Saturday, May 14, 2016

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,
                                     one
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,
                          and,
                                 what the Seven
had determined was the most popular activity
to be engaged in,
                          for
the ritual murder of brain cells

Bi-planes flew by toting advertising signs

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

                                                     Because
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)

                                                    Gradually
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,
                                  and
the feel of the lake's water on their skin

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

Happily exhausted,
                             the Seven rested up,
                                                            for
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,
                                                      then
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,
                                                 but
containing dangerous concentrations
of at least two pollutants
from the toxic alphabet soup:
                                             PCBs
(polychlorinated biphenyls),
                                        and PAHs
(polycyclic aromatic hydrocarbons)
                                                     And
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),
                                              and
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"
                                           (carefully
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,
                       though
given the mania for secrecy
prevalent at that time and later,
they did not disclose the intake's 
exact location

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

JD DeHart- Three Poems


Lotus
 
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)



Polar

Icy
his form, flowing
from the cold
center of north

How
we tried to thaw
him but no
such luck

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

(first appeared at Leaves of Ink)



Saucers

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

(first appeared at Leaves of Ink)
 
 

Angelica Fuse- Three Poems


The Hinge

a door
that opens softly
in my mind
I can't shut

a scene
I can't shake

a creaking
hinge moment
that changes my
life.



Esoteric

on the Planet Esoteric
many people
speak
but no one listens
because no one intends
to make sense

it is a world of babbling
brook people who only
want to sound intelligent

without actually
knowing anything.



Cinematic

bathed
in a glow of light
I am led
by the hand gently
into the silver
screen
where I become
part of the journey
carved on film.
 
 

Thursday, May 12, 2016

Dennis Williamson- Two Poems


"Avenues"

Dangerous setting-
The avenues have departed.
Long since has it been when mother
Last closed her music box.
In fact, I was but a boy of seven then;
Now, I'm a man haunted by a boy's half-dream:
The Minotaur among the honeysuckle,
Under a Minoan summer sun soon to be
Honored with the blood of so many boys
Grown to soldiers.

For them, the avenues have departed;
There is no escape...
From Crete to Normandy and on to Basra-
The music box is only opened in a dead
Boy's ears.

         ("Avenues" was first published on Dagda Publishing's website
              on May 1, 2013.)



"Never The Invitation"

I need night, where oft I am dismissed.
I need night, to rewrite myself, as always I am written off.
Born- since have my days been miscarriage;
No nation for me, no messages from God, no hope.
I looked into the summer settings of the sun and knew the
Winter of my gnosis would be forever.
'I hate you,' says my reflection from the window.
Window!- the base of the cipher's empire.  Ever
    looking in, but never the invitation.
Stray dogs and cats and the mad committed to the
Streets; indeed, they are my legions against the
Parties where the "saved" gather.
Parties...the maw of Our Lord.
Hurled down by the angels and the primates,
I am the skeleton, self-packaged in a grey trench coat;
My apron crudely cut from the tapestry of beautiful beliefs.
Soured in the mouth of a man who cannot turn to Dionysus when
Sinai awakens.

And now I put the morning paper down on the
   floor to preserve it.
From the Torture.
Holiest Torture.
I am, as I was when first I learned to speak,
Ever so devout.


Dennis Williamson, formerly published under the pen name Dennis Villelmi, is the author of numerous poems, the science fiction short story "The Apian Way," (appearing in Dagda Publishing's anthology "All Hail The New Flesh") as well as the epic poem, "Fretensis, In the Image of a Blind God vol. 1"(also originally from Dagda, but now a book in need of a new home.)  Additionally, there is his author's blog, "Dennis Williamson, a death's head in green light."  Mr. Williamson lives in Virginia.

Robin Wyatt Dunn- A Poem


Cheers to Jung-Mal, Earth President

Cheers to Jung-Mal, Earth President.
He has instituted Universal Reading Regimes.
My libation is Stone IPA.
Its color is green.
By the waystation outside my window, all lights are on.

I know the frequency of Reading Regime Discussion Section. It is 425 Megahertz.
I tune in every night.

Each star moves at a certain rate, although that rate can vary,
depending on other phenomena.
This variance is like Universal Reading Regimes.
How long will Jung Mal live?

Will Earth have what it takes to anoint a just successor?

Will Earth continue to tune into 425 Megahertz as I do?

My fellow listeners know the difficulty that attends on successful
radio listening.
Have our chores for the collective been completed?
Have I satisfied my own needs so I may be put to the best use?

Jung-Mal too is suffering.
How can we aid him?

Are we brave enough to speak to Jung-Mal as a brother?



Bio:
Robin Wyatt Dunn lives in Los Angeles.


Wesley D. Gray- Two Poems


Superior

They are listening.
And they have the power. 
We must obey, 
or face their consequences. 

They bend us to their will.
Our lives mold  
within clenched fists. 
It is their work we must do.

They crawl into our brains. 
They hear every thought. 
Their mind is strong.
It strikes us like a viper.

The bite stings, 
and poison seeps— 
the bitter stuff 
that keeps us still. 


Appendix 
 
It lies dormant in the sacks of meat,  
in the bulbous bundle of tissue and nerves.  
Within their core lies the hard stuff,  
but even bone is hollow. 
 
The flesh sack has grown aware  
of its presence within their bodies,  
but they only waste away, moving  
throughout the monotony of worthless lives.  
 
Such a naïve species, those sacks,  
believing it to be part of their evolution,  
thinking they no longer require it.
Such silly sacks! 
 
Yes, we’ve passed it through their coding— 
simple double helix, so easy to manipulate—
but it is no more a part of them  
than the stones used for their shelters.  

The flesh sack is just a vessel.  
The flesh sack keeps it safe.  
The humans breed like vermin,  
spreading their filth throughout the globe,
 
but our young grow numerous in return. 
For now they are dormant  
within the warmth of meaty pulp. 
But the time to awaken draws near,
 
and when they emerge from slumber, 
they will feed—
our young are nothing if not ravenous!
They will tear through their fleshy hosts,  
 
consuming them from the inside out. 
Once the populace has been devoured,  
and our youth has been nurtured and matured,  
they will depart this planet for the next.  
 
A new species will be selected,
The Appendix, implanted;
Elders will fade from sight,  
awaiting the birth of the new generation. 


Bio:
Wesley D. Gray is a writer, an author of fiction, and a poet. His chapbook, Come Fly with Death: Poems Inspired by the Artwork of Zdzislaw Beksinski, is available now in print and digital formats. When he isn’t writing, Wesley enjoys a wide variety of geeky activities, but mostly, tabletop gaming with family and friends. He resides in Florida with his wife and two children. Learn more at: WesDGray.com.