Postal
by Ted L Glines

Out and beyond  the coast so  rocky,
came a wild-eyed pilot -- a UFO jockey,
his craft like a sphere  -- it needed no wings,
its cone  of power did all of those things,
with  laser thrust from its  ruby heart,
an Arcturus-engineered work of art.

But  our  pilot was fearing somewhat for his health,
wishing his ship  was designed  for stealth,
these earth people chasing him with  their planes,
he wanted  to be in safer star lanes,
but  his job it was to deliver the mail,
without getting splashed  or landing in jail.

He looked at tutorials --  scanned all his  maps,
to find the address -- avoid all the traps,
this  promised  to be a triple mind-bender,
and he might have to scribble "Return  to Sender."

As he departed this area coastal,
he pondered  the merits of  going postal,
and inside his ship -- this flying  miracle,
his comments  were certainly less than lyrical.

At  the very last moment he spotted your  place,
dropped off your  letter and climbed into space.

Plain it was junk  mail -- obviously,
should you toss it away or pause to see?
You opened it  up  -- expecting jingles,
instead -- an ad -- for Arcturian  Singles.

Author's  Notes: "Neither  rain nor black holes nor Haley's Comet shall get in the way of  the  Universal Systems Postal Service (USPS) ," dedicated, as ever, to  delivering  junk mail. We should be proud. It was not that many  years ago, in history, that  we had no contact nor knowledge of  the mysterious Orient. Then Marco Polo went  there, followed by  some other hippies, and Donald Trump. End result: Toyotas,  outsourcing,  and ads about Asian Singles. And now our best minds are venturing  into the mysterious and unknown universe. Let this visionary poem  be a warning  to you. But then, you might be turned on by the Great  Cthulhu's daughter ...

Preacher
by Ted L Glines

poet's lament

We find our "burden" overrated,
never asked nor obligated
not rewarded - compensated,
tis to obscurity we're fated.

Hark - our ego takes a turn
watch it swell - feel it burn,
none but us will e're discern
these matters of our grave concern,
like OrthoRhombic's tumescent flea
on that river - manly glee
yelling "Raise the drawbridge!" repeatedly,
his pride plainer to see than he,
methinks his cries may go unheeded
as life flows by him unimpeded,
his lordly pride's been superceded
as if his "gift" was never needed,
so though our message may seem dire,
we are lonesome as "the crier"
with naught but other poets in our pyre,
we're often only preaching to our choir.

Author's Notes: Dang!  You mean no one's gonna dust  off their ole trusty sword and run  out there leading bannered armies on my cause  du jour issues?  Hmmph. Imagine that. Back in my 20s (several months ago) , I did  take myself too seriously (like OR's flea) and it is embarrasing  to remember the  tripe I wrote in that crazy hippy time when getting  published was a cause unto  itself, and the further out in left  field you were, the easier it was to be  published. I still write  tripe, but it's better tripe because it's just for fun  ... well  ... mostly ... kinda-sorta (drat that flea!) .

Police
by Ted L Glines

Turn on the siren - play me a song
on these neon streets - all night long.

Service turns deadly now and again,
seasoned cops will tell you when
robbers or drunks killed their partner or friend,
valor is often the killer of fools,
errors may happen - forgetting their tools.

Awesome power goes with the blue
noble knight in service to you
defending your rights and freedoms too.

Police are your friends in the scary night
running the bad guys out of your sight
offering safety from danger and fright,
they protect your home and safeguard your way
ever quietly guarding thru night and day,
cops have a duty - you may expect,
to always be there - to serve and protect.

Author's Notes: There are times when a cop goes to work, and a premonition makes him not want to respond to a 9-1-1 at your house. But he responds (please do not harm him). It  may not look it, but this poem is  highly experimental (for me). Obviously, it is rhyming verse. Not so obvious is  the fact that  the poem is written in acrostic form, with the first letters of  the lines, read vertically, spelling out "To Serve And Protect."  The acrostic  designates the topic (law enforcement) , and the  challenge was to create the  police poem in rhyming verse, working  within the letter restriction posed by the  acrostic. I quickly  found out that such restriction added a level of discipline  to  the writing. The working title was "Protect, " which I changed to  "Police" in  the final draft. A dear poet friend of mine (Zensidra)  beat me to the punch by  creating her own version of a rhyming  verse poem based on the acrostic "Dead Man  Walking, " and she  did a beautiful job with it! This kind of give and take is  the  very heart of the workshop concept, and I find my own writing is  pushed  forward by working with other creative writers. In a way,  Zensidra made the  above poem happen, and my thanks go out to her.