by “Wired Clues” Abe
The dragonfly flies,
menacingly, eating bugs,
beneath a huge jet.
“Wired Clues” Abe is a NewMillennial haiku poet.
by R. Lee Ubicwedas
Tyrannosaurus Rex, on land mass Laramidia,
lived on that island continent, west North America,
o’er sixty million years ago in the Cretaceous Age,
before KT Extinction, dinosaurs sent from the Stage.
A centimeter layer of iridium-rich clay,
about the same time they died out on Earth was on display,
discovered by the Alvarezes’ meteoric guess,
once disregarded, came to be the strong hypothesis.
Discovered later was the bolide impact on the globe,
a crater off of Yucatán i’ th’ Gulf of Mexico.
R. Lee Ubicwedas is a poet of ubiquity. Luis Alvarez (1911-1988) was a noted American experimental physicist known for a wide array of discoveries, and his son Walter Alvarez is a noted contemporary geologist.
To Chase Away the Gloom
by Sri Wele Cebuda
He got into the lotus pose on the black-leather couch.
He sat upon its cushions, bony legs and knees spread out.
His feet were placed together; and his arms were down, but tight.
He raised his head and spine up high; he turned off to the right.
He opened up his inner eye, he sought to see new things,
from sweetest oozings to calm soothings, fine imaginings.
He meditated on his situation—Was it dire?
He felt like as a burning man, his heart and soul on fire.
What was this place that he had come to in this awesome gulf?
He wondered what he could achieve within the cosmic flux.
He had a mental picture of a silver waterfall
that slowly fell, but to dispel the bile in his gall.
He longed to be…content, ah, yes. Why must he work so hard?
What was the purpose of continually being charred?
He did not know how long he could hold up against the wrong,
reflecting love within his lungs, his breathing deep and strong.
Ah, yet, he kept on ruminating in his darkened room;
although he had but little light to chase away the gloom.
by Sri Wele Cebuda
The speculations of the Indian
forest sages about the world system,
the Upanishads, were far more brooding
to Tagore than the Rigveda hymns.
In them a questioning spirit into
the troubling problems of reality
lies with the search for the atman, the true
world soul behind phenomenality.
Out of these discussions in the forest,
which Tagore thought too intellectual,
the Upanishads grew to a chorus
of rich thought, textured and contextual,
until it met with a lordly new song,
that one between Krishna and Arjuna.
Sri Wele Cebuda is a poet of yoga. Rabindranath Tagore (1861-1941) was a Modernist Bengali poet.
Since Russia’s war against Ukraine began five months ago,
the Saudis have increased imports of cheaper Russian oil;
so they can sell their more expensive stocks across the Globe,
but let their people pay for cheaper Russian oil spoils.
This way they do not have to pump more oil from the Earth.
Behind closed doors, Joe Biden’s trip was seen with fiendish mirth.
by Ewald E. Eisbruc
Bach’s inventiveness, in even just one
harpsichord partita, is amazing.
There’s an incredible combustion
within each movement, and in his phrasing.
You can’t be sure where you’ll end up going:
upwards or downwards, backwards or forwards,
or possibly right back where you started.
What you are sure of is you’ve been flowing,
much like the motion found in our rivers;
and you aren’t where you were when you parted.
Allemande, courante, sarabande, and gigue
and all the pieces around and between!
The only thing that makes one feel fatigue
is the variety flying, freeing.
by Ewald E. Eisbruc
Coffee was popular in Leibzig, Germany,
in th’ early decades of the 18th century,
when Picander in humorous, satiric talk,
wrote a libretto liked by coffee-drinking Bach,
who made a percolating cantata guffaw,
in form like an Italian opera buffa.
Ewald E. Eisbruc is a poet of music. Johann Sebastian Bach (1685-1750) was a Baroque German composer; Christian Picander (1700-1764) was a Baroque German poet and librettist. Leibzig is a city in Saxony, Germany, of approximately 600,000.
In the City’s Towering
by Urbawel Cidese
He saw high-rising buildings, shining in the blinding Sun,
skyscrapers in the City’s towering, a growing Us.
He saw the windows, silvery and glittering above,
like as a filtering of love, a rocky cave or vug.
He saw the panorama of the City’s spreading range,
a gorgeous sirl of ecstasy within life’s swirling change.
He was entranced by its odd shape, rectangular and swole,
like as a bedouin who came upon a water hole,
a fine oasis in the desert one longed to stay at,
a place, a space, where one was quite content to have there sat.
Urbawel Cidese is a poet of urban spaces.
by Walice du Beers
Complexities of dogtags, socks and shades in early morn;
strawberries, cups of coffee, freedom from the ordinorm,
a gecko lying on the patio, still as a corpse,
in khaki shorts, worn at the waist, the cubehead turns absorbed;
the holy hush of ancient sacrifice there echoing,
and beckoning, out in the air, its heckling reckoning.
He dreams of that catastrophe. He should be glad if he
could find again that misery in vast eternity.
Like as a blonde assassin lounging in the Metroplex,
he flexed his muscles, satisfied, there at the apex, ho,
sunglasses covering his eyes, abhoring his hard work.
O, how could he be glad? It was not fun to jolt and jerk.
Walice du Beers is a poet of poésophy. According to Beau Lecsi Werd, the neologism “ordinorm” is a blend contextually grasped, as is pooéophy and poésopher. Wallace Stevens (1879-1955) was an American Modernist poésopher.
A Whale’s Tale
by W. S. “Eel” Bericuda
On Sunday, off the Massachusetts coast, near White Horse Beach,
a humpback crashed onto a 19-footer’s utter reach.
The whale breached and landed on the small boat’s shiny bow,
submerging it, though briefly, from its stern to concave prow.
It seems the both were seeking baitfish in the waters there,
when up the whale came, and sailed briskly through the air.
It was insane. The boat went freaking flying, crazily.
The guy was in the wrong place at the wrong time. That is all.
Though it was nuts in Plymouth, Massachusetts, off the shore;
it was unlike Mayflowers’s trip four hundred years ago.
W. S. “Eel” Bericuda is a poet of whales. His favourite novel is “Moby Dick” by American writer Herman Melville (1819-1891).
In Hamden, in Connecticut, in a bus-parking lot,
a fiery blaze engulfed a transit bus. It was so hot.
Firefighters let th’ electric vehicle burn to a crisp;
since fires with lithium ion batteries are hard to stop.
The fleet of the electric buses, pulled from service fast,
has been replaced with diesel buses to keep riders safe.
Hamden, Connecticut, is a city of around 60,000. Diesel prices in the USA remain over $5.00 a gallon, keeping transportation costs of food high.
Keeping Carbs Down
by Carb Deliseuwe
Is insulin resistance ameliorated by
the eating fewer carbs within one’s dietary bite,
and thus decrease diseases one may get as one might age,
with ketogenic focus followed by the modern sage?
A Modest Lunch
by Carb Deliseuwe
Though a ham sandwich and a three bean salad
with a pomegranate cranberry drink
may seem a very modest lunch indeed;
when seen in the light of summer, I think,
it equals the luncheons of the grand dukes.
Shiny, white onion slices and bright red
pepper pieces, glistening in the bowl,
take one to the time of powdered perukes.
About small things one can be excited,
if one’s hungry, or happy in one’s soul.
So, the next time one dreams of living as
though one was rich, remember, it isn’t
just how much wealth or property one has
but really how one appreciates it.
Carb Deliseuwe is a poet of food.
Food prices in the World have risen twenty-plus percent
from just one year ago, they’re on a rising-line ascent.
This planet’s people now are feeling pain at pump and shop;
food, fuel, pesticide, and fertilizer stores have dropped.
by Cawb Edius Reel
He saw the picture on the wall, beside the door and drapes.
It was a lively mixture of design and coloured shapes.
It was a gorgeous combination, intricate and plain;
a vertical ran through the middle of the lovely frame.
It seemed as if a person was relying on the floor,
and there desiring to escape the thing he did abhor,
pursued by someone, near the chair where long, beige drapes were drawn,
and wrangling with a heavy, winding snake-like, writhing con.
Here was no happiness, but only hard-core irate looks;
imagination taking on reality’s wild crooks.
Was this an execution chamber—this facility
within these prison walls of maximum security?
Cawb Edius Reel is a poet of photography.
The US Federal Reserve raised rates again this week,
while White House figures redefined recession tongue in cheek.
The Ordinary Clerk
by Des Wercebauli
He poured a cup of coffee, just before he started work;
he was low-level and, indeed, an ordinary clerk.
He sat beside the monitor of his computer screen,
prepared to do the chores he needed to…see to…have seen.
His office was a mix of bright and shade, of focused minds,
the light shined from the window and the shadows from the blinds.
He concentrated hard upon the pressing tax at hand;
he loved the way his boss assigned tasks, but…did not command.
He pushed himself, accomplishing all that his body could,
and took another sip of coffee. It was very good.
His head bent down, absorbed in chores, beside shelves on the wall,
he didn’t notice anything that was not protocol.
Des Wercebauli is a poet of labour.