Monday, April 14, 2014

Alan Catlin- Three Poems

Sex with Aliens

All of them casting couch co-eds,
dressed like extras from a Marquis
de Sade movie, “120 Days of Sodom”
or “Justine, or the Misfortunes of Virtue,”
outfits by Frederick’s of Hollywood,
the Fire Sale, the rejects and the discontinued,
all of them barhopping with chest protector
wearing dweebs, wielding slide rules like
weapons in their “Mars Attacks” costumes,
boys they would ditch in a biker bar after
shots of Sex on the Beach, where the take-me-
to-your-leader-boy tried to pay for the round
with a credit card no one there was about to take.
Half way to heaven drunk, the girls latch on
to some toga party frat boys with Halloween
death masks sporting twelve inch rubber dicks
instead of noses, the implication clear, but,
if their money was like green, who cared?
Losing those guys became, like, necessary once
it became all too clear they could only drink
their Slo Comfortable Screw shooters through
straws and like, who wants to wait for them when
they take so long to finish?  After a few lines
in the ladies, the whole time and space continuum
thing becomes, like, just so irrelevant. I mean,
who cares about stuff like that? It’s all about
here and now and having fun.

The aliens

double park by the primo, fire lane,
by-the-front-door-of-the-bar, space,
intending to stay for five, place a bet,
grab a number, have a brew, instead,
stay for an hour, oblivious to traffic
nightmares outside, the honking of
the horns, the denting of the bumpers;
wear Ted Bundy Fry Day memorial t-shirts,
the mass murderer’s handsome, smiling face
inside a circle, a red line overprinted,
simulated heat waves circulating all
around, dead to the world but alive in our
hearts imprinted on the back for all to see;
proudly proclaim, after crashing family
barbeques, outdoor cookouts, that they
“don’t just have a  record but a fucken album;”
think all boundaries are made to be torn
down, all rules to be broken, endlessly
demonstrating “that an order of protection
is about as useful as a string of garlic”;
think that life is just one long Clint Eastwood
movie they would be stars in, never expecting
to end up perched on a wobbly wooden cross
in a graveyard with a noose around their necks
or on the wrong end of a “make my day”
ultimatum; are always surprised when bad
things happen to evil people, as if, for some
reason, they might not deserve the worst possible

Homeward Bound

There must not have been
much else for him to do
wherever he’d spent the last
few years of his life except
pump iron, bust heads and
carve stuff into his skin.
Most of his remaining brain
cells had been deprived of
oxygen chasing ufo’s toward
Venus and were spiraling
out of control through his
nervous system causing involuntary
spasms, spastic reactions so
severe he looked like a spontaneous
St Vitus Disco Dance competition
winner with white foam stuff
at the corners of his tainted blue,
vermiform lips. Phoning for help
was probably a waste of time,
though someone was going to
have to clean up the inevitable
mess and the body afterwards.
The hope was whoever was
supposed to meet him here was
unavoidably detained forever.

Nancy May- Three Haiku

missing plane
conspiracy theory
alien abduction

headline news
alien autopsy reveals
strange new food

alien encounter
conversations end
by gunfire 


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, Writer’s Haven, Danse Macabre – An online literary magazine, High Coupe, A Handful of stones, Lyrical Passion Poetry E-Zine, Dead Snakes, 50 Haikus and The Germ. Haiku will soon appear in Every Day Poets, Boston Literary Review and Cattails. She is a monthly contributor at 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.

Monday, April 7, 2014

Holly Day- Three Poems

            If I Knew Braille

If I knew Braille, perhaps I could read
the graffiti of  purple-mouthed limpets clinging
to old, sea-washed boulders
the secret Bibles of zebra mussels clinging to dry-docked boats
the last, profound gasps of snails and slugs dried out in clumps
on the sun-baked pavement in front of my house.
There may be language in the teetering piles of droppings

the rabbits have scattered throughout my yard
written in squirrel on the skin of half-nibbled tulip bulbs
lifted from the ground and carried into the trees
in the fresh pattern of teeth marks gnawed into the table leg
by the dog. I am missing too many important things
because I don’t know how to read.

The Last Place You’d Look

The repairman finally came, sucked the soul
out of my cable tv and left only
walnuts behind. I told him
I had already given my heart
to a pony-riding clown
and didn’t need anything from anyone
anymore, didn’t need to be made a part
of anyone else’s sideshow act.

His voice muffled by pillows
and panties, he told me
not all insects are dangerous,
and some even make our lives more
comfortable. However, he did not tell me
how to turn the television on
and ants still give me the willies.

This is the definition of want. You can only go so far in a
boat. Sooner or later, we all have to sleep. Most
people are not as smart as they look.
These are painful rainbows to handle. I keep everything
in my pockets, except my money
which I don’t.


You wake me up to tell me
that the snow has come back
that the garden outside is completely
obscured in white. You say it much too loud
for this sort of news
for this early in the morning, almost joyful.

Half-asleep, the resentful part of me believes
perhaps you are responsible for the snow.

I drag myself out of bed and call the dog
who comes, joyful at the prospect of a morning walk.
I put on her leash and we step outside
into a world buried in white snow
the tips of new tulips, the green sprays of crocus
already shriveling and darkening in the cold.

Short bio: Holly Day was born in Hereford, Texas, “The Town Without a Toothache.” She and her family currently live in Minneapolis, Minnesota, where she teaches writing classes at the Loft Literary Center. Her published books include the nonfiction books Music Theory for Dummies, Music Composition for Dummies, and Guitar All-in-One for Dummies, and the poetry books “Late-Night Reading for Hardworking Construction Men” (The Moon Publishing) and “The Smell of Snow” (ELJ Publications). 

Richard Schnap- A Poem


When I am dead and buried
I will be able to travel through time
To discover that the far-off future
Is the same as the distant past

When I am dead and buried
I will read the minds of the living
To learn those who hated to love me
And those who hated to be loved

When I am dead and buried
I will know God and Satan are the same
Ruling the world at random
To keep humanity guessing

And when I am dead and buried
I will journey to other planets
And find they are just like Earth
But smart enough to leave us alone

Tim Gardiner- Three Poems

solar collision
his Icarus life
shooting stars
illuminate the sky
before extinction 
a waning moon
hangs over an old town
waxing soon
A brief bio as is follows:
Tim Gardiner has poems published in Camel Saloon, Country-Side, Dead Snakes, Haiku Journal, Poetry Nook, Three Line Poetry and 50 Haikus. His first collection of full-length poetry 'Wilderness' is due to be published by Brambleby Books in 2014. Tim's poetry has been described as 'beautifully evocative' and 'gothic.' He is also an ecologist who has published numerous scientific papers and several books on natural history. He regularly tweets haiku on @TimGardiner3

Friday, March 28, 2014

Denny E. Marshall- Art

                                                             To Hide In Layers

Richard Schnap- A Poem


He felt like an alien
From another planet
Stranded on a world
He could never call home

Where the air stung his throat
And the water burned his tongue
While the creatures all wore faces
As monstrous as masks

But maybe he was wrong
And they were the aliens
Invaders come to claim
His world as their own

While they poisoned the air
And infected the water
Until he was the only
Human left alive