Hurricane Harvey: Late August, 2017
by E. Ducabe Wisler
“Pray for Texas.”
—Ubs Reece Idwal
The tropical cylone named Harvey plastered Houston’s plat,
gazillion gallons of rainwater in a constant splat;
the size of Harvey as immense as is Connecticut,
Rhode Island, Massachusetts, NYC and NJ’s jut;
a storm a bit like Galveston’s horrific hurricane,
America’s worst natural disaster e’er sustained;
and also like the flood of Noah, pounding Texas with
a huge deluge of biblical proportions passing myth;
once quiet streets becoming raging rivers overnight,
the widespread devastation blasting everything in sight.
E. Ducabe Wisler is a poet of Central South United States.
by Cadwel E. Bruise
It carries cars across the Charles River—Zakim Bridge—
in Boston, Massachusetts, tall inverted Ys that reach
some eighty meters high, with cable stays, like harp-stringed wires,
reminding me when letters beamed on greater Boston’s lyres:
like Holmes, Longfellow, Emerson, Thoreau, and Mother Goose,
like Hawthorne, Dickinson, Frost, cummings, Lowell, Doctor Seuss.
Gray lanes move myriads below its giant compasses
that mark the scenes of this American metropolis,
around where millions live and work out problems every day,
as well as travel there perhaps across this very way.
Cadwel E. Bruise is a poet of New England.
Waking Up to the Aeneid
by Aedile Cwerbus
An old man in Naselle will go to morning service, but
he’s thinking of Aeneas, while he is waking up.
The sky is white with clouds, as is the page he’s writing on;
outside the crows and robins have announced that it is dawn.
The Greeks and Romans now are overwhelmed by migrant mobs;
ten thousands from West Asia and North Africa want jobs.
But they would rather go beyond the Alps to Germany.
Not Dido’s love nor Turnus’ hate can halt their destiny.
Anchises died in Sicily; he didn’t get to Rome.
How many of those duty-bound will ever find a home?
Aedile Cwerbus is a poet of “Italiam fato profugus.” “Falling Asleep over the Aeneid” is a poem by Robert Lowell.
The Gorton’s Fisherman
by Ubs Reece Idwal
“I do my fishing at the supermarket.”
—Eb “Walrus” De Ice
Week in, week out, here in Astoria,
in Oregon, I do my weekly shop,
by barking seals on the Columbia,
near the Pacific Ocean—awrp, awrp, awrp.
Week in, week out, although I’ve never been
to Gloucester, Massachusetts, far away,
a little bit of it, amidst the din
of seagulls, comes to me each Saturday.
Week in, week out, behind glass frozen doors,
I see the bearded Gorton’s fisherman
in shiny yellow hat and slicker—scores
of packages; arranged in tiers, they span.
I pull the handle back and fish the spread;
it breaks like the Atlantic on my head.
Ubs Reece Idwal is a poet of the Pacific Northwest.
by I Warble Seduce
Your eyes are deep, pools of love, living life alive, almost,
I might say, pure springs, dreamy circles to another world,
unknown, unfathomable, miracles of perception.
but hold, let Me not get too carried away by your gaze,
or I won’t get anywhere. I mean, eyes are only eyes;
and if I go ranting and raving about your damn eyes,
You may wonder what hole I recently crawled up out of.
So, to be brief, your eyes ain’t like the Sun, and in the rain
your mascara falls in thin brown streams, ugly muddy streets
that beckon beautif’lly to the deepest pool of all, love’s.
I Warble Seduce is a poet of love.
by “Bad” Weslie Ecru
Young Ernest Hemingway grew up in Oak Park, Illinois,
and after high school in The Kansas City Star’s employ.
He drove an ambulance in World War I’s horrific drear,
receiving there a wound that sent him home within the year.
In Paris, as a foreign correspondent, he joined with
the Modernist lost generation, drunken, damned misfits.
He married, then divorced, off to the Spanish Civil War,
the journalist now kept his copy hot for some years more.
In World War II in London he met his fourth wife to be,
accompanying troops who hit the shores of Normandy.
He won the Pulitzer, and then the Nobel Prize, as well,
while two plane crashes left him injured and in mental hell.
He loved leaves floating yellow on the trout streams in the Fall,
and then, behind, in Ketchum, Idaho, he left it all.
“Bad” Weslie Ecru is a poet whose heart is near and dear to Chicago, a light shade of pale “Bad” Leroy Brown. Like Carl Sandburg, he is proud of Chicago, but he doesn’t like the gangs on the street or the crew at Poetry, the magazine located there. Literary critic Lew Icarus Bede, in a moment of pique, has called him “cantankerous,” whereas Cale Budweiser, more bluntly, has called him a “jackass jerk-off.”