Poetry Poems by Alec Dyson Brown Alien Eden Someday, when the cold light of an alien moon, we thought was just another star, illuminates the concave glass of their inscrutable masks, our distant young shall stand upon a frozen orb, remote, unwelcoming. There to set about, with clumsy urgency, creation of a land to call their own. Their ravaged hearth, no longer habitat, allowing no return, long lost, invisible to all but memory. For now, even as it darkens into night, the sun we know illuminates familiar skies. A glow that we mistake for dawn scarce disturbs our fatuous dreams of all that we have done for our posterity. In time, we'll be interred, content that we have left for them A brave new world. Burial at Sea Protected by a nation's pride, the shrouded figure waits. It does not feel the sobbing of the tide, nor see the honor guard at full parade, nor hear the muted message of farewell. Brief words, gathered by the wind, bear swiftly aft across the fantail's rise, above the gentle wake. The last prayer ends, the last amen; the dead is given to the sea. A ring of flowers marks the spot, flows, lost, astern; a wreath upon the open door of home. Debate How futile is the argument that does not meet with mine; broached in accents vehement, its logic serpentine. My points are plain for all to see, in sentence, clause, and phrase, repetitive conclusively amid a closed-end maze. Milltown, 1924 Like tumbleweed, the transient poor rest briefly where the winds of need deposit them. They do not grasp the baked-hard soil of four-room flats and factories. Only their young recall the fun and games, the faces left behind. Asked of their wandering, adults will shrug, while children smile, naming a place of carefree days, saving of childhood but a year or two. A weekly envelope feeds dreams, defying poverty by well darned heels and toes and patches sewn on twice-worn clothes. Farewell, Fisherville! The mill's gone slack. A cousin wrote, they're hiring in Gastonia. Night in the ICU Throughout the night there is but little change in dark or light. Voices walk the halls, Impartial as rain. Nor are the silent beds relieved of pain. In some cells, captive sights and sounds drip comfort to the fear-numbed minds. A simple movement of the clock brings forth another day, unseen. White shadows float, anonymous 0n silent wings, their movements synchronized, like shamans standing guard, and whisking out invading evils. The while, without applause, small robots watch with glowing eyes, and keep the score. Alec Dyson Brown, columnist, poet, author has a column in the Fall (MA) Herald News, now in its tenth year, titled "Sentiment & Sense," which he used for his book containing excerpts from the column and accepted poetry. His poetry has been published in The Church House Anthology, The Lighthouse, Literati, The Lyric, Poet Pourri, Manna, The Snap, Bristol Phoenix, RI Senior Times, Crone's Nest, Apropospourri, Tucumcari, Somerset Public Library Anniversary Anthology, Acumen, Hoofstrikes, Byline, and others. A chapbook "Sonnets In Season" was edited and published by Michele F. Cooper. Articles have appeared in trade journals and The Providence Journal Sunday Magazine, and others. Short stories appeared in All About Pool, a magazine devoted to the sport of Billiards.
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