells of the foods being cooked,
the smells of the seasonings sprinkled on the foods,
the tastes of the foods when they were eaten,
the sounds of the different musics
both recorded and live,
the feel of the lake's water on their skin

At night neon lights lit up the sky,
people gathered to watch more fireworks,
         though not all,
                               of today's displays
authorized by the local civilian authorities
everyone applauded the shows and themselves

Happily exhausted,
                             the Seven rested up,
tomorrow the real work of the mission
would begin

The Blob from Area 1

It was a man-made creature,
                                          made from
material dredged from the Cuyahoga River
to facilitate the river's shipping traffic,
dumped untreated and uncontained into the lake
during a time when such dumping was routine

Age:  at least forty-five to fifty years old

Size:  two square miles

Weight:  unknown

Composition:  known only in part,
containing dangerous concentrations
of at least two pollutants
from the toxic alphabet soup:
(polychlorinated biphenyls),
                                        and PAHs
(polycyclic aromatic hydrocarbons)
these and the other materials were heavier than water
because the creature was crawling on the lake bottom

Earth bureaucrats had designated
the affected area as Area 1
(no explanation of how they came to name it
as such,
              or whether
there are other affected areas),
one of the crats had written to another,
in a letter recently revealed,
"Sampling date in and around Area 1
clearly shows the ability
of the sediments to migrate"
avoiding calling it a creature)
"and further shows the sediment
migrating in the direction of the water intake"
noting that
                  the migrations was
"toward the raw water intake
for our Nottingham Treatment Plant"
                                                     also noting
"Area 1 is within approximately five miles"
of said intake,
given the mania for secrecy
prevalent at that time and later,
they did not disclose the intake's 
exact location

they couldn't yet tell how fast the creature
was migrating toward the water intake,
that its existence was public knowledge
on this planet,
                     they assured the public
they were carefully monitoring the situation,
that they had a plan of action
should conditions warrant it

JD DeHart- Three Poems

Not an island
as might be imagined
but still a place
of sedate longing

perfect geographical
expression of that feeling
in the legs before rising
when one has awakened
and is yet to be ready

Denizens floating by,
dazed, offering us fluffy
drinks with toys in them,
their own swirl of nectar.

(first appeared at Leaves of Ink)


his form, flowing
from the cold
center of north

we tried to thaw
him but no
such luck

he saw us
through foggy
breath, knowing us
we recognized
the gleam
of isolation.

(first appeared at Leaves of Ink)


Do you believe
in flying saucers,
the prof asks
before tossing his
plate across
the lecture hall,
How about now?

(first appeared at Leaves of Ink)