Two new poems for you today: Meisho's Dodos by Mary Soon Lee and At The Natural History Museum by Bruce Boston – both touching on the topic of extinct birds. (And a rare appearance of the word discombobulated in a poem.)

* Mary Soon Lee grew up in London, but now lives in Pittsburgh. She has won the Elgin Award and the Rhysling Award for her poetry. You can find her at http://www.marysoonlee.com and on Twitter @MarySoonLee

* Bruce Boston's poems and stories have appeared in hundreds of publications, including Analog, Asimov's, Amazing Stories, Weird Tales, Strange Horizons, the Year's Best Fantasy and Horror, and the Nebula Awards Showcase, and received many award, most notably the Bram Stoker Award, a Pushcart Prize, the Asimov’s Readers Award, and the Rhysling and Grandmaster Awards of the Science Fiction & Fantasy Poetry Association. http://www.bruceboston.com


Meisho's Dodos
by Mary Soon Lee

Inspired by Ria Winters and Julian P. Hume


Welcome to the Kyoto Imperial Gardens.
Kindly do not photograph the dodos.

As you can see, we are overrun by them.
Stay on the paths. Careful where you step.

In 1647, a single dodo landed in Dejima,
a curiosity presented to the shogun.

Discombobulated by a lengthy sea voyage,
the dowdy bird failed to impress.

On a whim, the underwhelmed shogun
foisted the dodo on the emperor's sister.

Meisho perceived the intended insult,
yet sympathized with the dodo's plight.

The bird, like Meisho, had been shuffled
hither and thither at men's commands:

Dodo-san from its distant island,
Meisho from the Chrysanthemum Throne –

If you look beneath the cherry tree,
you can see a fledgling in that nest--

Meisho befriended the displaced dodo,
neither of them free to fly their fate.

With time and patience and fair winds,
she contrived to procure companion birds.

Year by year, bird by bird, egg by egg,
the palace grounds filled with dodos,

leading to the situation we face today.
Thank you. The gift shop is on your left.

​
At the Natural History Museum
by Bruce Boston
 
Pinned upon a board
as if they are in midflight,

or still for a second
alighting on a broad leaf,

creatures born for flight,
trapped in a glass case

until they are discarded,
consigned to the dark

of some storage basement
for newer more exotic

and colorful specimens.
Only those now extinct

remain upon display,
valued for their rarity,

their colors dimming
through the years,

a final testament
to their transience.

This is a stunning piece of flash fiction, a masterclass in how to encapsulate a good story, characterisation and emotion in just 750 words. Andrew W. McCollough PhD writes science, culture, science fiction, fantasy, and quirk. (Love the "quirk" bit.) He is published in Scientific American Mind, Nature, and other academic journals.


Moonshot
by Andrew W. McCollough

The night was beautiful bright the day Billy decided to go to the Moon. They laughed at him then, Pa, brothers, they laughed at him, only ten, to try, and locked him, stupid, outside till after dinner. 

They forgot well past. 

He watched, cold on the porch, he and stuffed Ruffy dog – Pa drunk, Ma sunk on the couch, brothers cuffed and cowed-watched through the smeared glass and waited, waited, waited. 
 
When midnight came he took the rusty lock-nail from Ruffy's torn paw, picked the kitchen door, and crept past the TV couch to his room for a last check of pinned plan, drawn on white sheets in crayon, his flying dream of wires and bobs, spinning knobs, wings and blimp and rocket ship for him and Ruffy dog to fly the high, aching way to the moon.

Tonight, tonight, after all the long summer of sneak and steal bottle rockets, balloons, windup balsa airplanes, mechanical flapping bird toys, the attic grandfather clock, his brother's electric train tracks, Pa's bedside alarm; of hide and build in the trash pit fort behind the garage, safe under loose tarps and strewn branches; of thought to concoct his magnificent flying machine.

A few odds and bits of things to finish – fish bowl, fresh battery, steel ball bearing plucked from Pa's garaged truck – then fit through the dog door to the covered pit. The almanac said tonight the supermoon, the moon's closest approach (no need making it harder than it was) so he with ball bearing in hand threw back the tarps and climbed aboard. 

She was a miracle of rare device, powered of clockworks, with gas bags, bits floating and whirling and chuckling, a battery hamster deep within the springs and cogs, winding madly. Wings wide, she crouched, wires taught, round glass sights sought and found the singing silver destination moon.

His alarm clock rang time and he dropped the steel ball bearing down the trigger track to tick, tack, tock all the flips and switches throughout the machine's twisty turns and convolutions. The ball shot out the bottom, red-hot from electric friction on the track and struck the warning bell.

The countdown started, each pendulum swing of round steel drop in the mahogany grandfather clock rigged to trip a single gong.

Bong! 10, 9, 8,  he worried most about speed, height, a fall back to earth, but the moon, The Moon, high and silver and clean called to him as no distant sea or far mountain top, he must go! 7, 6, 5, his Ma, brothers, Pa, on the couch in blue glow but he had his stolen sandwiches packed, his red rocket thermos bottle cocoa-filled, so he's fine, he's always been fine.

4, 3, 2, last chance to quit but he'd rather die than go back or look back and just see, over there THE MOON, bright and close and looming over the high-pitched roof beam and the silver highway beckoning for 1!

Ignition!

Sirens blared, bottle rockets flared, the house-lights full on and Pa running with his gun, brothers, Ma, blinking, stunned, all too late, too late! The springs sprung, pendulums swung, rubber bands wound tight, supercoiled, unspun and the great machine trembled, leaped, dove up up up into the blue-black, star-specked moon drowned sky bearing him and fuzzy-stuffed Ruffy dog in their oilskins and fishbowl helmets high high on wish and dream and hope to outrun all that down there.

But hope and wish and dream is no substitute for rocket science, or engineering, or the cold calculus of oxygen and temperature and speed. 

He flew high, higher than any ten year old boy in a home-built rocket ship had any right to fly and the worst was not to die but that they were right, in the end.

The brightness grew, the silver moon, and filled his eyes and throat and chest with the yearning of a dream, seen through thinning air, so clear, so close, too far. But there was not enough air in his leaking fishbowl helmet, though more air than down there, his warming blankets not thick enough, the cold too cold but not as cold as his narrow bed. Almost, his reach was, not enough, but further than ever before. 

When the ice silvered his eyes he was not discontent.

​So he died, just below the top of the sky, alone, in close company with all others who'd flown anyway, too early, too late, with no chance at all.

Time for some scifaiku and tanka now from Francis W. Alexander, Robert Shmigelsky, Brittany Hause, Herb Kauderer, and Denny E. Marshall. Their bios appear as closing credits.


time-lapse photography             
the bat’s graceful shapeshift                             
to a vampire                              

...Francis W. Alexander


space-time eddy
wormhole TV in the hands of
a channel clicker
 
...Robert Shmigelsky


field trip        

smoking phoenix nest
as we crowd around
my classmate picks his nose

...Brittany Hause


detour
 
Lunar cab driver
unintentionally hits
escape velocity
takes long route around L5
with his meter still running


Lost in Translation
 
Martian restaurants
named from Terran atlases
conjure atmosphere
but add no flavor to meals
of replicated proteins.

...Herb Kauderer


aliens approach
three body parts join and say
“we come in pieces”

time machine magazine
negative two day
response time

...Denny E. Marshall


The bios...

* Francis Wesley Alexander has had stories and poems published in Grievous Angel, The Martian Wave, Night to Dawn, Scifiakuest, Space and Time, The Drabbler Anthologies, and numerous other publications. 

* Robert Shmigelsky runs over all things in his mind. Some of it squeaks out as short poetry. And onto his Facebook account.

* Brittany Hause is a linguist with a lifelong love of science fiction and fantasy. When not wrapped up in research on language contact phenomena, she can usually be found reading and writing SFF poems and stories. She makes the occasional appearance on Twitter: @BrittanyHause. Her speculative poetry has most recently appeared in Star*Line and Grievous Angel and is forthcoming in Abyss & Apex, Scifaikuest, and Blossomry.

* Herb Kauderer is an associate professor at Hilbert College. He won the 2017 Asimov's Readers' Award for Best Poem, and has had 15 books and chapbooks published. More can be found at http://HerbKauderer.com

* Denny E. Marshall has had art, poetry, and fiction published. One recent credit is poetry in Weirdbook #37 Sept. 2017. See more at http://www.dennymarshall.com