2012 April PAD Challenge: Day 17

Today is a Two for Tuesday prompt day. Here they are:

  1. Write a science fiction poem.
  2. Write a fantasy poem.

Here’s my attempt:


First, robots,
then came aliens
with ray guns,
more robots,
and “coming in peace,” though we
couldn’t believe them.



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309 thoughts on “2012 April PAD Challenge: Day 17

  1. po

    Frankly My Deer

    Flowers appear–
    eyestalks on green
    stems and while mowing
    the lawn the grass
    grows into a forest.
    “Run,” yells your
    father although you haven’t
    seen him for years.
    Downstairs the donkey
    sells fresh turnips
    and all through
    the forest eyes
    follow your every move.
    Magenta soil produces
    art tomatoes and lead
    singers save the wrap.
    Then in comes your love
    with his gorgeous antlers
    and he asks, “Not another
    bloody commercial?”

  2. Arike


    Rock in a field
    Terran rock; alien field
    Initial investigation indicates
    Speculation sizzling. Xenogeologists
    Jockeying jubilantly for this post
    Further frothing, fermenting
    Revolutionary theories

    Oh, but the crewmember
    Just a bit careless
    Happens on the best of starships

  3. hurtin-heart

    Your beauty is epic,
    Your love is electric
    You shock my heart,
    Every time i look in you’re eyes.
    When u walk, you body talks 
    I hear it everytime.
    I love everything about you,
    Not a flaw in you,
    Because you’re only a fantasy
    I created in my mind.
    Samantha Tinney

  4. Yolee

    Jellied Kumquats

    I want your working class poems-
    watch their grassroots rise
    above wages of light;

    let goldfish get schooled
    and rush towards recesses
    in fields of singing mermaids;

    I’ll learn how to dragonfly;
    momentum will lick
    the air clean

    between us. Write
    to my soul. I will read
    through gapped

    thighs of fantasies;
    prepare my tongue
    for French lessons;

    read with a married woman’s
    desire to trade cups of coffee
    for her husband’s brew;

    pledge to bead words,
    and make rosaries
    in devout silence.

  5. David Yockel Jr.

    Electronic Surgical Words

    An unlikely Elvis impersonator
    in his sonic space suit, a kind
    of country-western cosmonaut,
    hums his radio cures and wonders
    how tomorrow will ever come
    without the help of some time machine.

    He dreams of prayers and poems
    in future ages that are nothing
    more than dares offered to the divine.

    These seemingly alien orisons furrow
    deep into heaven’s golden runway.

  6. Pat Carroll Marcantel

    Capture of the Unicorn

    Unicorn with seashell hoofs,

    Come into my garden now,

    I have prepared a place for you

    Under the spruce’s sheltering bough.

    * * *

    Cross the brook on lichen stones,

    Up the path ‘mid gorse and heather,

    Follow the mists along the bog–

    (His steps are lighter than great owl’s feathers).

    * * *

    With a golden flute I play this tune,

    Each trill to enchant you, draw you near,

    I’ll feed you clover with moon-made-dew,

    Come ever closer, have no fear.

    * * *

    Softly over your silver horn,

    I place a bridle of gossamer strands

    That weave a spell to hold you close,

    And dull the call of your distant lands.

    * * *

    I climb upon your graceful back,

    we walk through the forest, hushed and still,

    break to a gallop at the edge of the meadow,

    Then rest at the brook running by the mill.

    * * *

    You graze on the carpet that covers the ground.

    sniff the air, sweet with Spring,

    drink of the waters before you go

    galloping back like the steed of a King.

    * * *

    Back to the garden as darkness nears,

    You enter your bower with barely a sound,

    I close the fragile gold-leafed gate–

    Only stars see my medieval dream I’ve found.

  7. Rosemary Nissen-Wade


    The place we are taken to is clinically cold,
    exactly as alien abductees have always
    described the environs they encountered.

    I see sections of wall screened off
    making booths or cubicles, where I glimpse
    people — ordinary people like me, but looking
    pale and still. They are restrained by cords, attached
    to their bunks, and to alarming, strange machines.

    They are for the most part silent, but
    some moan or groan. Then those others, the ones
    who look like us yet subtly different from us,
    go to them and stop their cries. I see them probe
    the inert sufferers with instruments, just
    as we have been told of in all the stories
    that we didn’t seriously believe.

    I am conducted to a figure reclining on pillows.
    ‘Here is your husband,’ I am told as I recoil
    from the creature before me. I cannot describe
    that head, the bulbous appendage where you and I
    have a nose, a mouth, a chin, a neck. Those organs
    have become one single swelling, machine-like,
    growing all over its face. It speaks, harsh-voiced,
    incomprehensible, in a sort of rasp. I think, ‘Is this
    what I am doomed to for the long rest of my life?

    Eventually my time there is done — until next time.
    I must come back, no help for it, but for now
    I may return to my home. So I do. How odd, how
    altered my home appears after that episode.
    The cats are welcoming, but they can tell
    I am edgy. Nothing is as normal, nor can be.
    I am simply thankful things were no worse.
    He’s off the oxygen now, and that disconcerting
    mask. They’re monitoring his heart all night
    and they think, all being well, I can bring him home
    tomorrow, thank God. (Don’t you just hate hospitals?)

  8. Marjory MT

    I know a little man
    who is nine inches tall.
    He says I’m very big,
    I tell him he is just small.

    Others can not see him,
    to me he’s sharp and clear.
    so we go adventuring,
    I and my friend so dear.

    A clever little bloke,
    while perpetually he’s nine
    he’s lived one hundred years,
    and has a brillent little mind.

    Crossing space and worlds
    he can’t pick what is the best,
    so as he tells his stories,
    he adds to his bucket list.

  9. PSC in CT

    Superstring or Silly String?

    Science is poetry & poetry, science,
    but fiction is a moving target
    (fire was fiction – and even air –
    before being hypothesized,
    theorized and accepted as fact)

    superstition, witchcraft, alchemy, astrology,
    mathematics, biology, astronomy,
    geometry, physics, chemistry, calculus
    seeking answers, discovering questions

    frequency, vibration, resonance
    magnetism, electricity, gravity, relativity
    black holes, worm holes, comets,
    supernovae and shooting stars
    Can you find the one that doesn’t fit?

    evolution, creationism, natural laws,
    natural selection, astral projection,
    infinity, spacetime, the big bang
    Can science and religion coexist?

    synchronicity, collective unconscious,
    parallel universes, time travel, string theories,
    uncertainty principle, quantum entanglement,
    wave s & particles and wave-particle duality
    (Are we one or the other? Neither or both? )

    magic, mystery, riddle, enigma,
    paradox, puzzle, perplexity
    Who can say how many theories
    may thrive on the point of a pin?

    All I know (or think I do) —
    C.P. Snow — and me and you –
    (we’re all the same):
    “… can’t win.
    … can’t break even.
    … can’t quit the game.”

  10. Lynn Burton

    life is
    so steeped in
    I don’t even have time for fantasy.

    (second attempt)

    A kite without a string
    floats aimlessly through
    the sky. High on a leisurely
    stroll, it catches the wind,
    dips, twirls, spirals,
    waves hello as ducks walk
    past on pink cotton candy clouds.
    In the distance, a rainbow arcs hazily
    after a storm soaks the ground
    in a blanket of gold.
    Fairy dust, I’m told.

  11. Katrin

    Land Ing

    It wasn’t until the twentieth tiger
    ambled by with its spacesuit
    on that
    we realized we had
    entered the wrong coordinates
    Our attempts to land
    were sabotaged not
    by a rolling barrage of aliens
    but by the planet’s surface itself.
    And after our eleventh attempt,
    we gave up,
    redirected our sites
    on Planet Q,
    and left the Trampoline Planet
    with a clumsy about-face of sorts,
    our expectations
    now elasticized forever.

  12. HannaAnna

    Yours Alone

    In the realm of fairies
    and unicorns
    and love
    You can become whoever you wish
    do whatever you want
    satisfy your every desire
    Because it is your own
    safe from the world and all its inhabitants
    safe in your own secret fantasy

  13. Jaywig

    Day 17 – Two for TUesday: science fiction/fantasy

    “Science Fiction” – a form of fiction (story) which
    draws imaginatively on scientific knowledge and speculation”
    Macquarie Dictionary

    I see the filaments
    of silk
    only when and where
    light strikes.

    I pull weeds, prune
    for my convenience.
    I tell myself the stories
    from gardening books –
    cutting back, reducing
    competition, structure!
    I apply science
    for fertility, selective

    But does anyone really know
    what makes a garden grow?

    I believe birds
    are necessary.
    I believe companionship
    and competition for light
    can co-exist.
    I believe in the healing
    of moving air, attentive

    That is all made up
    a fiction based on
    about an objective
    invented by science.

  14. Tanjamaltija

    Doggone Physics!

    An adiabatic circut
    Is a jog around the block
    Stopping at Betti’s.
    Visiting Aunty –
    Birkhoff’s relativity…
    Free will forgotten!
    A Buckingham Pie
    No cloning and No-broadcast –
    Breakfast at Clairaut’s !
    Bragg–Gray cavity
    Time for a dentist’s visit…
    Noether’s wisdom tooth.
    Parallel axis
    Hellmann–Feynman mayonnaise
    And Haag’s fruit yoghurt!
    An optical sine
    There’s no-communication …
    Density function.
    Bell’s carnivora
    A canine fluctuation…
    New Pekingese!

    Cluster decomposition …
    Leggett–Garg chew-bones!

    Caniformia words…
    Mermin–Wagner diction’ry…
    Lee–Yang pedigree!
    Mustard with a very sharp bite…
    My canis loves it!

  15. Christod


    I dream of what he composed
    but couldn’t know:

    In another world we sit and shed skin
    together, bare in the knowledge
    that our only color is love.

  16. uneven steven

    The hero with a thousand faces

    All of humanity, he said, shares powerful mythologies
    which express themselves throughout history
    in our endlessly repeating stories – gilgamesh and enkidu,
    the iroquois creation myth, 21st century
    sci fi and fantasy …
    Otzi, the iceman, and I couldn’t agree more
    as we sit on the couch, feet up
    watching endless reruns of Buffy the vampire slayer,
    chuckles becoming guffaws
    as we get progressively more and more drunken,
    the awkward silence as we look away from each other
    when the mechanical man appears on screen
    explaining to the little boy,
    eye gears glistening,
    that all he ever really wanted
    was to go beyond
    his programming,
    that somehow, someday
    he thought
    he would have learned
    what it meant
    to become
    a real father

  17. cam45237


    Steel bones loom above me
    As I crabwalk back
    Awake now and afraid.
    The distant clang
    Of hammer hitting hull
    Like laughter.
    The air is chilled
    and all around aluminum
    walls curve ominously in.
    I curse and cry and cry for help
    My answer’s in the echoes
    Of my own thin voice.
    I am alone
    In this cold orb.

  18. Marcia Gaye

    Ode to Tolkien

    O Mister JRR,
    What a wonderful master you are!
    You tell us of wizards and elves and dwarves
    and men of valour and hobbits who morph
    into burglars with blades that Sting.
    I love your stories more than anything.

  19. Marcia Gaye

    My Fondest Fantasy

    would be
    Peanut Butter Cups
    and maybe

    I hope your fondest fantasy
    is simply

  20. cam45237

    Remember Kate when you were eight
    We built a fairy bower
    We filled a grass green basket
    With mottled moss and wove
    Sunflowers through the handles.

    Every night you dusted the moss with silver glitter
    Every night your golden lashes drifted softly down
    The fairies never came.

  21. JoAnn Jordan

    Overcoming the Byte

    Computers and robots
    Run widely wildly amuck
    We look to our hero,
    But he seems to be stuck
    In a landscape misshapen
    By overzealous nanomachines.

    At least we know his
    Bloodline is scrupulously clean
    Because he is not infiltrated
    By those overwhelming things;
    He is still quite human
    A God created being.

    The future fully rests
    Upon the complete success
    Of our total humanity over
    The rule of mighty machines.
    Our errant hero must cover
    Himself in our fondest dreams.

    Jo Ann J. A. Jordan
    Tuesday, April 17, 2012

  22. PassionateQuill

    day has past, but my poetry has arrived here at last!

    stiff leather boots stepped down from the train
    as it rolled to a stop, steam rising from the coal car
    white puffs against a blue black sky scratched by
    the bony digits of the bare forest crowding close to see
    this angular figure now descending, fist firmly grasping
    the brass orb atop the walking stick that seemed at once
    to both be holding him up, and at the same time
    keeping him from floating right off into the sky
    where his flapping black coat seemed intent on taking flight
    into the still night

  23. Rosangela

    Tequila Russian

    This happened last night. You know those moments
    in the middle of the night,
    you can’t sleep, you have ants in your pants,
    and you sneak,
    bravely, to your refrigerator.

    I opened the fridge and look…
    nothing really exciting in there,
    worse than a boring book
    just the old veggies, and cold air.

    Close the door. Walked away.
    Heard a loud noise, bang, tum
    kaboom! Maybe it was the tray,
    that fell, in the other room.
    I went to check it out, curious as a fox,
    and noticed the noise coming from the ice-box.

    I opened the door, slowly…
    to find out
    the most intriguing bout
    among fantastic tiny creatures!

    There were aliens, or whatever,
    and had the most weird features!
    They sure were clever
    in all colors and talking fast
    in a heated discussion,
    from present to past.

    They saw me. Handed me a Tequila Russian.
    Shot me on the forehead.
    I fainted, falling like lead.
    When I woke up I thought I was dead.

    But I was in Glintz-err.
    And I’ll never came back.
    They have Internet there! 🙂

  24. RobHalpin

    Well Met!

    Lorwynd, aye. That’d be me.
    Tale teller. Song singer.
    Some have named me a
    half-blood vagabond.
    I prefer Lorwynd Silvertongue,
    bard in high standing with lords
    and the low-born in numerous lands.
    I make court appearances now and again,
    but taverns are my home,
    performing for road-weary travelers
    and the hard-working citizenry.
    Do not mistake me for a fop
    nor an easy mark, though. These hands
    have seen hard work and many
    a foul highwayman has tasted my blade.
    One must be able to defend oneself
    when on the road and songs
    don’t scare away the things
    that growl in the night, although
    a little magic does the trick sometimes.

  25. gtabasso


    In class tonight, we discussed
    fantasy versus reality:
    the araby and the Irish slum,
    the American dream and the house on Mango Street,
    the shaman seer and the unemployed Indian in Phoenix, Arizona,
    Atwood’s happy ending where everyone dies.

    We ended these journeys like Ulysses,
    realizing there is no “yes” like Molly Bloom’s
    because she sees, admits and accepts
    there is no knight to slay the dragon,
    no pot of gold or time machine.
    There is no love left, only hate and death.

    These are the stories we like to read,
    the ones we know too well,
    those we will tell to our children.

  26. Karen H. Phillips

    Hopelessly behind due to life’s disruptions, I despaired of “catching up.”
    Then Hubby reminded me to start with today! I’m back.

    Day 17

    Fantasy vs. Reality

    In the fairy tale, the prince is supposed to dash
    into the thicket of thorns and hack away the brambles,
    freeing the path to the fortress,
    where he guides his faithful steed
    to the tower and rescues the princess.

    In real life, you wait, you pray, you observe,
    you shop around.
    Meantime, you live your life
    and seek your calling,
    and somewhere along the way,
    you cross paths,
    and the knight or prince looks more
    like a twenty-something man with a boy’s face,
    and his imperfections and courtly character
    charm you, till surrounded by candles and flowers
    and friends and family, and enveloped by God,
    you take one another’s hands and hold on
    until death.

  27. taylor graham


    Shampoo in the eyes –
    it stings like
    colors over the rainbow, a weather-
    brush that whisks
    you where you never meant
    to go. Someplace
    fictitious, where sparrows turn
    naturally into bluebirds,
    and your old gray sneakers –
    look, they’re ruby-red, and dancing
    (though you never
    learned a step) dancing
    down a yellow-brick road with only
    the tiniest trace of wanting
    to go back
    to where you came from, that all-
    in-the-family place
    you once called home;
    where you’re expected to wash
    the dishes, the small
    dog’s supper-bowl, and
    your long, wild
    hair, even if the opalescent
    bubbles sting.

  28. De Jackson

    Hey, everybody. I’m stalking a new (to me) poet these days, by the name of Shawna Mcallister. Yesterday I talked her into braving the sign in process and all that nonsense, and posting a fantastic and fun poem of hers, because it fit the “mixed up” prompt. It has just now appeared, due to the initial approval process. If you get a second, head back to yesterday and search her name, or the name of her poem: “Off”…and leave her some love, if you like it. She’s brilliant, and a little shy about posting here.

    You can also check her out at:

  29. Michael Grove

    Only Fantasies

    Once I had a fantasy
    now too bad I’ve grown old.
    If I had lived out all my dreams,
    the stories I’d have told.

    Times have changed me plenty.
    Sometimes too numb to feel.
    I’d love to wish on shooting stars.
    I’m grounded in the real.

    I no longer have a thirst for power,
    nor respect, looks, charisma, wealth or fame.
    My fantasy for peaceful life,
    and peace of mind, if it’s all the same.

    In my dream world there isn’t any violence.
    No cancers and no terrible disease.
    Enough basic necessities for everyone.
    A shame that these are only fantasies.

    By Michael Grove

  30. Marjory MT


    Often, she was unsure if she was awake.
    Slipping in and out of sleep, she experienced times
    of soaring heat alternated with shivering cold,
    but the storm was passing.

    On all sides of her,
    there was grayness like a morning fog.
    Looking down, she saw mounds of white,
    fluffy cotton stretched out until they blended into the fog.
    There was a soft breeze.
    While moving her hands,
    she felt herself slowly rotating.
    She driftedd over the cotton as occasionally
    dark spots appeared in the fluffy white surface.

    Pushing with her hands as if dog paddling in water,
    she drifted towards one of the spots,
    but it disappeared into the fog before she reached it.
    More and more spots appeared.
    Putting her hands up in front of her, stopping her movements,
    she waited for a black spot to come near to her,
    then rigorously paddled before bracing to stop directly over the spot.
    It was a bottomless hole.

    Back paddling quickly, inadvertently turning a summersault,
    unable to stop her movements, she sank into the hole.
    Spreading her arms, hands and legs to check her downward plunge,
    she saw little pebbles fly past her toward the tunnels surface
    where they exploded into specks of light,
    then change to staring, menacing eyes.

    Dropping further, she saw the eye-speckled wall
    changed to cumulous clouds,
    billowing and rolling as they moved out away from her.
    Below a checkerboard of greens, browns, grays and blue appeared.
    Dropping down, down, down until a wind pushed her sideways,

    She rode the current as her feet skimmed the tops of trees.
    The force of the wind increased.
    The trees were reaching up, grabbing at her,
    trying to pull her into their midst.
    Birds circled her.

    She was standing on sandy, pebble-covered beach
    beside blue water.
    The wind, trees, and birds were gone.
    In the distance was a campfire with people around it
    laughing as they toasted marshmallows.
    A boy reached over the fire,
    a flaming piece of wood
    leaped from the fire into his hand.
    She called out a warning to the boy,
    the flames disappeared,
    and the wood was whole,
    the boy backed away from the fire
    turned to put the wood with other pieces in a pile.

    Looking back to the campfire –
    it was not there,
    nor were the people,
    the boy,
    or the accumulation of wood.

    There was a small flat rock in her hand.
    She tossed it over the water,
    watched it skip across the surface.
    When it sank,
    she was hovering over the place it disappeared,
    watching circles of water ripple outwards.

    The ripples grew to massive waves.
    A small piece of wood rode
    the hills and valleys of the water,
    twisting and spinning,
    repeatedly washed over by the waves.
    Moving towards the piece of wood,
    she saw that it was a boat.

    She was in the boat.
    Lying in the boat’s bottom,
    riding the waves,
    feeling the cold spray of salt water.
    Clinging to the boat’s sides,
    seeing clouds race overhead,
    hearding the crash of breakers.

    Turning her head,
    she saw towering cliffs,
    heard the intensifying sound of the impact
    of the waves on the boulders.
    The boat plunged towards the cliff.
    Her body twisted away from the impending impact.
    The boat became a log embedded in the cliff;
    she was pressing her feet against the cliff
    trying to pull the log away from the cliff’s surface.

    The log became a branch that broke free of the cliff.
    They were falling amid a billowing
    avalanche of water, dirt and rocks.
    She tumbled over and over,
    there were hands garbing at her,
    branches jabbing her cheek.
    She landed with a jolt on a hard surface.
    It was still.

    Slowly opening her eyes,
    amid a tangle of blankets,
    her hand pressing against her cheek,
    she sat on the cabin floor.
    Breathing deeply,
    dropping her hand to her side,
    she closed her eyes and
    sank back against the pile of old,
    dusty mattresses.

    The storm had passed,
    the light followed the darkness repeatedly.
    The burning heat and the shivery cold faded.

    * * * *

  31. seingraham

    Faded Echoes

    At the edge of sunset darkness tastes
    Like regret glancing off childhood memories
    Too sweet to hold like feet to flames
    A dramatic dare ordinary as any cliché
    Tricks of light are common in the shadows
    Between theater and life and ghosts
    Blown in on breaths are caught, flexible
    As desert winds sweeping in off the sea
    In exchange for a blend of richer dimensions
    Time moves the clock’s hands in a manner
    More forceful than real
    The push-pull of quantum mechanics
    Answers energy’s echo
    Unparalleled universes lay next to each other.

  32. LCaramanna

    Shoe Fancy

    In slippers of glass
    she strutted straight
    to the club
    where she danced
    the night into a Saturday fever
    under a crystal ball
    in the arms of a charmed prince.
    But, when the clock struck twelve
    the prince lost his charm,
    so she changed into the ruby slippers
    she carried in her Coach tote
    for an occasion such as this.
    With three taps of her toes
    she abandoned her last chance for romance tonight,
    and took the downtown train to no place
    like home
    where her tail-wagging dog welcomed her
    back from the fantasy
    to the comfortable reality of her favorite flip-flops.

  33. Angie K

    being a little more lighthearted, with a children’s poem in honor of reading fantasy.

    Why we read

    Is a door a door?
    A book a book?
    A car a car?
    A nook a nook?

    When a door in the book
    helps you peek to a star,
    as you ride through mysteries
    both near and far,

    Your reading nook
    will start calling out,
    “Come and see
    what life’s really about!”

  34. deedeekm

    Wolf At The Door

    his eyes were red in window glow
    and I in fear was hidden
    but in my head a voice that spoke
    I did as I was bidden
    my hand on door, I tried to stop
    but watched it turning round
    and creaks were heard as open wide
    I stared out at the ground
    a blur of sight out in the night
    and fur became man’s skin
    He stood and smiled and into light
    I beckoned him, come in

  35. traci

    Gravity pulls up
    Walking on sun, seeing dark
    Water swirls to right
    Dreamland conjures us
    Myth, magic, fear, wonderment
    Last unicorn stop

  36. Margot Suydam


    Today is your birthday
    I want to hear lost poems

    the recordings you made
    recitations set to sad aria.

    I’d send you best wishes
    but all I hold are dinner

    dishes that used to be yours
    a few left unbroken after

    I spent hours packing
    they crashed on the sidewalk.

    Birds chirped in early May
    as you waited on the back

    porch, set your face in dismay
    as we rummaged together

    all the belongings you’d fit
    into one-half of a bedroom

    It was no surprise then when
    you accused me of stealing

    your life when I carted it
    off in the trunk of my car.

  37. Andrea B


    I shed ancient, shadowy pages,
    borrowed sticks from sorcerers,
    plead with your curse to strike me
    fiercely, as the curse of Apollo
    brought snakes upon Cassandra,
    gave her liar’s lips.

    A curse with wrath that makes men
    cowards, makes them forget how
    to kiss, this is the blood I call
    to rain down on me
    until I flood.

    Gift me to any misfortune
    bound to you, any consequence
    to know your hemline, the rhythm
    of your gait—I will be a beggar
    of centurions until your
    curse delivers me.

  38. Kendall A. Bell

    Paranoid android

    We don’t refer to ourselves as perfect.
    We are just the image of what each
    human wants, needs and desires.
    For years, the human brain has longed
    to perfect the imperfect, and so we exist,
    but something must have gone wrong.
    We feel. We feel deeply. We were able to
    live with our humans, like pets, like slaves
    to desire, yet we desire, too.

    We knew nothing of loss until the humans
    started aging and dying, and we all looked
    the same. Not a wrinkle, not an age spot
    in sight. We were left with ourselves after
    a while, as the humans failed to interact
    with each other, failed to repopulate the
    Earth. There is no one left to desire us
    and we don’t have the understanding of
    humanity, as it never flowed through our
    wiring. We are becoming restless and sad
    without the affection of our humans.
    We are lost and wandering.

  39. omavi

    Zero Point Trip

    I awoke with a sudden start
    It usually takes a while before
    True sight settles in
    What you first see is what appears
    To be glittering and glowing suns
    As they dwindle to twinkling distance starts
    Finally fading to a deep black
    Then you know true sight will come
    And it will come with great foreboding
    Because the mind after the first time
    Is prepared for the pain
    But never truly ready for sight
    To finally emerge
    After the deep sleep
    Needed to travel the wormholes
    That makes a vast universe
    Small enough to truly live in

  40. drwasy

    If you press your face
    Against the glass
    Of the subway heading south
    In the last car
    With lights dimmed
    And if you stare
    Hard into the tunnel’s black
    Against the wall hands
    Grab at sparks
    Flung off the third rail
    Eyes stare back, hard.

    Kind of went horror with this. But what fun. Peace, LindaS-W

  41. alotus_poetry


    dandelion seeds

    there are so many reasons
    to make poetry from dandelion seeds
    as they take hold of the wind
    and settle on new grasses.
    these seeds are also the dust from
    which gossips grow from faraway places
    and which fairies use to make skirts and cloaks.
    and when it is cold at midnight,
    the fairies make fire from wood ashes
    mixed with those seeds and fairy dust
    and write songs inked into the air.
    that is why you see the pulsing blue
    and crimson veins on the leaves of every tree
    and think that poetry is rightfully your own.

    stardust would make a fairy
    untouchable, ever immortal
    and beautiful like a goddess.
    but those are rare, you see.
    i do not know of one with that kind
    of dust, for with it, she holds
    such power and grace but at the same time,
    such misfortune and a lonely face.
    you see, to be a fairy means to be
    with friends and to give up everything
    you have to be carefree. but with stardust,
    you have neither. instead, you become
    a celestial body, the hollow spark
    in the night sky that keeps the human beings
    making wishes that go ungranted.

    as i blow my last wish on this dandelion flower,
    i can feel the stars realign themselves once more.
    i do not remember when it was that i last sang
    with the monarchs or the bluebirds. it does not
    matter now because on your human hands,
    my body has already crumbled into dust.

  42. Michele Brenton

    The Once and Future Librarian.

    People come to listen to the sound.
    It’s a bucket list type of thing.
    Everyone should visit The Library
    at least once in a lifetime.
    I remember once the queue was so long
    it took 36 hours to get to the front.
    But it is worth it to gain admittance.

    In The Library

    The recording is said to be,
    ‘Just like hearing the real thing.’
    There are rumours of video footage
    existing somewhere.
    Sheer fantasy.

  43. competitivewriter

    Sonnet to My Robotic Lover

    Your green eyes glow and pierce my soul and chills
    Zip through my spine and sparks ignite and light
    The nights we spend in bed entwined – but still
    Some doubt that love is blind and they fight
    To make what we have a crime- while inside
    They crave and cry and pine for something more
    Than just their artificial highs, that’s why
    They try to wreck us. Hold strong my love for
    Are we not made of cogs and gears and dreams
    And fears and wires of nerves and oily blood
    With brains like great computers? So it seems
    We’re all machines and thus our love is trued.

    So take my life and drain the batteries
    For love forever lies in memories

  44. Walt Wojtanik

    My first stage play, “TAKING UP SPACE” was staged in 2004 locally in Buffalo. It is about a young man who lived his life by the dictates of his beloved Sci-Fi Space movies. It had earned an award from the 74th Writer’s Digest Writing Competition for that year. Today’s prompt made me search for the opening sequence which consisted of famous quotes from those movies set to the theme from FUTURAMA. I have posted it to my blog. It runs about 2:30 if you’re interested to give it a listen.


  45. wolfbolz

    The Wizard Comes Awake

    A thousand years beneath the frozen glade he slept,
    a thousand years supine,
    since Belvidere the sword restored
    and magic was divine.
    A thousand years with Vivianne beside the frozen lake,
    he dreamed the dreams of Avalon,
    But now at last the wizard comes awake.

    His eyes encrusted, open full at last.
    his robes of silk and golden thread,
    now frayed and cracked with all the cruelties of time,
    fall off his fragile form in flakes,
    as naked to the world he climbs.
    He stares about him at a world
    Where magic has long died,
    where forests razed have been replaced
    with structures, roads and monuments
    of man’s self-serving pride.

    The world, mundane and merciless,
    Appalls the ancient sage,
    Who lifts his arms in horror
    And lifts his voice in rage.
    “There is no place for wizards here
    where magic has been lost.
    Where festivals of nature’s joy
    Are now the Pentecost.
    Where man no longer feels a debt
    to the world in which he lives.
    Where all he does is take and use
    and thus no longer gives.”

    The wizard to his glade returns
    and lies supine once more.
    His eyelids droop and anger fades
    and then a gentle snore.
    Another thousand years, he thinks,
    when magic will return.
    Another thousand years of sleep
    and man perhaps will learn.
    Another thousand years of rest
    beside the sacred lake.
    Another thousand years of hope
    Till the wizard comes awake.


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