Monday, May 25, 2015

Jeffrey Parks- Three Poems


EXO-FORMING

Great fat-bellied starships
materialize overhead,
oozing a slow path,
seeding the upper atmosphere.

Before they fade away
into the deepening blue
the change has already begun.

Late risers sniff the air
and wrinkle their delicate noses
at the first cloying hints
of an alien stench.


FIELD WORK

Intergalactic researchers
have taken up temporary residence
in my bathroom.
I suppose I should be
flattered.

Late at night I hear them
rustling through the containers
in the medicine chest,
whispering
and scribbling in their notebooks.

I don’t think they suspect
that I’ve been flushing the pills
down the toilet.
They do so tend to underestimate
terran ingenuity.


INVADERS

They came silently
and without warning
when night fell
they were already here
swarming in their thousands
signaling
coordinating the operation
through cold alien light –
and just as quickly
were gone
leaving no traces
other than a few stragglers
in the mason jar
on my nightstand
where they made a fine
reading light
until their tiny nuclear piles
finally ran down
and died.
 
 
Bio: Jeffrey Park lives in Goettingen, Germany where he is Lecturer for Scientific English at the Georg-August-Universitaet. Links to all of his published work can be found at www.scribbles-and-dribbles.com 
 

Monday, May 18, 2015

Denny E. Marshall- Artwork



















Art #1  Cybot
Art #2  Plane Creature
Art #3  Two Stepping




Nancy May- Three Alien Haiku



in cookery class
I learn how to prepare
human for a meal


newspaper headline -
UFO seen over the
London landscape


at the crash site
young alien children
find a human body


Bio:

Haiku can be found at 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 M58.

She is a monthly contributor at Poems and Poetry and The Camel Saloon. She has reached The Heron’s Nest consideration stage twice and the Chrysanthemum consideration stage once. She is working on her first haiku collection.

Saturday, May 16, 2015

Denny E. Marshall- Three Poems


The Rider

Dashing out among dark ghostly trees,
Feel a roar combine with wind blow leaves.
Sky turns black while songbird’s stop singing,
Goosebumps snap, feel skin and hair tingling.

Hideous collage patched molten gray,
Encounter clutches some to kneel and pray.
Distorted features, blond shark like teeth,
Size of the fingers measured in feet.

Foul odor sounds loud can hear its breath.    
Commands between sing echoes of death
In view a rumbling gigantic beast,
It’s rider stabs with adrenaline feast.

Due south the sunset and a rainbow,
In an all out wild run south they go


Speed

Rocket ships
Collide in space
Crash sends out
Screaming shock waves
Debris scattered
Over four light years
Could have been avoided
If they had
Played it safe
Should’ve slowed down
To 25 million M.P.H.
The area
Is clearly marked
They are cruising
At one-o-two
The faster we can go
The more we hurry
What fire
Are we all trying
To get to?


Fort Kuiper

Hidden out in space, edged next to Pluto
Sitting silent, sheltered by icy comets
Directed and undetected
In the camouflage of the Kuiper Belt
Preparation of the attack
Of a planet unsuspected

Five thousand years of our time
A fraction less to them
Only a month or so away
From executing their plan
Waiting patiently and preparing
To exact a revenge

Last time they landed
Were captured by painted soldiers
Gathered up, sacrificed with many
To appease a ancient king
Their people know the stories
Of the great one, captured and killed

Traveled back to there home
To assemble and talk strategy
Though they speed great distance
Still with limitations
Now a waiting game    
Closing near to the build up

The last stop to proceeding
Gathering at the Kuiper Belt
Soon they will wake many
Sleeping frozen comets


Bio
Denny E. Marshall has had art, poetry, & fiction published, some recently. One recent credit would be CMC Fiction. CMC Fiction is a new market you might give it a try. (Accepts poetry too). To see more of his works visit www.dennymarshall.com


 

Thursday, May 14, 2015

John Pursch- A Poem


Camelot Sex

Amelia leans forward,
heaves a sheaf of shoving cyborg
mocha lotion clean loafer the rail,
laments the flossing of bilious bicuspids
in savory scenes stamped county-wild
from Clean Hibiscus Currying Cot
to Cantilevered Chumpy Strop Container
Rivulets of Malaprops in Fluid Isms,
bent matronly in falling creeks
of perspiration’s fugitive embrace:

“Quad flailest thou,
mine solidarity marker,
whence nouns have sparkled sup
the elongated treasonous pee-strained
groupies of slum heretoever inflamous
schlock bland of Inculcrassical Wreckage?”

(She is no doubt reefering
to an ubiquitous surfeit of bowels,
movements in orchestrio snot
with popular standoff’s
inguinal gurney insignias.)

RFK-357,
fresh from swirled tour
of seventy disheveled planetary shipping stumps,
foisting publican wreck-to-wretched non sequiturs
in noon’s salacious ergot minibar repudiation kick,
guaranteed to break-in votive lector
collage hung antsy plaudits,

well he schleps right offal
endometrial systemic transport
ass though mired Imogene sonographic lesions
crowd outa hex gray compartments
of Swirled Whore II’s sweaty veterinarians,
happen to reappear flung dime
to pre-inflationary clime
in pensive newsreel smiles
of Psych In Shower’s inaugural redress
or Mugless Dick Archer’s berated farewell sleet

(er maypole his rerun ta da Flippin’ Sheen Pylons,
accompanied by sartorially hacked Sharky Mean
in sole reprise of Paracowlips Juan’s directorial cutlet,
nunneries knotted under blond secluded eyes):

“Eye, uhh, ma’am, is they-a any, uhh,
easily accessible uhh schwimming pool uhh nea-ah by?”
Brushing forelocks auburn and evergreen
so proto-Sexties ova his uhh left eye
in expert nonchalance,
comely slake clover woof-woofian move,
lugging Sean Cannery’s blithely mottled
pet canary strayed outa wading electoral baggage.

Amelia mists up a blot,
addled hint of Camelot Sex,
mammaries of many
a dotted I and crushed tease,
thin recoups her savior fury
in phonetic alimentary
recalling carp:

“Why yes, Mustard Precedent,
bet first we need ewe indie Whore Room!
Ride tinseled whey,”
leading Blobby by the steady lobotic hand,
down Puntagain Corregidor in maze
of silent auction doorway slide to Graylien
sin counterpart contemporary
pasteboard corset wheel.

Ladled Miss Louvre,
henceforth Roxanne DeBries,
erstwhile dirigible pilot hex straw dinar,
festive bet nod a little bestial balloon mechanic,
conflator of bicycle tires and manly a titled
lung playing record breaker,
rumored to be half humid hound huff lobotic
weed chesty dacha of good ole cranapple spy
troweled in fur coldcocked bolt-action pleasure;

well Miss Louvre
slopped on the foreskin slogans,
particle blemishes filling Blobby’s
searingly sunburned eyes,
till hail frosted soldered lobotic fusion creams
to Everest spoken sword he’d heavenly uddered,
wood udder, or cowed shaver
hobble to seven Imogene.

Whey his entire mint becalmed glued open
(or shout, prepending swan your polled
ethical pontifical pewter feints)
furtively oar knotty baseboard turpentine
torpedo breath of pressed bleat stern mineralogy.

“Twat otter hold you for a centaur eye or two!”
Roxanne exclaimed, deftly tapping
Blobby’s abdominal access panel,
swiping up lingering glob of asterisk effusion
podiatry sauce for furtive licking font collusion
tryst in latter-spay subway preen.

“Which way, uhh, ma’am, is the spaceport?
Eye habitually have uhh mere minutes to spare,”
RFK-357 lurched into whistle stop mode.

Roxie popped a forefinger out of pursed lips,
savoring the rarefied tendencies
of Camelot Sex rotation brew:

“Now, now, Master Precedent!
You canoe midge batter thin Allah theatrical nonsense!
Time pauses match mire quackily hare in the Whore Room.
Whey, icon jest tap task timely crouton here and… presto!
It’s an hour ago again and we’re just getting undressed…”

Sunday, May 10, 2015

Michael Ceraolo- Three Poems


Ball Park Building

Catastrophic climate change had been averted,
just barely,
                 but enough change had taken place
to alter the major league landscape,
                                                     both
in the places in which the game was played
(some cities disappearing,
                                       other city designations
giving way to natural boundaries rather than man-made ones)
and in ending the gravy train of public subsidies,
                                                                       which 
led the Lords to a sort of retrenchment
now that they had to pay for things themselves:
no more retractable domes
                                         (henceforth,
where there would be domes they would be permanent),
no more gigantic video boards,
fewer luxury boxes, etc.
                                    (the Lords
would easily make up that lost revenue)

There would still be the fake eccentricity
that the late second/early third millennium
ballparks had had in imitation
of their parents and grandparents
(whose eccentricities weren't fake
but a result of having to fit in
in the neighborhoods where they were built),
                                                                 and so
ersatz ivy and multicolored monsters
and other such things abounded



Entering the Ball Park

The mania for searching those entering
never really ended,
                            it just changed form:
gone were the intrusive physical searches
for illegal food, weapons, etc.
These were replaced by mind searches
                                                          (at first
thought to be intrusive by most,
                                               but
later accepted by all but a few)
looking for malevolent intent,
                                          which
after much heated debate by the Lords
was deemed not to include booing players
(booing the Lords themselves was always banned),
                                                                           though
anything beyond booing was prohibited
Those who planned abuse beyond booing
were ferreted out and denied admission



At the Ball Park

Where the Lords had gone with closed domes
Neo-Purists had campaigned for
simulating the outside weather both
temperature-wise and wind-wise,
                                                but
not precipitation-wise
                                 And
those conditions would be on the playing field only;
the fans' area was climate-controlled,
                                                       though
interested fans could purchase
(from the team) an app that would
give the experience of the outside weather
 
 

Denny E. Marshall- Art