Black Petals Issue #86, Winter, 2019

Saucer, Schmosser
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The Art of Dream-napping-Fiction by Mark J. Kevlock
The Night Side of Eden-Fiction by George Rosas
The Sump-Fiction by Anthony Lukas
Tingles-Fiction by Kenneth James Crist
Winter's Gnome-Poem by Janet C. Ro
Saucer, Schmosser-Four Poems by Richard Stevenson

alienface.jpg
Courtesy Bing Images

Saucer, Schmosser

 

Richard Stevenson

 

So, dude, are you

extraterrestrial

or interdimensional?

Flesh or phantasm?

 

Yer telepathic—

I get that.

Wanna know how

you do it—

 

in English yet!

(Must get into that).

First, is you or

ain’t you my baby, ET?

 

For how long have you

hadda hold on me?

Since childhood?

A friend, not a foe…

 

The places you’ve

taken me!

By astral projection

or time machine?

 

Saucer, schmosser—

material/immaterial…

More like a pill

Tossed down some space gullet.

 

Totally tubular, unplugged…

in annudda black hole…

speedin’ toward the melon head

silhouette. Really diggin’ the ride!

 

Will you open my melon,

forgo the anal probe?

Can the sheets, sure, but also

can the cellophane cling wrap?

 

I’m feelin’ like ground beef

at the grocer’s. Your eyes,

so big, black and deep,

kinda crept me out—at first.

 

Then I just thought, Ray Bans, cool!

You let me swim in their pools…

Biochemical romance? You’ve got

me in a trance. Wanna snog on Oz?

 

Stop at a Mars Bar

that serves Tex Mex burritos,

maybe has peanut shells, single malts

and sawdust on the floor?

 

Fire up the intergalactic

Son Ra or Miles and Hendrix.

Plug me into a totally translucent

transcendental tube steak.

 

 

Storsjoodjuret

 

Richard Stevenson

 

 

Log?! Ripple?! Gas bubbles?!

That what you think of me?

Hold still, I’ll give you gas bubbles!

 

Just cos the Loch Ness Monster

flaunts his flippers for the press

doesn’t mean I’m not impressive.

 

Dig these twenty-four-foot coils.

You best believe my main squeeze

likes to cuddle up with me!

 

Hold on! I’m not some reticulate python

that’s gonna put the squeeze on you

until your eyes pop out! Not me!

 

I’m a peaceful plant eater,

sip on duckweed and crud

the way you sip your tea!

 

You’ll get no grief from me!

just cos my back is as broad

as an overturned boat.

 

I just like to loaf, drape

the boa of my soul around

the logs bobbin’ in the shallow shoals.

 

Ah-choo! I know, I know:

say it; don’t spray it!

Hard to do with such a snout.

 

Myself, I like to twist and shout,

Snog and boogie when my goil

Suzy Storjood flaps a flipper, yo.

 

 

Stronsay Beast

 

Richard Stevenson

 

 

Globster, or Basking Shark remains?

Sea serpent with six legs or flippers?

Fifty-five-feet long, snout to tail,

but then part of the tail had rotted away.

By any account, a monster of the sea,

a most unusual, controversial critter.

 

A surviving dinosaur? Some undiscovered shark?

Who says it had to be a Basking Shark?

Hell, if I were a shark, I wouldn’t

be basking on an island off Scotland.

I’d pick somewhere warmer than that

to park my sorry weather-beaten keister.

 

But, what the hey. If a storm brought it

from the deeps, it could have been dead

a long time, filled with gas, and floated

to where the lashing waves deposited it.

We’d be none the wiser, having barely explored

the bottom of the ocean. Maybe it just thawed out.

 

A prehistoric critter frozen in Arctic ice,

it melted, perfectly preserved until

the waves got to it. Might not even be

a Scottish denizen. Could have been

swimming in some Bahamian bay

when an asteroid hit the earth. Ka-boom!

 

Got flash-frozen when a dozen active volcanoes

filled the atmosphere with heavy smoke

and a tsunami readjusted the shoreline.

Got carried off in an Ice Age ice cube—

an olive in a frozen highball, until global warming

reversed the process. Then got pecked at by sea gulls.

 

Maybe it decided to fish deeper waters.

Left unsettled bays and coral reefs

for open ocean. Put on a layer of blubber

and survived as a species for centuries.

Too bad scientists didn’t have DNA testing

when he put in an appearance in 1808.


We humans lost a chance to ID it

When it began to rot. No photos,

no DNA, no very good guesses

of what it might have been. So sad.

Another bad ass cryptid bit the dust.

Waves threw sheets over his remains.


Teggie of Lake Bala

 

Richard Stevenson

 

 

O.K., so you’ve only caught glimpses of me

since the last century. So I’m playin’ second fiddle

to Loch Ness Nestor and Madame Nessie.

 

Don’t mean I’m not a badass cryptid

or can’t put on my own show. I just

don’t trust fishermen. Don’t need no lip ring.

 

See, you don’t know whether I’m a mammal

or an ancient fish, a serpent

or overgrown northern pike, or dinosaur.

 

I’d rather laugh than roar. Am content

to keep you guessing. Cryptid Cryptologist

leaving cryptid wiggles and blips on yer sonar.

 

Can’t be a crocodilian or snake—

Couldn’t take Wales’ cold winters.

Could be a remnant relative of some dinosaur….

 

Could be a descendent of WWI Allied Seals

left in the lake after the government’s attempts

to train bomb-laden suicide seals failed.

 

I like that legend. Could have legs

and get up outta the water and walk!

Heh! Heh! Lemme high five Darwin with a paw!

 

Eat Gwyniads, fish that date

back to the prehistoric era

and only thrive in Lake Bala—

 

nowhere else in the world!

So why not another dinosaur

that don’t gnosh on trout or kippers?

 

Could Lake Bala be an aqueous

wormhole portal to other eras?

Could antediluvian aliens be restocking ponds?

 

Love that one. Concerned egg heads

try their three-fingered hands at

a little earth animal and plant husbandry….

 

Why not? Might as well muck out

yer human stalls and genome while they’re at it.

Maybe Homo S III will be the bomb!

 

 

Richard Stevenson, richard.stevenson@shaw.ca, of Lethbridge, Alberta, Canada , wrote BP #86’s poem quartet—“Saucer, Schmosser,” “Storsjoodjuret,” “Stronsay Beast,” & “Teggie of Lake Bala” (+ BP #83’s poems, “El Cuero,” “La Llorona,” “Penelope,” and “Pope Lick Monster”; BP #82’s poems, “Killer Clowns,” “Queensland Tiger,” “The Turtle Lake Monster,” and “Vermont Pig Man”; BP #80’s poems, “Bondegezu…”, “Donkey Woman,” “Napes,” and “The Yeren’s Complaint”; BP #76’s poems, “Honey Island Swamp Monster,” “Skin Walker,” and “Ucu.”) From a series called Cryptid Shindig, these collected poems concern cryptid encounters, ET lore, or unexplained phenomena; others have appeared in three published volumes in the series: Why Were All the Werewolves Men? (Thistledown Press, 1994), Nothing Definite Yeti (Ekstasis Editions, 1999), Take Me to Your Leader! (Bayeux Arts Inc., 2003), and in a New & Selected volume called Bigfoot Boogie. Retired from a thirty-year gig teaching English and Creative Writing at Lethbridge College, the poet has published thirty books in that time. His most-recently published books are haikai poetry collections: Fruit Wedge Moon (Hidden Brook Press, 2015), The Heiligen Effect (Ekstasis Editions, 2015), Rock, Scissors, Paper: The Clifford Olson Murders (a long poem from Dreaming Big Publications, 2017) and A Gaggle of Geese (haiku, senryu, tanka, kyoka, zappai, and haikai sequences from Alba Publishing in the U.K.). Other poems from the cryptid critter series have appeared in Aphelion, The Literary Hatchet, On Spec, Liquid Imagination Online, etc. (25+ mags so far) besides the 3 previously published collections mentioned.

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