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 

 

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.

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


 

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…”

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

Scott Thomas Outlar- A Poem

Test Tube

Down from the heavens came

twilight of a fading age

Worry not, they come in peace

where have I heard that line before?

Aquarius is spinning round

spill the bucket for a flood

They have watched us all this time

thought eventually we’d get it right

No hope in that course they see

a buried species below the sea

Like Atlantis, we had our chance

pray the next seed grows with grace

Bio:

Scott Thomas Outlar writes about this, that, and occasionally the other. His work can be found at 17numa.wordpress.com.

Ayaz Daryl Nielsen- Two Poems

earthrise

the old lunar probe

blinks one last time

lovely envoy 

my tentacle squeezes

a bit too hard

ayaz daryl nielsen, x-roughneck (as on oil rigs)/hospice nurse, editor of bear creek haiku (25+ years/125+ issues), homes for poems include Lilliput Review, SCIFAIKUEST, Dead Snakes, Shamrock, Kind of a Hurricane, and!  online at:  bear creek haiku  poetry, poems and info 

 

Robin Wyatt Dunn- A Poem

When You Feel like the Center of the World

Fire then fire
thrum under bier my bear my burr
flume rot and hue my face
with your truer terror red:

Fire and more fire
On my own
On my face
Transmitted to you:

The novel is the story of you
Come off that planet you dreamt of
and an avatar is only a victim
of the alien mind control ray

(but still, I want you to enjoy it)

Alan Catlin- Three Poems

High Altitude Bomber

He was on a flightless

strafing run from Planet

Weird, his tie‑dyed

Hard Rock Uranus t-shirt

torn, grass and mud stained

blunting the wild, bright

colors as if he'd spent

last night being dragged

behind a tractor in a

cornfield way past

East of Eden.

"Say, partner, mix me up

one of your best High Altitude

Bombers.  I'm going to need

lots of rocket fuel for a

long midnight run."

I didn't need to ask what

occupied country that flight

might take.  His cruising

altitude was in a stratospheric

ozone layer beyond search

lights, no topo maps needed

for targets, everything was a

primary objective in this

comprehensive search and destroy

mission of his life.

The Afterburner

His interplanetary space exploration

party was on the last legs of a

journey in the dark, badly in need

of fresh supplies, pure oxygen, rocket

fuel that might propel them beyond

the severe gravitational pull of heavenly

bodies doped into a fourth dimension

beyond star charts, maps of the known

world and what lies on the other side,

running on the last alcohol fumes at

the bottom of the tank, the captain striking

matches in the poorly lighted bar, trying to

check the levels of intoxicating fluids,

bank notes necessary for a fresh supply

of whatever might keep them going,

afraid of a crash landing for everyone

aboard, a desert planet, flash points

of their collective ozone layers

flaring briefly before going out for good.

Hell Cat

After dark she comes

alive, emerging from

shadow worlds so Un-

earthly, so unreal her

skin is almost trans-

parent, defined by

garments that seem to

have no weight, no

substance, no existence

of their own, so that

when she leans forward

over the bar to accept

a light, she never seems

to have been anywhere

else, not exactly having

arrived so much as

simply existing wherever

she needed to be, her voice

an intaken breath held,

unspoken thoughts co-

mingling with yours, a

heartbeat away from

suggesting trading your

soul for a week of endless

nights on the town, never

glimpsing the light until

debts accrued were to be paid.