A Massive Alligator
by Cause Bewilder
This week a massive alligator walked from pond to pond
across a coastal Carolina golf-course, light-green lawn.
He walked along the fairway while a crowd of deer kept watch,
his tail dragging baggily behind his clamped-shut jaw.
Quite leisurely he took his walk, his carcass twelve-feet long;
above him in the trees, birds chirped and squawked in lively song.
Up further north, near the Potomac, on another romp,
another hellbent alligator’s stomping through the swamp.
And round that ancient giant, anguished tweeting’s going on,
from pent-up, pent-house pensioners out to the Pentagon.
Cause Bewilder is a poet of the South. Early influences upon his writing include Harper Lee and William Faulkner. Although “Barn Burning” by William Faulkner is one of his favourite short stories, his favourite American short-story writer is Flannery O’Connor, the writer he wanted to dedicate these poems to, because her words help him to understand life’s extreme swings of fate & irony and the complete insanity of the World.
by Caud Sewer Bile
“The Donald looks like an up-side-down Donald Duck.”
—Scubie Dew Lear
Despite the constant negative covfefe of the Press,
the Pressident continues in his tweeting-speed-express.
He throws confetti to the maelstrom surrounding US,
and messages, like bits of m-y-l-a-r, trip-ple bounteous.
The Donald doesn’t like the coverage the Press gives him.
“No matter what they do to me, I will stand up to them.”
The mad kerfuffle sends the social media abuzz,
a coughing fit guffawing over one who is all thumbs.
At midnight when the spell goes off, and t-wits go on the fritz,
and the effects of c-o-f-f-e-e dissipate—covfefe hits.
Caud Sewer Bile is a poet who finds himself at ease in the new dispensations of alt-left, alt-right & ctrl+alt+del.
London: 3 June 2017
by Basil Drew Eceu
Oh, London, weep for thy pure innocents,
those slaughtered souls killed by the terrorists,
who have been murdered by knife-wielding wrists,
those worshippers of stone and wickedness.
Forget not in your books those witnesses
who faced such hatred and satanic fists,
whose only crime was but to coexist,
and long to live their lives in love and bliss.
Their fates now fill the social media;
their martyred blood’s recalled across the Net;
their living anguish is immediate,
their families and friends filled with regret.
Their names, in Time’s Encyclopædia—
Will we remember? Or will we forget?
Basil Drew Eceu stood upon Westminster Bridge and wrote a sonnet on it when he was in London. Although he is right-handed, when he was in London, for a month, he wrote only with his left hand, and was more content in the libraries and art galleries than in the hustle and bustle of the City.
by Ed Rubee Swical
“Lips that would kiss
Form prayers to broken stone.”
—T. S. Eliot, The Hollow Men
Appearing like a piece of lava, a deep, reddish brown,
approaching black, containing paler bits thrown all around.
It’s a fragmented dark rock, polished smooth by human hands.
It fell from heaven as a guide for Eve and Earth’s first man.
Irregular and oval with an undulated top,
o, many circle it, and try to kiss it on the spot;
though these days it’s enough to point your finger at the stone,
that is, just aiming at its general direction’s zone.
When Caliph Umar ibn al-Khattab approached this goal,
he said, “You are a stone, and cannot harm nor help a soul.
Ed Rubee Swical is a poet of geology. Raised on radio rock, Charles Lyell is the geologist who helped him understand the longevity of rocks, while Sisyphus helped him understand the hardness of rocks.