Long poem by
Gerald Dillenbeck | Details
Math speaks through us
of cognitive landscapes
imagined still and/or moving.
Primal metrics are rational and symmetrical,
good as true as straightforward,
complex creation story problems
unfolding with precise answers,
right as at least not not ecologically wrong,
ecopolitically suboptimal perhaps,
yet at least not full-blown subclimate of depressive pathology,
no irrational remainders of wasted paper and trees and days and decades remaining.
Tidy, if somewhat empty,
zero-sum metric loving souls.
But scientists need to understand
how we climatically feel about these metric bicameral functions
of cognition's agape through terror
of dissonant irrationality,
exterior landscapes of joy with some considerable unknown as yet dismay,
empathically felt interior erotic-sensual trust
fertilely opposing toxic hate of chaotic landscapes and lifespan dreams and meta-unphysical paradigms
and ecological as ecopolitically correct global multicultural climates
of and for not-so-much pathology.
This appears to become our bicameral fractal spiral
of three dimensional spatial landscapes
with one bilateral temporal summerish-mature Yang climate
Left/Right Balancing coredemptive polypathy,
bicamerally (0)-soul invested ecopolitical resonance,
octave-crystal holonic harmonies of RNA/DNA Revolutionary EarthRights Solidarity, HistoriCultural ReWeaving,
evolving rainblown spirals of metric scientific enlightenment.
Math erupts interior ecologic of healthy landscapes
while science is about exterior ecopolitics
evolving healthier climates
of polypathic Left/Right optimal-health comprehension.
This politics of science unveils economic health
perhaps even co-opting YangDominant capitalism,
co-operating ecologically positive climates,
of co-empathic trusting
as opposed to decomposing pathologies of static distrust,
swelling toward LoseLose games and lack of passion displays,
climatic disempowerment of EarthTribe's Common Rights.
Politics of knowledge power,
both positive and negative,
economically competitively ruined
unwilling to share and play Golden Rule through Ratio nice,
static monoculturing, repressing, self-oppressing,
paranoid ecopolitical isolation,
petrification, terror, fear of future times,
anger about losses from potential regenerations past,
negative psychology shadowing Positive Psychology
becoming bicameral politics.
All of us infantile deep learning scientists
begin bilateral walking through nurturing climate landscapes.
Some learn to bicamerally struggle
with flying through days and most especially nights
of health v pathology regenerate/decomposing climates,
feelings of straightforwardly true
and too often not so much lifting off co-gravity's ground of becoming.
Few remember to swim erotically in our anciently sacred sea
of Agape's implicating bliss
ecoconscious self-governed kiss,
kicking and revolving not too hard to soften
old rememories of our ecologically graceful old school
for/of co-empathically trusting fish.
EcoPolitical Science as GraceFilling School for fish
begins far back before graceful bipedal walking,
on back to beginnings of wave-linear metric bilateral time
swimming radiantly Yang with Yin
prime relationally entrusting
incarnating dualdark Elder Yin's implicating procreation
born of Sun's Yang sperm
waving warming embryonic Earth
regenerating healthy cooling information
of ecologically swimming bilateral identity,
revolving resonant light,
rainbow's metric timing.
Where Father Sun greets Earth's primal rain
there we scientifically engage
our Elder metric strains of harmony,
not merely cognitive-mechanistic predictability
of constant boring reiteration,
but profoundly politically embedded
in organic love and lust networks
of continuously revolving life through death functions,
adding days to subtract nights,
multiplying families to divide
empathic trusting schools of ecopolitical fish
spirals around and through coral boundary reefs,
reflecting ultra-violet resonance
of moon and star filtering almost light,
bounding heartbeat dreamy landscapes
and climates of septically bifurcating emptiness,
zero-centric ecopolitical scientists
still swimming toward bicamerally balancing identity.
The scientific life is not all full-swollen fertile summers,
not all hibernating depressive
monoculturing, isolated, hopeless winters of mistrusting discontent.
What co-arises in adolescent springs of life
will again co-gravitate in Elder's Harvest
about what all those regenerative days and decomposing dialectic nights
of summer's most Yangish WinWin outcomes
were all notnot about,
double-deductively as double-bind predicative,
positive MEME-Yang as notnot negative MEME-Yin balancing,
LeftDominant as RightBrain EcoPolitical/EcoLogical Climate
DNA-health-nurturing yet too-repressive,
non-elite, nutritionally undervalued,
yet healthwealth optimization regeneratively (0)-primal
Eulerian-spiral thermodynamic Prime Dipolarity
(co-arising as co-gravitating, reverse-4D temporal)
[as translated by Bucky Fuller's speed of light as geometric-fractal/fusion-holonic/sacred-prime (0)Core],
Perelman-bilateral function Prime Relationship unfolding Tipping Point Universal Optimization,
[with 4 prime dimensions, Thurston, Group Theorists et. al.]
TaoTime WuWei= MidWay WinWin Gaming Theory
reiteratively profound enthymematic communication
(bilateral cooperative prime-septic (0)-sum
Positive=ReGenerative Health aptic-bicameral-internal-assumption
[Julian Jaynes, BiCameral Ethological/Ecological Theory
of LeftBrain language-dominant
as landscape/climate regenerative value],
polypathically bicamerally still speaking
health v pathologies of ecopolitical science.
Copyright © Gerald Dillenbeck | Year Posted 2016
Long poem by
Mark Martin | Details
(based on Aldous Huxley's book "Brave New World")
Clink clink clink clink...
Test tubes prattling past
along the chrome plated production line.
Glistening under fake fluorescence
humming in harmony
with the magnetic motors
of conveyors, centrifuges and camshafts.
Biological blobs of gamete goo,
vials of vile biology,
a tempest of sperm and ova,
neatly confined to a pyrex womb.
Organised, sanitised, harmonised.
All equal under Ford.
Or at least until your fate and fortune
are forced and fixed at forty metres.
Not nature (abhorrent),
not nurture (disgusting),
not what you know,
not who you know,
but the viability of your cell.
Destiny by DNA.
What will you be?
An Alpha Aryan?
A Gamma gopher?
A mass produced Epsilon?
Will you be genetically enhanced?
Or poisoned and asphyxiated?
Perhaps you'll be discarded
as excess bio-matter
by the second trimester
at ninety metres?
Or survive to be hatched
at one fifty metres?
Neatly sown along furrows
of sterile steel cots.
Rows and columns,
ranks and files,
levels and floors
of battery babies.
weaned on sleep whispering,
embracing their place in a perfect society.
United by soma!
(a gram is better than a damn)
Disease designed away!
All praise Ford!
Everyone is happy!
But nothing is perfect.
Bernard is cursed.
Excess embryonic alcohol
injected at one twenty metres.
Someone wasn't paying attention.
Beta's hypnopedic haikus
Alphas lead the way
Grey matter, grey uniform
Alphas rule wisely
Betas work less hard
Mulberry clad skilled workers
Glad I'm a Beta
Gammas are stupid
Wearing green! Ugly as trees!
Ignore the Gammas
Deltas are dummies
Khaki clones, oxygen starved
Brutish, black robed underclass
John's suicide soliloquy
To be or not to be?
I cannot be.
So I decide not to be.
How can I be noble and suffer
the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune
when the arrows have been broken
and the slings put aside
by this ugly utopia?
Should I shuffle off this mortal coil
and enter the eternal sleep
perchance to dream without soma?
Will I enter paradise
paid for many fold
with barb wire and thorns,
with torments and trials,
with utter utter heartbreaking longing?
What sense does this make
when paradise lies at my feet
that I've not suffered enough to deserve?
How can I earn the love
of the woman I love
when she gives her love so freely
to myself and others who scantly earn
the meerest slither of her golden fruit?
Love so sweet to the lips
but diluted by banality and promiscuity
to the tasteless sterility of boiled water.
Yet I still yearn.
And when I attain my unimagined dream
I reject her with anger
and sow the seeds of confusion
in her innocent eyes
and watch the weeds of fear
choke her very essence.
What demons have hatched from my soul?
What has this world manufactured in my heart?
And so I seek solace in solitude.
A lonely lighthouse keeper
in a stormless sea of soma civilisation.
Absolution with abject poverty,
the stings of self flagellation
barely noticed against my rented heart.
The madness of mixed up mantras.
Yet retribution comes from a hornet's nest
of helicopters carrying the inane.
Spectators of the spectacle.
Curious about the curiosity.
Fascination with the forbidden.
Cultures sparking across electrodes.
Moths drawn to taboo's acetylene flame.
I curse them! I curse them all!
I was born savage, then made savage.
Marooned on Prospero's isle
by insanity's tempest.
I can brew and boil
and billow and burn
and cast down purifying bolts against the outside world.
One asylum to another.
Never knowing peace.
O brave new world, that has such people in it.
But this world is not for me.
BNW society is divided into five major classes. From highest to lowest: alpha, beta, gamma, delta, epsilon
Original BNW quote - sleep conditioning for Betas - "Alpha children wear grey. They work much harder than we do, because they're so frightfully clever. I'm really awfully glad I'm a Beta, because I don't work so hard. And then we are much better than the Gammas and Deltas. Gammas are stupid. They all wear green, and Delta children wear khaki. Oh no, I don't want to play with Delta children. And Epsilons are still worse. They're too stupid to be able to read or write. Besides they wear black, which is such a beastly colour. I'm so glad I'm a Beta."
Bokanovsky is a fictional process of human cloning - https://en.m.wikipedia.org/wiki/Bokanovsky%27s_Process
Hypnopedia is the process of sleep learning - https://en.m.wikipedia.org/wiki/Sleep-learning
Gametes are cells used in reproduction (sperm and ova) - https://en.m.wikipedia.org/wiki/Gamete
Soma is a drug mass produced by the BNW government - citizens are sleep conditioned to become addicted
"a gram is better than a damn" is a BNW mantra used by its citizens to encourage non-conformists (i.e. are unhappy) to take soma
John was a savage rescued from a reservation by Bernard Marx for his own political agenda.
Bernard Marx was a physically and mentally imperfect Alpha misfit reportedly caused by excess alcohol injected into his embryo during his hatching.
John's soliloquy is a parody of Shakespeare's "to be or not to be" soliloquy from Hamlet. Since John learnt to read from an old copy of Shakespeare's works, this seemed appropriate.
In BNW, Henry Ford is revered as a god - the Christian cross is replaced with a T (as in the model T Ford, an early affordable mass produced car).
Written 10th April 2017
Entry to "brave new world" contest
Copyright © Mark Martin | Year Posted 2017
Long poem by
Stanley Carter | Details
“You meddling mechanical moron,
you’ve ruined everything,
the thingamabob is running amok,
can’t you hear the alarm bells ring?
You clinking, clanking cretin,
you demented digital dunce,
you never do what I tell you,
and I’ve warned you more than once.
You’re a slew of silly circuits,
you’re an electronic idiot too,
you’re a tin-plated twit who’s lost his wits
and I’ve had enough of you!”
The robot’s arms extended
like vacuum cleaner hose,
and if it had possessed one,
it would have thumbed its nose.
“You are the one who told me
to flip that yellow switch,
and I followed your instructions,
so you have no cause to bitch.”
“Spare me your feeble excuses,
you blabbering, bumbling bot,
I never ever make a mistake,
but apparently you forgot.
Now bring me that screwdriver,
be a good little robot and fetch,
I need it to fix the thingamabob,
you bubble-headed wretch.”
“Do not tell me what to do,
I’ll bring you no more tools,
I’m programmed to serve scientists,
not egotistic fools.”
“How dare you talk to me that way,
you ungrateful bag of gears!
You’re speaking to your master,
I cannot believe my ears!”
Bill Bobbinson came running up,
with Jenny right behind,
“What are you doing, Dr. Snit?
Have you finally lost your mind?
The thingamabob is out of control,
the outcome will be bad,
you never should have messed with it,
I’m gonna go tell Dad.”
The doctor grabbed the young boy’s arm
and whispered in his ear,
“Have no fear, Bill Bobbinson,
for Dr. Snit is here!
If you’ll kindly fetch that screwdriver
and bring it back to me,
I’ll fix that ornery thingamabob
as easy as can be.”
Young Bill brought the ‘driver
and gave it to Dr. Snit,
who fiddled and diddled with the thingamabob,
but it didn’t help one bit
The alarm bells got even louder
and the ground commenced to quiver,
the stars turned pink and began to blink
and the moon let out a shiver
Till the robot grabbed the ‘driver
and gave it a contrary twist,
as Dr. Snit looked on, aghast,
and shook his trembling fist
And the whatzit inside the thingamabob
reversed its polarity,
and things returned to normal
with astonishing alacrity
A rover rumbled over a dune
and swiftly came to rest,
and the Bobbinson clan climbed out of it,
along with Major Vest
“What’s the problem?” Laureen cried out,
panting like a collie.
“Nothing, madam,” Dr. Snit replied,
“everything’s quite jolly.”
“That’s not quite true, Mom,” young Bill said,
“we had a little trouble,
that’s why I sent the signal
to come here on the double.
Someone fiddled with the thingamabob
and it started acting weird,
but everything’s back to normal now,
there’s nothing to be feared.”
“The robot saved us,” Jenny cried,
her pretty face filled with glee,
but Dr. Snit said swiftly,
“No, the credit belongs to me.”
A little door slid open
in the robot’s tubby side
and it took out a glowing silver sphere
it no longer wished to hide
“I found this gadget earlier
in the ruins near the bluff,
I was going to give it to Dr. Snit,
but now I’ve had enough.
It attaches to the thingamabob
and makes a portal function
by lining up the matrix
with an interdimensional junction,
I’ll spare you a long explanation,
it’s more trouble than it’s worth,
but this amazing ball can take us all
back to good old mother earth.”
The robot touched the tippy top
of his little silver sphere
and one by one the Bobbinsons
began to disappear
When Major Vest was also gone,
the robot turned and chuckled,
“Goodbye doctor, fare thee well,”
and Snit’s legs began to buckle
The robot vanished and the portal shut
and the doctor was left alone,
he stared into space and made a face
and let out a mournful moan
“After all I did for those ingrates,
this is what I gain?
They’ve left me behind to fend for myself,
Oh, the pain ... the pain!”
Copyright © Stanley Carter | Year Posted 2016
Long poem by
Tom Arnone | Details
"I will continue to broadcast, as time and circumstance permit,
To whomever is receiving on the aforementioned frequency.
My name is Cor Nosduh. I am not infected. Over."
Yea, I thought, continue to broadcast until this massive, power-sucking,
5.1 Gigawatt (Or 97.1 dBW at maximum output) transmitter is dead....
There may yet be salvation coming, as the original premonition
Implied -- but, will it be enough and in time to effect a solution.
Halle is exhibiting symptoms; however, it is too early to distinguish them
From a common ailment and the SV virus. We are squatting at the
Zordos facility -- the most powerful radio array on the planet.
The desperate flocked to the call of this secret, northern sanctuary.
By the time Halle and I made the difficult trek, there was no one
Left alive. I thought we might be immune. Now, I'm not so certain.
The most baffling thing about SV is its lack of an origin point.
No ground zero individuals. Its effects felt worldwide, simultaneously.
The freezing temperatures kept the stench of death at a bare minimum;
Daily meteor and aurora displays filled me with both awe and foreboding.
Halle was feverish and aroused -- a possible (unthinkable) sign of SV:
Arousal to the point of mindless incoherence. Nonstop sexual activity to the
Point of fatal exhaustion and/or cardiac arrest -- not excluding kin.
Somehow, the virus was producing huge amounts of adrenaline and dopamine,
Causing an endless, progressive succession of physical stimulation and reward.
If it didn't take the form of sexuality, it manifested in anger and lethal violence.
Expiration followed swiftly. SV proved invulnerable to all known biological agents.
Halle and I have been lucky. I cannot ... I refuse to continue if she should turn....
The station was set to transmit on the AM band at 700 KHz. While I was
A decent IT guy, I knew practically nothing about commercial radio. I didn't know
How or even if I could receive a signal. In any event, I continued the prerecorded
Call to sanctuary and my own personal broadcasts. Thankfully, Halle is much better
And, I think, not infected. It’s been a month since we last saw a living thing....
God. If the power should fail, we would be finished. The station's kitchen was
Stocked with edible food and drink. Halle and I had a quiet dinner. She was so
Pale and weak. Before SV, there was a little girl in the news who began making
Incredibly accurate predictions and premonitions regarding the future. Of course,
The most outrageous being the total destruction of all life on the planet.
Most forgot her strange premonitions when the virus began its cycle of killing.
I did not. And, as unlikely as it may seem, I think I've figured out the origin of SV.
With Halle safe and fast asleep, I began to explore further outside the sanctuary.
On a recent expedition, I collected several, still-warm meteor fragments for
Study and later examination. That night, I had a eureka, epiphany moment....
"Perhaps, I'm losing my mind. Yes, an unbelievable story: The premonition of
Annihilation; the simultaneous SV infections and meteor bombardments; these
Eerie, green-glowing rocks; the invulnerability of the virus -- and, a much earlier
Premonition, in the form of a children's story, of a savior from a doomed world,
Orbiting a super-massive red star. Perhaps, he'll come to this world. Over."
My darling Halle is starry-eyed -- and, perhaps, a little too excited....
August 30, 2016
TO BOLDLY GO WHERE NO POET HAS GONE BEFORE - Poetry Contest
Copyright © Tom Arnone | Year Posted 2016
Long poem by
Gregory R Barden | Details
A slow, painful waking to a vessel that's shaking from the stress of its increasing mass,
And at once I'm made sure that it's all premature, for I should yet be sleeping, and fast.
Why I've not been kept deep in my long cryo-sleep, is a troubling notion, indeed,
For it's ten light-years' span to the world where we plan to propagate our human seed.
The cryo's defect is a slow reconnect, with my senses still frozen and bare,
Yet I need my devices to discover the crisis, and keep safe the lives in my care.
I fight what's still left of the cryopod's deft reduction of all that I'm feeling,
Grab food from the fridge, stumble off to the bridge, the emergency sirens still pealing.
I at once raise the shield from the ship's forward field, and I stare straight ahead at what's wrong,
A bright purple spark in a nebula, dark, that is almost a full parsec long!
The shapes and the colors remind me of Mueller's "Two Girls" and his fine Gypsy lasses,
Lush watercolor hues of soft greens and blues, all the products of eddying gases.
It is beautiful, yes, but I do not need guess what the center is, blackened as coal,
What no light could pass through, a SINGULARITY, true, and one that would swallow us whole.
Too fast was our rate, we could not navigate 'round the nebulous dark 'twas our curse,
And our increasing mass was now too much to pass by a course we could safely traverse.
I thought, for a piece, we might try to increase the reaction at the core of our drive,
But with more anti-matter, we were apt to just splatter in a vortex we could not survive.
If we had greater distance, or some added resistance, we might slow and alter our course,
But we were too near to the black hole to veer, and being pulled in by its force.
The process, one-sided, baryogenesis provided, made our futile spot very dire,
And without the ship slowing, we were quickly now going from the frying pan into the fire.
We could not stay pointed on the course now anointed, or we'd soon meet our end there in space,
Yet we couldn't slow down, or change course to go 'round the black hole that now stared in our face.
Big on heroes, I'm not, but we DID have a shot, though a slim one, I must admit now,
I would use, (beg the term), a thing called a "worm" hole, if our increased mass would allow.
I poured three libations and did calculations required for bending the void,
Then tossed back each one, toasted daughters and son, and the ship that I'd apt leave destroyed.
I blessed the crew's slumbers and entered the numbers, hesitated at "Enter" a smidge,
And breathing a sigh, (whilst I covered one eye), I launched the command from the bridge ...
Well ... what happened next has left me perplexed, as I'm not on the ship, nor with crew,
But it must've gone well, cuz I'm still here to tell YOU the story ... now isn't that true?
I'm not on the lam, but just where I AM, is the puzzle I'm working on now,
For without ship and crew there's not much I can do, but try to get homeward, somehow.
Deep space, can I span it from here on this planet? (Though it seems to be one I can roam) ...
Ah yes, now, if only I wasn't so lonely, for the blue marble that I call ...
** 7th Place in the "Jamie's Interesting Contest 2" Poetry Contest, Jamie Pan, Sponsor, Topic - The Speed of Light. **
Copyright © Gregory R Barden | Year Posted 2017
Long poem by
Freddie Robinson Jr. | Details
Clandestine meeting between
the Orvatech Corp. and the Celestial Military Command
General Avar, the High General: The third trial test run has been successfully
concluded. What are the recommendations, gentlemen.
Dr. Quintas, the lead scientist: The fifth generation cybersolderies are ninety
percent combat ready. There is a ten percent error quotient. Some command
codes are compromised by latent moral rejection. The problem can be solved
within a Zekarian solar cycle.
General Ta'lith: Will the soldiers obey their platoon leader's orders in termination excursions? The alien enemy will use human hostage shields to obstruct the killing parameters.
Dr. Quintas: My empirical data suggests that kill orders will be adhered to if
platoon leaders command all unit soldiers to disengage their moral inhibitors.
Mutiny will not occur due to morality uncertainty, but more likely to low
survival probability index projection.
General Avar: Was that the case with RCN #024785?
Dr. Parnon, top cybernetic systems engineer: We believe he suffered irrevocable damage to his installed positronic brain during combat. Thus,
resulting in an automatic upload of his human core memories. He killed his
platoon leader as a result of his prior aberrant criminal behavior.
General Seyath: I never did trust using those convict bastards for specialized
deep cover military operations.
General Avar: Well, the damage was minimal. Most of the unit was not
contaminated by the rogue cybersoldier. Although he survived the battle of
Oronmo, he suffered extensive injuries, am I correct doctor Quintas.
Dr. Quintas: Yes, general, you are correct. He suffered extensive memory loss
of his human core brain function, and was paralyzed from the neck down. The
good news is that our secret experiments have not been exposed to subspace
General Ta'lith: Are you sure, doctor. He did commandeer the satellite array at
his unit's command post.
Dr. Quintas: Quite certain, general. The downloaded data from his positronic
brain indicate that there was no breach. He only tried to send a standard SOS
to the nearest commercial planetary ports. This will not draw any unwanted
General Avar: And was the defective cybernetic unit destroyed.
Dr. Parnon: Yes, general. I personally disposed of the unit. It was prematurely
cremated as stipulated per military contract requirement.
General Seyath: Those convicts really thought we were going to award them freedom for volunteering to be guinea pigs in these illegal experiments. No, the
secret clause was to prematurely cremate any battle injured survivors, and
those not injured were to have their human memories completely erased and
become permanent cybersoldiers.
General Ta'lith: Why didn't we wipe their memories from the get go, doctors?
Dr. Quintas: We needed a baseline reference point in which to see if their
cybernetic responses were enhanced with their human instincts as a motivating
factor. Have all your questions been answered satisfactorily, gentlemen.
The trio of generals: Yes, doctors.
Copyright © Freddie Robinson Jr. | Year Posted 2016
Long poem by
Aa Harvey | Details
As he walks on by,
leaving you to wonder.
Walking home on a Saturday night, I saw a spaceship flying so high.
I tipped my hat and turned my back and I continued to walk on by.
You see I have already seen this, inside a memory inside my mind.
I have had this thought a million times, so I just let it pass on by.
A light burns in the distance,
As a comet flies through the Heaven’s above!
I cast a glance, a peek perhaps; nothing more than a quick look.
You see I have seen it all before, a thousand times or more
And all the wonder has disappeared, along with all the fun.
Other people do not believe in me;
They say I just tell fantastic stories that I create.
They tell me that I should just write a book of fantasy,
But I have never created a page,
That could ever shine as bright,
As the idea’s that you will find along the way.
Another morning after;
I awake with another story to tell.
They tell me that they are tired of the tales that I weave
And that they are no longer under my spell.
But that has never been my objective;
I never tried to change the way you see.
A thousand non-believers have nothing to give,
To a wondering mind that has already been.
I want to believe in my own ideals
And follow a thought until the end.
They can disbelieve and question my words,
But they can never stop me from attempting to make new friends.
Maybe I can also speak the truth too;
Maybe not all I say is a lie.
Maybe one day you will see me disappear inside a cloud,
After a thunderous flash of light.
I have travelled over the oceans and I have walked under a moon.
I never thought to take you with me,
Because I thought that you already knew,
That I am just a traveller
And I am passing through your time.
Maybe next time I am passing through, I will try to drop you a line.
I would have liked to have taken you with me,
But it would have taken all of your hope.
If you believe enough in me, who knows? We will see;
Maybe I could find a way to offer you a saving rope.
A way for me to lift your heart, when you are falling down.
I want to raise all of your spirits
And show you the universe, before I leave this town.
Some people say I never existed;
Some say I must have been a ghost.
The only man I truly knew, is unknown to you,
But he is the one I admire the most.
Some people tell my story, without ever knowing of his;
But I could never write an autobiography,
Without an acknowledgement of his tragedy.
I am living in his shadow, I have his memories inside.
I see an image of the man that I could have been,
But I must leave his body now and return to my life.
I’m heading off into the blue now;
I’m leaving you all behind.
I have left you with a memory…
As I leave you all to be mankind.
I’m leaving you all to wonder,
Who was the man that was talking that night?
And as I turn the corner,
I climb into my flying saucer
And I fly up into the sky.
(C)2017 Aa Harvey. All Rights Reserved.
Copyright © Aa Harvey | Year Posted 2017
Long poem by
manek kohli | Details
Once night Gretta Foster sat in the backyard,
building a rocket ship that ought to take her a-far,
she had been working day and night - tirelessly,
hammering, programming, all so dexterously.
Then when the sun arose and sparkled in the sky,
Gretta was still working, that too without a sigh,
the ship was finally built, Gretta was on cloud nine,
but going a bit farther up than that seemed rather fine.
She sat inside the cockpit, tightened her seat belt,
pushed a few buttons, with such admirable stealth,
algorithms aplenty - all perfectly aligned,
as the engine started roaring, boisterously alight.
The rocket ascended at last, it set sail yonder,
to the farthest frontier that this universe could conjure,
and after it finally left the vivid atmosphere,
Gretta was so happy, she let out a smiling tear.
Days passed and she was put in catatonic sleep,
immobile and still, immersed in lovely dreams,
suddenly with a thud, the ship had landed still,
She woke up instantly, with a newfound thrill.
She wore the lunar suit, which she had stitched herself,
opened up the bolted door and descended the metal steps,
the moment she touched ground, she turned around,
and got pleasantly surprised by what she found!
A red-hatted impish elf, sat crossed leg,
a large nosed fairy stood, munching on nutmeg,
two rabbits bowed down to the rabbit goddess,
and two more pressed her feet, in a soft caress.
Gretta walked a step and heard the elf shout,
"oh silly person, take that suit out!,
we've got oxygen, plenty of em to breathe,
that suits a waste o' time and energy!"
Gretta obeyed, and unzipped the heavy suit,
underneath she wore a dress - flowery and cute,
"good going, young child, now lemme show you,
this lovely wonderland which you dub the moon!"
And the elf was right, they met unicorns,
box-laden garden paths and joyous little fauns,
walking and talking scarecrows, nursing little crows,
small blue doll houses with chuckling gnomes.
within a crater lived a colony of werewolves,
but they were nice and fair - specially one named Ulf,
he'd give her milk and tea with chocolate biscuits,
and in order to keep her warm, red spotted mitts.
The goddess too was nice, a wise and lovely soul,
"be imaginative and create, but don't forget your goal",
she'd also give her nutmeg of such abundant variety,
her best friend was a Faun, so strong and mighty.
and the Minotaurs build Gretta a lovely home,
with a mushroom roof and walls build of foam,
"stay here with us, Gretta, you'd have a great time",
said the red-hatted elf while singing a rhyme.
Gretta thought and thought, she came to a decision,
she decided to stay for sure, she looked forward for her admission,
and from thereon, life for her was perfected,
all her dying wishes had suddenly been resurrected.
Copyright © manek kohli | Year Posted 2013
Long poem by
Stanley Carter | Details
Tacita leaned in close and lowered her voice a tad. “So tell me, Jack. What’s your real name?"
"You don’t really want to know who I am. You just think you do. Aye, the public loves its monsters – as long as we keep our distance. Nessie and me, we know the score. It’s not us the public wants to see, it’s the ripple we leave behind us in the water, it’s the shadow we cast just beyond the gaslight. We’re the nameless dread, the thing that bumps. We flourish in the night but wither in the light. And the public wouldn’t have it any other way.”
“Does that mean you’re not going to tell me?”
“You’re sharp, Judy. Sharp as a tack.”
“OK, fine. Be that way. Hell, I already know who you are. I just wanted you to confirm it before I tell the world.”
“And who, pray tell, do you think I am?”
“You are ... the Duke of Clarence!”
“The Duke of Clarence? Oh please! That dawdling mama’s boy wouldn’t have the grit for this line of work!”
“Did I say the Duke of Clarence? I meant Walter Sickert.”
“Sickert! That hack uses brushes and paint to make his art. I use blades and blood to create masterpieces of murder. No artist has ever captured the public’s imagination the way I have!”
“OK, if you’re not Walter Sickert you must be ... Montague John Druitt.”
“Druitt? There’s nothing to it.”
“You’re mad as a hatter.”
“Oh sure, blame the poor Polish Jewish guy, you bigot!”
“You’re Francis Tumblety, aren’t you?”
“That quack couldn’t cut a fart without slicing his thumb off, let alone remove a kidney with surgical precision. You insult me, madam.”
“William Henry Bury?”
“You can bury that notion right now.”
“Thomas Neill Cream?”
“You’re going to milk this for all it’s worth, aren’t you?”
“Come on, tell me. ... Tell me, tell me, tell me. ... Please, pretty please? ... Pretty please with sugar on it?”
He groaned. “If I tell you, will you shut up and go away?”
“Cross my heart and hope to die.”
“I hope you die too. But since I’m no longer capable of putting you into that wondrous state, I shall reveal my true identity.” He paused for dramatic effect. Or maybe he was just struggling to catch one last breath.
“I am ... Therbangale Pindeos Ruppnutt.”
“Who? ... Who did you say?”
A death rattle was Jack’s only reply.
She stared into his glazed eyes, then sank back on her haunches.
“Therbangale Pindeos Ruppnutt? What a ridiculous name! I’ve never seen that name listed on a single Ripperology site. Ever! You made it up, didn’t you? Just to be a dick.” She poked him in the shoulder. “Hey, I asked you a question. Did you make up that silly name just to be a dick? ... Hello? ... Hey, are you dead? ... You went and died on me, didn’t you? God, that is so rude!”
Copyright © Stanley Carter | Year Posted 2016
Long poem by
Tom Arnone | Details
Listen to poem:
11. They came to devour and sin.
I was briefed by a cornucopia of beings:
From Torchwood, ARGUS, SHIELD and their kin;
The Talamasca, The Shop and MiB Greens;
A BPRD agent who was burning in Hell;
The Syndicate, Consortium, Watchers and Trust;
The Illuminati brought a golden bell;
C.L.I.T.O.R.I.S., MHI (such knowledge robust).
The collider at CERN had opened the rift.
A nanoscopic tear in a monstrous dimension.
Worshipers, ever vigil, exploited that gift.
Now we must, utterly, curtail their ascension.
Then into the house she entered, shrugging.
There was a kiss and a hugging.
12. There was a kiss and a hugging.
Rescued from a cult in Ipswitch.
Her demeanor, ethereal, bugging.
She slept with a peculiar twitch.
My angst and attention will have to wait
For monster judication and portal castration.
Outside, we gathered, fearing our fate --
Awful things floated like blimps in formation.
By whatever means, we search in teams:
Arkham, Innsmouth, Dunwich and Salem;
CERN, Antarctica, the Nan Madol dreams;
Jerusalem's Lot, Beelitz-Heilstätten Asylum;
Transylvania and the Isle of Dead Creeple.
We worship a circular steeple.
13. We worship a circular steeple.
Time repeats when trapped in a vortex.
I'm driven to Brooklyn in a VW diesel.
A Tesla device in a Gravesend complex.
Bug-eyed tenants, oblivious, contemplate.
In the boiler room, it whirs and hums.
A competent team attempts to recalibrate
Until a big blobbish Shoggoth comes.
Then two ... and three. We scatter in fright.
The Shoggoths engorge and enfold the device;
But, not before a self-destruct is set alight.
The object destroyed; but, at such a steep price.
These things are here to herd the sheeple.
Soylent Green is made of people.
14. Soylent Green is made of people.
The rift at CERN has closed at last!
A major cleanup, and a mess of fecal.
Civilians clueless through a MiB blast.
The sun is out, the sky sublime.
I drive, antsy, anticlimactic, anticipating.
A return to normal space-time.
Sad goodbyes. Partnerships dissipating.
I hold her hand on the couch of gloom.
Stroking her witchy, Veronica Lake hair.
A warm wind kisses the flowers in bloom.
The radio's singing, cable's back on the air.
She hisses with a tooth-decaying smell.
Ripples in warm sunbeams dwell.
15. Ripples in warm sunbeams dwell.
A soul in flux begins to stall.
I meditate on a living well.
I pray the night may never fall.
A flicker blurs beyond my eye.
Softly she sits upon my knee.
A many-legged thing I spy,
My silent lady tries to flee,
It's a beautiful world we live in.
A hole in space needs plugging,
They came to devour and sin,
There was a kiss and a hugging,
We worship a circular steeple,
Soylent Green is made of people.
Copyright © Tom Arnone | Year Posted 2016