Sci-fi Space Series

Poems by Alun Robert


Concentric Circles In Space

we dive off an earlobe, the board
controlled by our cerebellum urges
us into the warmth of Cerebrum Sea
azure like the iris to
swim in concentric circles
through confines of axons, the tracts
sit on the periphery of cranium
dipping toes into memory

we peer through fissures of skull
passed verde of protein filament
sprouting like fallopia japonica from
follicles in corium, the dermis
see over aural flora, the yellows
under an astral shower ubiquitous
traversing our epoch
dark, unsettling

we sense intense reverberations
from deep under the Sea
cogs, wheels, pulses
in depths below our psyche yet
on the surface, the epidermis where
everything remains silent at peace
palpebral shut tight, the static
labium oris closed

we ingest pungent ozone, trioxygen
oozing from the Sea
far beyond pseudoseizures
far beyond cognition though
in moments of mass tranquility
we challenge our frolic, the ritual
microcosm of our lives
for other organisms to ape

 

Five Minutes Seems Like Hours

silence screams across the valley
yet mankind cannot hear the ether
oscillating, imploding
while fragrant atoms dust the air
like a dandelion exploding
rousing starling off to wing as
branches vibrate, bows creek
setting cattle out at gallop
headless, rudderless while
mongrels run rampant
barking, wailing
in ever decreasing circles
chasing tails, chasing tales
handed down over generations
yet a deathly hush permeates
through verdant meadow then
tremors, rumbles
a ginormous jolt
sends the neighbourhood
crashing, shearing
concrete en fandango
girders pirouetting
porcelain on a trajectory
through the air to the floor with
liquefaction greedy grasping
pristine homes
apartment blocks
temples of worship
temples now doomed as
masonry dances the devil’s tune
then silence, faux still
after-shocks reverberate
children of the spirit
that brought the crusts together
with venom, with spite but
as dust settles
life emerges from the tombs
hopes dwindle, cries increase
as every moment passes
five minutes seems like hours

 

Laika’s Life

Telescope closely for you might even see me.
Am right off Milky Way, north of Pole Star.
Been training for months in Kosmodrom Zhukovsky
with nine other stray pooches. All rather thick

but wanting good result, they picked me from ghetto
for journey out to where no homo sapien has been.
Do not have any contract but expression of wishes
to leave all chattels for fifty seven pups I bore.

Am round Earth’s orbit when I receive signal,
“Sorry Kamrad Laika, Mission Control has problem!”
So mark out my territory on lamp post they installed
to remove any pressure, to make me feel at home.

“Have got you up high into yonder stratosphere
but cannot get you down to plains of Central Siberia,
as R-7 sustainer will not separate from payload
you shall be toasted like Borodinsky rye bread.”


As main meal is kibble (dry food in bullets),
hunger is never issue for mongrel like me
yet I need letterbox like postie from Moskva
to send each incisor into faux-perestroika.


It’s dog’s life! There I’ve said it now, for
at least home in Moskva I never much overheat
except twice each year in estrus of my life
with everyone equal apart from alfa male. Yet I


sing of Great Union, free and undying,
bulwark of people in happiness and strength!
Flag of all Soviets, flag of our people
from victory to victory lead us on. Deluded


I look out my porthole at Mama Earth below:
Khrushchev all smiling, rubbing hands with glee
for he’s beaten Americans with first dog in orbit,
just shame about poverty, human rights, hunger.


Now saluting Red Flag – am Soviet ’til I die.
Proud to be proletariat, honour to serve Nation.
En route through atmosphere down to Amazon basin.
Audioscope closely for you might hear me howl.

In memory of Laika (1954-1957) sole canine occupant of ill-fated Sputnik 2


Lunar Connection

Can the deep sky be so far away
   for you and for me?

Are twinkling stars inextricably linked
   to my mind and my soul?

Is moonlight synonymous with my heart,
   my aspirations,
   my dreams?

For it dictates my every mood,
   my very being.

Will the precipice be bridged
   twixt here and times gone by?

I stand alone to gaze and
   I know you do too

and know that for sure
   as time passes quickly by.

Yet by the astronomical planets
   that you see
   I do too

(even though were are nearly
   two lifetimes apart)

we are connected by light
   and hope and by dream.

 

Squelching Through Moorland

Berghaus size 9, a thousand miles off the tread or more
clomping through sphagnum, squelching blanket bogs.

Step after cautious step in over ankles passed calves
aching for some route, anywhere out of this mire while

swiping at virulent midges attacking like a Spitfire
straight out of the sun onto virgin exposed skin. There

are hundreds, thousands, possibly millions en pursuit
of this intruder on the moors desperate for survival

stinging from rapid rubbing while dreaming of protection
when one beastie enters an ear, more up each nostril.

Frustrated, agitated though hardly repelling boarders.
Tossing head like a raging boxer at the cusp of a bout

sneezing, coughing, retching (overacting just a tad)
while sinking a little deeper with every single move.

Waving arms in some sync as on the stage of Swan Lake
though water reeks putrid, that may just be sweat

glands running overdrive with every muscle über sore in
one more big effort to extricate this dub in the moss.

As just a few yards away is an Alp of a mound where
Badger Face Torwen graze – bet this makes them smile

and when one starts to bleat, the whole flock’s in accord
echoing across the glen like a Orpheus choir en charm

offensive towards humans meandering across moors:
soaken, exhausted while claiming this frolic to be fun. As if

the air is so pure fragranced by blooming heather in flower
wafting through a breeze turned humid in content

and there’s not a single vehicle in sight or of sound
for masses are moribund in lowland conurbations

avoiding deep fissures at the centre of their mire while
Berghaus on sphagnum, squelching through bogs.

 


There Is A Green Hill Far, Far Away

solitary dark drone
pedigree in Stealth
appearance of a crow
with siblings, a murder
speed of a Concorde
agility of Nureyev
dexterity of the devil
consumed trillions of tax

after years in the labs
positioned for war
hot wired for destruction
with ballistic munitions

glides through the ether
undetected by radar
laser gyros for direction
nuclear for death’s kiss
decimator of homelands
of insurgents and innocents:
farmers and peasants
the infirm, the young
prisoners of conflict
in green hills far, far below

observed by satellite
analysed by algorithm
deemed to be a threat
by khaki boys in a bunker
secluded and safe
under feet of concrete
reinforced by steel rods
reinforced by rote
no different from playing
computer games at home

but controlled by politicians
forked tongues of speech
justifying their armaments
salivating at the kill

fingers on the button
all ready to fire
everything lined up
for the dastardly crow
operated by military
beyond the horizon
at a distance back where
blood is just a word

 

Through Selection To Planting Our Flag

Selection, training
hurdles self induced
blasted off from Merritt
left atmosphere into orbit
passed dark side of moon
eagled into White crater
suited for this journey
suited for to walk.

With kit on my back
like snails in the garden
strode through moon dust
bounced, skipped and swang
no gravity here, just us two
with trepidation in hearts
awestruck with wonder
fear deep in my soul.

Hissing thro phones
instructions a’crackling
above dark celestial voices
that we will ne’er return safe
back to our home of the free
but no point in being a hero
no point creating orphans
no point in us leaving …

without planting our flag.

 

Fridays For Future

Penguins are starving
no space in their gut
full of discarded plastic all
mankind’s dumped muck. An
absence of vitamin
a lack of nutrition
spaces in Valhalla unless
mankind mends his ways. As
the brass band plays
believe that if you like
for creatures of habit are
unlikely to change. With
such a rousing chorus
of pollution impales
penguins to history for
better, NO worse. While
a squeak from Fjollträsk
arouses the young
galvanising support
for global conservation. Not
conversation but action
not in the future but now
when we have space before
our options are shut.