Alien life

Yes, there may be planets somewhere
in the coldest, furthest outposts
that we have not explored fully.
And yes, it is a possibility
that there might be bacteria hiding
underneath some scattered boulder
in among a thousand others
on a crater floor not scanned yet.
But generally there is consensus,
now we’ve spread out from our homeland
to the furthest constellations
(only dreamt of when we started)
that no-one else is here except us.

Legend has it, we were cocksure
when we first began to travel,
that the data indicated
other tribes would be encountered
as we travelled through the galaxies.
Mathematic probability
told us there would be life somewhere,
maybe not as we imagined,
maybe not devolved from carbon,
maybe not reliant on oxygen.
Thus, we set off, keen and hopeful,
sending probes into the blackness,
pulsing signals through the universe,
waiting, waiting for an answer.
But as the silence roared like engines,
more and more we realised that
life was just a chance encounter
on one insignificant planet.

Archeological excavations
on our long-dead frozen homeland
seem to propagate the theory
that in mankind’s short pre-history,
the earth was full of alien creatures,
quadrupeds that roamed in millions,
things that flew without a space-drive,
beings that survived in water,
tubes that slithered on their bellies,
and other strange exotic creatures
that could not move their limbs from earth
but fed upon the carbon dioxide.
But by the time that we moved onwards,
all of these had disappeared,
killed perhaps in some great battle
to determine master species.
If only we had known at that time
that the universe was silent,
perhaps we could have worked together,
to resolve our alien differences.

The big noses of Okravia

If you want to insult an Okravian,
don’t tell him he has a big nose.
The size of their snout
is all they brag about –
a small one just makes them morose.

Their noses stretch down to their diaphragms,
corrugated like wash-machine hoses.
They’ll paint them and draw them
and constantly paw them.
They’re terribly proud of their noses.

They attach heavy weights when they’re babies
and stretch them with pebbles as well
which explains why they’ve got
an abundance of snot
and possess such a great sense of smell.

Status in Okravian circles
is determined by conk size alone.
Large hooters are cool
and those with them rule
and the largest ascends to the throne.

So if you’ve a beak like a mallard
or some other aquatic avian,
don’t worry, don’t pout
at the size of your snout-
ask your Dad if you’re partly Okravian.

Semi sexual

“How primitive you Earthlings are!”
the Sirian guffawed
and all his mates
slapped shiny pates
and shook with one accord.

“You mean to say your race is split
‘twixt one sex and the other?
So it takes two
to spawn a crew –
a father and a mother?

‘In every other race in space,
one being is sufficient.
But you must ‘mate’
to germinate?
My God! How inefficient”

“That’s how we like it,” Rasher said,
“however you construe it.
But that’s not all-
you’ll have a ball
when you hear how we do it!”

Fleecing the natives

They arrived here one day
from a star far away
and announced that they wanted to trade.
They came down in New Delhi
and the world watched on telly
as the first introductions were made.

They looked like large lizards
with external gizzards
and antennae that hovered and quivered.
And we gawped at the features
of these alien creatures
or crouched behind armchairs and shivered.

Well they gave us quixonium
and a ton of vulconium
and the secret of hyperspace travel,
an elixir of youth,
a diviner of truth
and a prettily-shaped wooden gavel.

They cured all diseases
from cancer to sneezes
and gave us a tele-transporter
and a device to read minds,
some Neptunian blinds
and some shoes that could walk over water.

In return they requested
two suits, double-breasted
and woven from pure polycotton.
Then their engines ignited
and they flew off, delighted
at the wonderful bargain they’d gotten.

Thirteen ships

Thirteen ships and none came back
from Titan’s atmosphere.
They vanished deep into the black
and did not reappear.

What befell the ships and crew?
Alas, we’ve no idea.
No signal gave us half a clue
how we should move from here.

How is it that thirteen ships
can simply disappear.
The radar screen no longer blips
for reasons still unclear.

Theories on the web abound –
did Voltoids interfere?
Did they come down on marshy ground?
Or was it diarrhoea?

Were the spaceships washed away
on some magnetic weir?
Did Gozons, seeking an affray,
attack them from the rear?

Is there something most aggressive
most of us should fear?
Something precious and possessive,
destroying all things near.

The families demand we act
to find their near and dear,
although they know, in actual fact,
a search will bring small cheer.

Thirteen ships abruptly snatched
in Titan’s stratosphere.
Should number fourteen be despatched?
Who wants to volunteer?

Sofas in a cornfield

We’ve travelled quite a distance just to pay you guys a visit.
What a lovely place you had! We find it quite exquisite,
the little farmhouse built, it seems from wood and bricks and mortar,
the fields of corn now covered in what looks like frozen water.

As visitors, of course, we could not land here empty-handed.
We had to bring a present, but to be extremely candid,
you didn’t seem to like the gift we left for you last summer,
judging by the way that you described it as a bummer.

You see, back on our planet, the circle is revered –
the geometric formula has all but disappeared.
And so we thought it neighbourly to pull out all the stops
and sculpt a perfect circle in the middle of your crops.

But sadly, it appears ‘twas not the perfect choice of present
(as I recall, you stamped your feet and mouthed words most unpleasant.)
We think that this new gift of ours is really quite delectable
and hope you find these sofas just a little more acceptable.

The last time I was there

The last time I was there, it really saddened me
that they had shrugged their shoulders and accepted it –
the inertia of humanity had maddened me.

Some claimed perhaps they should have intercepted it
and tried to blow that comet off trajectory
but most just shrugged their shoulders and accepted it.

The ballot, as announced, was ex-directory.
Rigged, of course, but still there was no clamour
to blow that lethal comet off trajectory.

Did they roam the streets with axe and hammer
as the airlift blew its smoke upon the doomed?
Twigged, of course, but still there was no clamour

as the rich flew off as the Day of Judgement loomed
with me a tiny stowaway in the hold.
I watched the plumes of smoke blot out the doomed

but saw the meek acceptance of the old.
The last time I was there, yes, it had saddened me
but more, though just a stowaway in the hold,
the inertia of humanity had maddened me.

An equanimity of being

And so I wait
to meet my fate
amid the ears of corn.
The deep blue sky
seems very high
upon this tragic morn.
No gentle breeze
stirs distant trees –
the stillness is complete.
I’m all alone
with all I own
within this field of wheat.

There’s not a cloud
to be my shroud –
the sun shines warm and bright.
To reminisce
on days like this
would be a false delight.
I turn my head
and watch instead
an ant explore my arm.
Not long to wait,
he’ll share my fate
on Matt O’Driscoll’s farm.

I cannot spot
the tiny dot
but know it must be nearing.
There is no doubt,
they’ve worked it out,
it should be soon appearing.
Death from the sky,
the end is nigh.
The air weighs on me quickly.
We can’t avoid
the asteroid –
at least we’ll all go quickly.

Exhibits

It came through the clouds with a great sonic boom,
I watched it descend from a height.
The alien ship landed outside Macroom,
Oh God! What a wonderful sight!

The lights were all blazing, its body span round
As I sat on the gate with my friend.
I felt the earth shake as the wheels touched ground
And we both watched the ladder descend.

‘Twas like a great robot with green flashing eyes
And it held a great butterfly net.
Myself and Lucille were struck dumb with surprise –
For how long though, I find I forget.

And then came a flash and a bit of a buzz
And up through the ether we flew
And we woke to find aliens gawping at us
As exhibits in some far-off zoo.

Choice

This was it, she thought, cradling him in arms
that would never hold another. The sun
beat down on the last of the old yeast farms,
now mouldy. She sobbed and glanced at the gun
that they had primed and left. The burden bore
down on her shoulders. Was it the right
thing to do, or should she allow the night
to swallow her up, the natural law?
But did it matter? No-one left to judge
or point long weatherbeaten fingers.
But still, she thought, the suspicion lingers
that history might bear a lasting grudge.
A sand-encrusted tear ran down her face,
like the frenzied survivor of its race.

Strategic Defence System

The spaceship sat high above the planet
Scanning the surface with its radar dish.
It resembled a hovering gannet
Waiting above the ocean for a fish.
“Still no break,” grunted Kovacs yet again.
“The entire planet appears to be criss-crossed
By radio waves. Our ship would be tossed
And battered if we came down. It’s insane!”
“This is a waste of time,” said Captain Drake.
“We’ll try the next one. Makes you wonder why
A planet should go to such lengths to try
To hide its secrets. We can’t even make
Communication.” Below, like strange clones,
Another ten million people reached for their phones.

Invasion imminent

It seems they’ve set their evil plan in motion
And secretly released those greenhouse gases.
The gaping hole above the Southern Ocean
Will spell the end of our collective asses.

The only thing in space they feared was ozone.
The strongest of their missiles couldn’t dent it.
A world with such a layer was a no-go zone
Until they found a way to circumvent it.

And, as the hole grows larger, they’ll come streaming
Through the layer that once protected us.
And we’ll fall victim to their dev’lish scheming
And suffer as a conquered planet does.

It will be a lamentable occasion
When conquered by these warlike Cosmic elves,
But the worst thing in regard to this invasion –
We’ll think we’ve orchestrated it ourselves.

He was only gone a minute

He was only gone a minute.
He’d been distracted by a question
From a student with a clipboard,
Who’d a problem generating
Small amoeba on his planet.

He was only gone a minute
But it was a crucial minute,
For the water level gauge
Which was increased just a fraction
Needed further realignment.

Weeks of work were nearly wasted
As the life-forms cultivated
In the foaming global test-tube
Nearly vanished altogether
In the mass of rising water.

It must be said that quick reactions
When he realised his faux pas
And turned down the rising water
To a life-supporting level
Averted a great calamity.

And it was a stroke of fortune
That a tiny microcosm
Of each species bred and reared
Had been saved from mass extinction,
Floating on a tiny splinter.

Retribution

Stepping through the door, the warden laid
A kindly hand upon Sanchez’ arm.
“Head up, son, and do not be afraid.

You will be most speedily conveyed
To your maker with angelic calm.”
Thus was the warden’s final card played.

Sanchez did not launch a loud tirade
Against this institutional smarm.
Arms outstretched and fingers tautly splayed,

He smiled at the warden’s masquerade,
Then turned to the door without a qualm.
The warden stepped out again, dismayed

At a law so archaic and unweighed.
Breathing deep, he turned on the alarm.
The door slid shut. He said a decade

Of the rosary. The far door made
No sound. The remnant of a last psalm
Died, as the full horror did pervade.

Like the bullet that killed the housemaid,
Spat in haste by his trembling firearm,
Sanchez shot into the cold arcade.

The final star

When the final star
Is just a dot behind you,
When you’ve gone as far
As anyone can go,
That’s the very place
The inner voice will find you
And God’s pure grace
Will doubtless start to flow.

When all ahead
Is night and night forever,
When light has fled
And darkness closes in,
He’ll come to you
E’en though you mightn’t ever
Have known the true
Indifference of sin.

And though the course
Is destined to end badly,
You’ll feel his force
Around you as you fly.
And when your ship
Begins to shudder madly,
He’ll smoothe your trip
And close your panicked eye.

Vanished

Nobody was sure what became of wee Ron.
One sec he was there, and the next he was gone.

It reminded the neighbours of eight year old Claire
Who vanished one Tuesday night into thin air.

And Jimmy McLoughlin and Michelle McGrane
Who emitted a “Pop!” and were ne’er seen again.

Another dimension?
Who knows what befell
Young Jimmy and Claire and wee Ron and Michelle?
.

Racism 2108

The Jovian economy’s overheated.
It’s meltdown on a quite enormous scale.
The planet’s market forces are depleted
And thereby hangs a cautionary tale.

We need to cut back greatly on our borrowing.
We need to rein the banks in very fast.
If we don’t there will be no tomorrowing,
Our present rate of spending cannot last…

There’s been an influx from the Giant Planet,
These Jovians work hard for little pay.
Immigration? Some say we should ban it,
There’s not enough to go around today.

Why don’t they go to Venus or to Saturn?
Why are they always drawn to Mother Earth?
Each solar crisis follows this same pattern,
Regression to the planet of life’s birth.

If we allow them all in willy-nilly,
It isn’t only Earthlings who will suffer.
The present laws are spurious and silly –
It’s time our well-paid leaders made them tougher.

The liberals point out our own global crisis
When billions had to leave our choking lands
And populate those worlds where hard-packed ice is
More prevalent than warm inviting sands.

But that was way back then. The story’s altered
And economic migrants keep arriving.
It’s no surprise the Jovian dollar faltered
And left their banking system far from thriving.

Of course their culture has to be respected
Their ethics and morality are renowned,
But if our living standards are affected,
It’s time we drew the line and stood our ground.

The day the music really died

No storm clouds blotted out the sky,
No thunder crashed in doom-filled peals.
No trumpets blared the news on high,
No chariots of fire sped by
On rolling, flashing wheels.

‘Twas just a day wherein the breeze
Roved lightly over hedge and street
And rustled leaves in stately trees
In pleasant seventeen degrees
Of lazy springtime heat.

But dotted all around the world,
No-one could soothe the songsmiths’ feelings.
And imprecations long were hurled
And smoke from ashtrays gaily curled
On up to blackened ceilings.

For though they paced with frantic tread,
No songs of note could be composed.
It was as if the Muse had fled
From every earnest songsmith’s head,
Or resolutely dozed.

Whatever set of notes they strummed
Or plucked, or sang with voices fair,
Whatever mournful tune they hummed,
One by one they all succumbed
To tearing out their hair.

For every song that could be writ
Had now been writ. And though they blew
And drew their bows, and though they bit
Their bottom lips, they had to quit
Composing something new.

And after days and weeks, they cried
And flung their fiddles in the bin.
It was the day the music died
When every songsmith joined the tide
And packed the business in.

And no more music e’er was heard,
No rise and fall of pitch and tone,
And though it might seem quite absurd,
Each hitherto expressive bird
Now chirped in monotone.

And soon a dark’ning gloom descended,
Blacker still than any night.
The Music Age abruptly ended,
The grasping claws of death extended,
Blocking out the light.
.

The Astravore

Oh earth, beware!
You should prepare
To cower before
The Astravore.

With fearsome scowl
And thund’rous growl,
The Astravore
Keeps wanting more.

His hungry face
Roves large through space.
How men deplore
The Astravore!

He’ll munch a sun
And when he’s done,
The Astravore
Spits out the core.

His habits make
Star systems quake.
You won’t ignore
The Astravore.

His breath is stale,
Galaxies quail.
The Astravore
Eats planets raw.

Long term schemes
And plans and dreams
Have one great flaw –
The Astravore.

He hears no plea.
You cannot flee
The Astravore
And his great jaw.

He gobbles stars
Like choc’late bars,
Then chews a straw –
The Astravore.

Stop and chat
And chew the fat?
The Astravore
Brooks no rapport.

Some fearful suns
Are building guns
To underscore
The Astravore.

But he’ll win out
Without a doubt.
The Astravore
Will relish war.

Its best, they say,
To creep away.
Discretion, or
The Astravore?

The lie

One night, the stars came floating down
Like paratroopers, bathed in light.
They fell on countryside and town
And fields and roofs were clothed in white,
Cold starflakes silent as the night.

They say the moon came down as well
And landed near Trincomalee
And natives set off through the swell
To where they thought that it should be,
But it had sunk beneath the sea.

Three days the starfall cloaked the earth
And then it slowly turned to slush
Till soon there wasn’t tuppenceworth
Between Portrush and Hindu Kush.
And then there fell a deathly hush

As all the world looked up and saw
The inside of a jet-black dome.
No pinpricks twinkling as before –
Just us, squashed in our dismal home,
Our squalid, lonely hippodrome.

And then, when realisation hit,
We marched upon the college gates
With oil-swabbed torches brightly lit
And flung them on mendacious slates
And blocked the doors with burning crates.

And to the media too, for they
Had propagated all those lies.
No mercy. By the light of day
Those bastards were cut down to size,
No more to gloat and moralise.

And then the churches and the banks
And Government buildings and the shops.
We razed the world in armoured tanks
And burnt out forests, deserts, crops,
Then set ablaze the mountain tops.

And soon the whole world was on fire
And night time was no longer black
And raucous voices formed a choir,
As choking ash rained down like flak.
Alone. There could be no way back.