by “Wired Clues” Abe
Beyond swishing winds
and a distant revved-up car,
a lone rooster crows.
by “Wired Clues” Abe
Beneath passing clouds,
a man in a recliner
feels the fresh, brisk wind.
“Wired Clues” Abe is a poet of New Millennial landscapes.
Meditation in A-Flat
by Sri Wele Cebuda
He got into the lotus pose, beside the potted plant.
It was so tall and straight and green, its leaves so elegant.
He lifted up his head above his torso and his thighs.
He turned his head, and took a deep, long breath, then closed his eyes.
He dreamed he was upon a cliff that overlooked the sea.
He felt as if he were swept up into eternity.
He warmed himself beside the mantle, flickering the fire.
He dreamed he reached nirvana in a freeing of desire.
He turned to look back, turned to look back, at his passing past;
but when he felt its presence present, knew it couldn’t last.
He felt the future in the instant, in that glowing light,
so soft and tan, o, roseate, so pale, pink and white.
And then he opened up his eyes back to reality..
He had achieved a kind of stasis kinesthetic’lly,
embracing bracing harsh existence with a touch of class,
appalled at all he’d left behind, and also sad, alas.
He Sought a Place
Sri Wele Cebuda
He got into the lotus pose upon the dark couch pads.
He looked distraught and distant, in black tee and blue jeans clad.
He closed his eyes, but opened up his inner eye to peace.
He sought a place to rest his head, from which desire would cease.
He saw a red-or’nge pillow and a light-green piece of cloth
He rode a magic carpet over lavender and froth.
O, how he longed to be both satisfied and yet intense,
to be released from love and passion yet still be quite dense.
He wondered if there was a way to be alert and strong,
and yet content to be right where he was and be there long.
Sri Wele Cebuda is a poet of meditation.
by Waldeci Erebus
“The further one goes, the better the land seems.”
—Leo Tolstoy, “How Much Land Does a Man Need”
While even going for a walk along a stream or street,
the people practice social distancing—at least six feet.
The new corona virus has a populace on edge,
who travel to the edges, to the curb or to the sedge,
when they are passing passersby, avoiding contact with
a possible contaminant, they try to keep that width.
And though six feet seem not enough, when passing by those who
are coughing and/or sneezing. Good Lord! Give them lots of room!
But six feet does suffice, for social distancing, to keep
one safe from all humanity, when one is six feet deep.
Waldeci Erebus is a poet of the dark. Leo Tolstoy (1928-1910) was a Russian Realist novelist and short story writer.
The Pedestrian AD 2020
by AI Welder, “Cubes”
To enter out into the city in the early morn,
to put his feet upon the concrete—not at all forlorn—
to pass the houses’ grassy lawns that open to a field,
that is one thing he loved, to which he willingly would yield.
This was a brave new world, each day itself a brave new day.
He was alone. This was the world of 2020: May.
He stood upon the corner of an intersecting road
and peered down to as far as he could see the Sun explode
into his eyes, through cloudless skies, so blinding, blazing, bright,
amazing in its miracle of life-promoting light.
Sometimes he would walk miles, before returning to his house,
past many houses just like his, no matter what his route.
The modest houses made of brick all shuttered from the Sun,
appearing as if there behind their walls there was no one.
Occasionally he would hear a dog behind a fence,
that as his feet approached its yard, its barking would commence.
But people hid inside, or in a passing vehicle,
and strangely seemed to be entirely invisible,
not like a graveyard, rather like a sci-fi zombie glen,
apocalyptic, antiseptic, and distopian.
Cladú Barese We would often pause upon his trips.
He’d cock his head, he’d look and listen, hands upon his hips.
And then begin again to march along the smooth sidewalks,
quite silent in the emptiness that round his journeys stalked.
The air was fresh; he took deep breaths; he felt all he could feel,
like musty smells from picking up a flower, twig, or leaf.
He didn’t wear a watch; his pockets held his phone and keys;
he didn’t care what people watched beyond the lawns and trees.
He followed the cement, the walks, the roads, the paths, the trails.
occasionally on the grass or dirt, green, tan, or pale.
He saw a distant highway pass at the horizon’s edge..
He heard its loud cacaphony, near bird, bush and/or hedge.
It was so loud, like constant thunder from a lightning storm,
continual the jockeying, the roaring motor swarm.
From there he’d turn back to his emptiness and solitude.,
No one would call to him at all within his neghbourhood.
Perhaps he’d hear above the birds metallic voices call,
from radio or monitor, inchoate noises all.
There were no voices questioning what he was doing there;
for this was the new normal, social distancing not rare.
AI Welder, “Cubes” is a robot of the future, Cladú Barese We is an alien on planet Earth. This poem draws from Ray Bradbury (1920-2012)
The Wonder of Space-Time
by Ira “Dweeb” Scule
He stood tip-toe upon wood floor, but bending at the knees.
He stood beside the off-white chair. O, there was little breeze;
and yet he felt invigourated; time was on the run.
he felt so good to be there in that artificial sun.
He tried to grasp the wonder of space-time as it passed by,
although above him was a ceiling, sealing off the sky.
His spine was curved, he was unnerved, and then he swerved a bit.
He was so glad to be enrapt within the minite lit.
He looked off to the left, as he climbed up the edict’s day,
exploding into flaming zeal, in a phoenix blaze.
Ira “Dweeb” Scule is a poet of science.
by “Wild” E. S. Bucaree
He held his gun up to his left, but turned his head off right;
he had been taken by surprise by a disturbing sight.
He saw a holstered man whose gun was hanging at his side.
It looked like it was cocked. He wondered what he would decide.
He gazed intently at the man’s hands on his holster belt.
He wondered what would happen next. It could be bad he felt.
He gazed upon his uniform. It was a khaki tan.
He longed to not remain right there. He didn’t trust the man.
His lip rose up, he held his stare. He was prepared to act.
He merely had to wait until he had to face the fact.
“Wild” E. S. Bucaree is a poet of the West.
A Sign: West 9
by Red Was Iceblue
Behind the wooden-slat, cast iron bench,
beside the gray skyscraper’s giant vent,
within the narrow niche, an urban trench,
upon the gray sidewalk and concrete dent,
there is a sign: West 9, and something else,
that seems to point out nothing to no one.
Devoid of anyone; it’s a hard sell,
but is pristine, and clean, lit by the sun.
It’s like those photorealist landscapes,
minimalist, objective and abstract;
from its flat surface there is no escape,
before its stone-like-block foundation’s fact.
The arrow at the bottom of the sign
is pointing up, hence forward, here confined.
Red Was Iceblue is a poet of Modernist, Postmodernist, and New Millennial art.
The Eagle on a Flag Pole Top
by E. Birdcaws Eule
Upon a flag pole, I saw a bald eagle perching there.
There was no flag, but only him, up high, still in the air.
His wings went back, occasionally balancing himself,
as if he were an open book at the edge of a shelf.
I wondered how he’d gotten there, how long would he stay,
what was his purpose being there, when would he fly away.
The flag pole rope would ping itself against the hollow tube,
made of aluminum, a sunlit, grayish-silver blue.
And then he spread his wings out wide, prepared for his dismount,
and in a flurry, fluttering, flew off, a living crown.
E. Birdcaws Eule is a poet of birds.