Two Persona Poems and Two Ghazal Poems by dan smith

 

We 

They call us slime ball. Not to the face. We are Helixian from a good family. It is unfortunate for us that we resemble the snails of this desecrated planet and sad that we reflexively roll our eight foot body into a ball when stressed becoming the object of your disgust and scorn. Thankfully a toxic chemical we secrete keeps us from being eaten or used for bait. Your rich soil defiled by sludge, one of your many harsh sounding words, is blasphemy to us. Always in a hurry you rush to and fro but we will dole out our technology and while you are transfixed by the glitter of each bright shiny new thing we will divide. And CONQUER.

My Last Alien 

Yes, that hologram is new. 

I know, quite striking really. 

It’s by Angelo that hot new designer from New Terra. 

Sexually? All that anyone could ever ask for, really but 

too serious, way too serious. Never was very good at small talk. 

I hear the ones that are born and raised on Mars are bred 

to be more fun loving. I think I’ll call my broker in the morning. 

Upstairs? I’ve got some old-timey paintings. Well, Lloyds                                        

tells me they are museum quality. Lord knows, I paid enough

for them.

The Poignant Now When Asking Why and How 

 

Summer’s such an easy thing 

Spring Fall not an easy thing 

 

and oh, those Winter Sundays 

now days an uneasy thing 

 

Spring’s sprung rhythms gaily dance  

ignore Fall the easy thing  

 

the careless days now years gone 

thoughts of you an easy thing 

 

reckless with such poignancy 

love is not a measly thing 

 

on these broken Sunday mornings there is only weeping 

quoting Proverbs not enough to stop this lonely weeping   

 

the vision of our inhumane future so frightening 

so bad that even the androids are brokenly weeping 

 

with parklands burning and flooded malls it seems to me that 

even statues would if they could be forlornly weeping 

 

with senses dulled by numbing work and mindless circuses 

poets howl into the abyss while mournfully weeping 

 

when each day begins with so many prayers for the dead 

it is getting harder and harder to see beyond the weeping

dan smith is the author of Crooked River and The Liquid of Her Skin, the Suns of Her Eyes. He has been widely published in journals diverse as The Rhysling Anthology and Gas Station Famous and Dwarf Stars and Deep Cleveland Junk Mail Oracle. dan's most recent poems may be found at Five Fleas Itchy Poetry, The Solitary Daisy, Sense and Sensibility, The Ekphastic Review, dadakuku, Rattlecast.