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

Monday, June 23, 2014

Alan Catlin- Three Poems

Our Lady of the Alien Invasion

Nights she sits in her pale blue
room, reading star charts, divining
astrological signs, making notations
of all abrupt changes in the weather,
fluctuations in the tides, wearing white
robes with gold brocade just in case
the time is now, these garments leftover
from dress rehearsal costume dramas,
comic operas, teleplays none of the characters
arrived for, all their lines left behind on sheets
she used as curtains to block out all of natural
light, music scored into window glass,
a Symphonie Fantastique in prime numbers
that would someday make sense, long after
Kool Aid Acid Tests, magic mushroom brownies
and strychnine sandwiches for the acolytes
and the newly converted, nothing left to chance;
once the higher powers have been summoned,
there is no turning back.

Charles and Marjory Johnson of Lancaster California,
the last stubborn defenders of flat earth doctrine

Their file photo could easily have been
culled from the back files of a UFO
Space Invaders found amid the wreckage
of an unacknowledged craft from some-
where in a New Mexican desert landing
site, their likenesses, part of disinformative
data meant to discredit far reaching thinkers
of unpopular doctrines, programs contemplated
as part of a disruptive interference in our
affairs from way beyond, these anachronistic
patriots left behind to live without modern
conveniences of running water, electricity,
indoor plumbing, to be perceived as exiles
in bizarre polyester, crackpots unstuck in time.


“There I was on line at the paper Cutter
getting the pages for the magazine
copy ready and this strange guy comes up
to me and hands me his card.
He was old, ancient in fact, decrepit
even.  The card was blue and it had all
kinds of names on it, some with addresses
on other planets. I wondered who took
the order for that one and where.
He indicated that he was on some kind
of mission that was of vital importance
and top secret to boot.
‘Take Sara, for instance. We’ve been
in contact for years. Her home base is still
Saturn but that could change on a moment’s
notice. What are you having run off?’
‘Runes. I’m head of a secret society
that specializes in the significance of signs:
have you ever heard of Semiologists?’
I thought I had a storing shot at becoming
statistic judging from the look in his eyes.
It was only later that I realized he hadn’t
gotten the joke and he had perceived me as
a threat from a rival power.”

David S. Pointer- Three Poems

flesh tearing trees
unhand the zombies
and bear meat bulbs

giant throat soldier
inspects dissection gear
steps into space

free to anyone
at the matinée

Ayaz Daryl Nielsen- Three Poems

and yo-hum. . . another 
off-world non-redneck 
alien intervention
always the same issue: 
none of them
bring along beer.

this weeping

just a few phrases
from a species of
light years ago
the past dripping
from a hologram

death loves the deep space pirate

it’s time,
she whispers...
you’re a legend now
our wanderlust will end within
this last embrace upon a glorious unknown moon

ayaz daryl nielsen, husband, father, veteran, x-roughneck (as on oil rigs)/hospice nurse, editor of bear creek haiku (24+ years/119+ issues), homes include Lilliput Review, Jellyfish Whispers, Eye On Life, High Coupe, Shamrock, SCIFAIKUEST, UFO Gigolo, and! (translates as joie de vivre)

James Mirarchi- A Poem

At the club Corky’s
Headlining regularly was
The Mothers and Smashfist
The Mothers was a punk band
Comprised of lesbians with shaved heads
And was popular in certain circles
For their songs
“Nancy Napalm” and “Dope and Dames”
Smashfist was a heavy metal band
Comprised of male skinheads
There was (understandable) contention
Between these two groups
One night
The lesbians infiltrated
The skinhead’s concert
They charged on stage with pistols
Holding the band and their audience
At gunpoint
The Mothers forced
Smashfist’s lead singer
To totally strip
He did
One of the lesbians then pointed
With her gun
Toward his infant-sized peepee
And announced to the club
See what I had to contend with?
One drunken fling was enough!
The audience almost bust a gut
Smashfist later counterattacked
By planting a bomb underneath
Their rival’s car
It would detonate as planned
Killing all members of The Mothers
It was shortly after
That two young sisters named
Molly and Bryce
Moved into the apartment
Above Corky’s
Where the bald ghosts
Of The Mothers
Now restlessly roamed
Molly and Bryce
Were blonde suburbanites
Who moved into this poor area
Because they had a penchant
For blue collar men
They were quite girly
Attending cosmetology school
And florally-decorating their apartment
But had boyish elfin features
Underscored by pageboy haircuts
The lesbian ghosts
Soon discovered these sisters
And invaded their apartment
Playfully harassing them
Since they were fond
Of a club’s dark ambiance
The ghosts’ favorite places
To nest were
A closed cupboard
A bathtub drain
Or even the circles
Under the sisters’ eyes
They played their music
In these dim places
During the night
Their shouted lyrics and raw guitars
Would suddenly blare
Waking Mollie and Bryce
Who immediately assumed
The music was coming
From the club below
Mollie and Bryce would discover
Swollen bags under their eyes
Caused by the internal pressure of yelling vocals
One day
They phoned Luke, the handyman
(Who they had yet to meet)
To come and fix a leaky faucet
When he arrived
They immediately became
Smitten with him
He was a hulking Viking guy
With long blonde hair
He asked both sisters out
They accepted his invitation
The Mothers became alarmed
By this
Especially when they realized
Luke was a skinhead member
Of their rival band Smashfist
They devised a plan
For getting Mollie and Bryce
Away from Luke:
They would subtly brainwash them
While the sisters slept
The ghosts slithered
Into their ear canals
And whispered propaganda
To subliminally condition them
Into hating Luke:
He is a skinhead pig
He is a bigot
He rapes women
After several nights of brainwashing
Molly and Bryce woke up
One morning
With a newfound anger and indignance
On one of their dates
With Luke
They even accused him
Of being a skinhead
And guilty
Luke came back
By saying he was a reformed skinhead
And no longer a member
Of Smashfist
The most revealing revelation
Soon came after
When Luke announced
That he was gay
And sleeping with a bodybuilder
He also divulged
He was quite aware
That the only reason he was attracted
To Molly and Bryce
Was because of their androgynous features
But kept on dating them
Because they were a distraction
From the painful truth
Like The Mothers
This ex-member of Smashfist
Used these innocents
For political means
Oppressed and Oppressor
Were somehow equal
In their relentless tactics

James Mirarchi grew up in Queens, New York. In addition to his poetry collections, Venison and Dervish, he has written and directed short films, which have played festivals. His poems have appeared in several independent literary journals. Links to his work can be found @:

John Pursch- A Poem


Evenly she rode through skies of summer dawn, interleaving cumuli and sprigs of solid copper rooftop roosters, spinning into sighs of latitudes beyond repair, of tropics insubordinate, of gales in western stormy brow line featurettes and dark bespectacled survival videos of savage trunk line murmurings down telegraphic gnosis.

Duplicated sentiments arose from her redundant circuitry, pinning wanderlust to outrage, sympathy to itchy reticence, wholesale laughter to worn despotic gloom; all looming in uptake segues once ignored, now front and center for all to raise a lowbrow tantrum over, especially her big sister, Pettigrew Ad Svetticlip.

Young Svetti (as we fondly called her), Aunt Petti to the toddling elementals of the clamoring Crumpetico clan, was quite the looker: all legs and curls and wispy where it mattered most to leering uncles, stepfathers, hit batsmen, visiting repairmen, constables, stable hands, unstable hidden idiots, vicars, vicarious drill seekers, lamentably somatic actuaries on weakened holiday to the norm of Prance, simian rain forest defenders, orange entangled florists in training, pluperfect seesaw breakers peering through chain link fences at schoolyard jungle gym catharsis clues…

Yes, she was well more than all that any man could want, but still not quite enough for JFK-99, his brother Byobby (erstwhile RFK-150), their womanizing sidekick Caesar-27, his highness Elvis-101, and Camelot-66 (Jack’s entourage/backing band of Hendrix-90, Janis-6, Wolfie-9109, Nietzsche-1888, and Snocrates-57).

Fortunately, this lobotic retinue tended to cancel itself out, bickering in endlessly byzantine varieties of bot-blocking, rendering themselves virtually invisible to all but your most fastidious poltergeist detector. Even so, Young Svetti was tantalizingly close to JFK-99’s ravenously tuned pheromone receptors, just a short dimensional warp away from pure tobacco pleasure; and he knew it, for she left him pouring perspiration, dying (if only that were possible, he sometimes groaned) to elude his brother’s grasp, then hurdle Caesar’s allergic siege, hip-fake Elvis, riff on Jimijam, bring off Joplin, wig out Wolfie…

But what to do with Friedrich? This had always stumped him; led, if truth had any value, to the grassy knoll’s inevitable recursive swap of timed-out frozen warrior to any of a countless skein of ecologically viable timelines, whirled without endgame blunder, self-mates fanned to barnyard barriers of seedless haystack farmers’ daughters, funneling fresh shot from future fodder to gross diversion’s pardoned recompense of cyclic rain.

So much for JFK-99’s patented thought process. RFK-150, Caesar, Wolfie, Janis, Jimi, even Snocrates all devolved to similarly tangled leavings, bumping into how to counter Nietzsche’s simple predilection for quiet afternoons alone with interminably sustained chords of major, minor, dissonant, hermetic, asymptotic, vitriolic, now symbiotic; imitating assonance, consonants, literally alimentary alliteration, flooding the piano at Villa Silberblick hour by day by year for nearly the entire final decade of the 19th Century.

Indeed, Friedrich had proved quite a stumbling block, not just for lobots everywhere but for all mankind on planet Dearth, and through no fault of his own. Co-opted decades after his premature demise, fully misinterpreted, appallingly oversimplified, ruthlessly bastardized, his work had formed the illegitimate springboard and pseudo-intellectual gumdrop for global mechanization; first as periodic war, finally as continual ecological erosion, soon rendering the entire timeline unviable. Paradoxically, his work would have the opposite effect in lobotic circles, where it short-circuited the baser motivations, rippling viability throughout the continuum.

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.

Wednesday, June 11, 2014

Tim Gardiner- Three Poems

gibbous moon
mirrored in a calm sea
still incomplete

crescent moon
a slender smile
from pale lips

a boy gazed
at the full moon
unaware of its dark side

J.D. DeHart- Two Poems


I read the confessional letter
in the back of the magazine,
the account of a nightly travel
and blinking lights, then found
myself afraid for weeks after
until I realized the possibility
of half-truth and my ten year old
mind allowed other interpretations.


one of his major tenets
is that life may exist on other
planets, telling us about the hovering
stars he saw above the mountains,
but how can you trust a man
full of so many exaggerations,
yet I do want to believe, somewhere
inside there is a desire
for broader horizons.

Ayaz Daryl Nielsen- Three Poems


You come to us through deed and little lies,
those without a trace of substance, of
redemption:  weeping, your incontinence,
some drool, a sob, mental tentacles of an
unending embrace, and murmurings 
of your true name.

nasty little droid
shaped like a football
this sudden kickoff

again caressed by
this season’s acid winds
human remnants

ayaz daryl nielsen, husband, father, veteran, x-roughneck (as on oil rigs)/hospice nurse, editor of bear creek haiku (24+ years/119+ issues), and! (translates as joie de vivre)

Monday, June 9, 2014

Mark Fleury- Two Poems

Poem as a Precise Measurement of Ego's Defeat

This world's the shadow of the next.
The vibration between them is my defeat.

My brain's replaced by
Psyche as an open window

With an inhale breezed from a Solar Ship's
Inner Door. It tickles my throat

Toward the outer places of my Muse-
Guarded memories, still there.

These places are touched and made sacred
By just enough God fire vision

To separate them into August
Park pool waves,

Soaking with floating poems. Outside
The fence, mind-stones vibrate quick-
Silver antennas. Healing

Wheels circle Pyramids

Until the machinery of this burning
World's separateness is cured
By sound waves of oneness. The truth is real

Memories come from deep within
Their present places, not the past. They vibrate
Through ego's defeat into the imagination

Of the soul-rooted syllables that replace it.

Past's Measure


Thoughts were a desert
Planet of stones. Figures of

Beings trembled in their forms,
Awakened by tops

Of quicksilver antennas
Rising behind them. The machinery thoughts
Became healed slowly, until oneness was

Separated only by Pyramids. Now

Fire in the guts of the earth measures,
From feeling to thought, below to above,

Visions of a real past, healing
Into imaginary forms of speech. Muse's
World adds up to the Inner Door.


Planet Earth's
Outside my 4D Window
And it's wearing Muse's Crown,

Shaping thoughts of Gods into

Syllables of feeling
With fire in the heart

Of breath and spirit, unifying
The world and its separate shadows
Into sentences.

Mark Fleury lives in St. Paul Minnesota. He has recently had poems published in Altered Scale, Clockwise Cat, Counterexample Poetics, Medulla Review, ditch, UFO Gigolo, The Original Van Gogh's Ear Anthology, and others. Mark has a new 2014 book of poetry entitled The Precious Surreal Doorway Opened, published by the Medulla Review Publishing.

David S. Pointer- Three Poems

was that a caress
or bio scan info grab
my dear

glass dome dozing
healing century of sleep
waking up younger

eavesdropping planet
pays heavy space fines
gets sainthood medal