Anecdote of the Drink
by Drew U. A. Eclibse
He placed a spoon of Tang into a glass upon the Moon;
and though it was not very healthy, he called it a boon.
He loved his space suit—it was so good—though it got quite hot;
but he felt safe, like as he was a NASA astronaut.
Though danger rearranged itself around him standing there,
who weighed 11.1 kg out in that air
of hydrogen and helium, methane, ammonia,
of argon, neon, carbon, oxides, and aluminum.
If only he could have a cup of coffee with some cream,
then he would be more satisfied, and o, not be so mean.
Drew U. A. Eclibse is a poet of the Moon.
So Many Voices
by I Warble Seduce
There are so many voices in the modern world,
it’s hard not to be overwhelmed by their display.
In olden days there weren’t as many people swirled
together on this planet whirling on its way;
so it was easier to differentiate
between competing voices and what they had to say.
But now, it’s trying, first, to carry all that freight,
and second, simultaneously speak out too.
It’s hard to heed the thousands when the billions prate.
Somehow one has to make sense o’ th’ hullaballoo,
and then deal with it all no matter what is hurled,
to find good principles, then hold them fast, like glue.
I Warble Seduce is a poet of voice.
by “Clear Dew” Ibuse
Lavender and gold,
the woody roadside aster,
takes the lawns by storm.
“Clear Dew” Ibuse is a poet of haiku.
by “Wired Clues” Abe
It rises nine feet,
that pre-lit, inflatable,
“Wired Clues” Abe is a poet using Japanese forms united with technology.
He Sat Upon a Chair
by Sri Wele Cebuda
He sat upon a chair. O, he was taken, yes, aback.
He was not then expecting that, as he was dressed in black.
He lifted up his head and shoulders, sitting at that spot.
He closed his outer eyes. He thought the temper’ture was hot.
He opened up his inner eye, but could he penetrate
the cosmic mysteries. O, Lord, he tried to meditate.
He did not want to lose control. He tensed up just the same.
He did his best to rise up to th’ occasion as it came.
He didn’t really know exactly just where he was at,
and yet he stayed there, staid upon the flat, gray slats, and pat.
by Sri Wele Cebuda
He lit two sacrificial candles in a drop-net pouch.
He got into the lotus pose upon the dark-hued couch.
He shaved his head, like as a Buddhist monk free from desire,
so he could meditate on Agni, ignit god of fire.
He saw Him riding on a goat that purifying god.
He raised his spine to the divine. O, Lord, the man was awed.
He felt, like as his flesh was guggul, and his bones were pines,
his semen gold and silver, and his blood, ores from the mines.
But over time, his standing as a god diminishes.
O, even the long text “Mahabharata” finishes.
Sri Wele Cebuda is a poet of meditation.
by Abdul Serecewi
For dancing in the alleys with no hijab on one’s head,
for sisters free from terror, for the many who are dead,
for dumpster-diving children in the streets, in poverty,
for millions in this dictatorial economy,
for innocent, illegal dogs and changing rusted minds,
for wishing one could simply be without the need for blinds,
for peaceful feelings, sunny days, long after lengthy nights,
for Shervin Hajipour, because of what he sings and writes,
for freedom from insomnia, pills, and anxiety,
for women, life and liberty, for Mahsa Amini.
Abdul Serecewi is a poet of Iran. Shervin Hajipour is a contemporary Iranian singer. Mahsa Amini (1999-2022) was beaten to death by an Iranian policeman. Ashli Babbitt (1985-1921) was shot to death by a US Capitol policeman while trying to climb through a shattered window.
by R. Lee Ubicwedas
He wasn’t happy where he was, and yet, where could he go
that he could be content and free, alive to life’s grand show?
He found himself plagued by the shelves of books around his seat.
The voyages each one had taken pestered with its tease.
Society had placed them on a pedestal of sorts,
as if they were spectacular, of quartz and marble tors.
He held his torso up, his red eyes searching for some peace.
But wars were everywhere he looked. O, would they never cease?
He stared at where he was, and wished he could be somewhere else.
But this is where he was, and he must stay this day. Hell’s bells.
He Went to Bed
by R. Lee Ubicwedas
He wasn’t very happy at the time he went to bed.
He had forgotten he still had a hat upon his head.
There was a zig-zag pattern on the pillows, beige and tan,
as he stretched out upon the light-brown blanket’s smooth, flat span.
He looked back on his lengthy day. He thought about his life.
He wanted to file it away, along with strength and strife.
He wondered what awaited for him in his future daze;
but then he let such thoughts, as that, go off into time’s haze.
Perhaps he could find consolation in someone’s embrace,
but if so, it would only be a momentary grace.
R. Lee Ubicwedas is a poet of Ubiquity.
He Longs to Flee
by Crise de Abu Wel
He longs to flee, but whither can he go? He is like as a rat caught in a trap; he only wants to leave, but doesn’t know which way would be the best, where no mishap awaits behind the closest corner’s edge. He wants to flee, because to him it seems, not that he walks along some lofty ledge, but only that he ‘s lost his liberty. He yields to those suggestions, which appear so nice, but cut into his freedom’s range. It is this slow erosion that he fears, that makes him feel unhappy, dreadful, strange. He only wishes he did not feel this. Is this how Jesus felt at Judas’ kiss?
Crise de Abu Wel is a poet of the Christ. This prose-poem is a nonset, as is the following “Tacoma Narrows Bridge”.
The Kerch Strait Bridge
by Alec Subre Wide
How beautiful its four-lane road and railway double-track,
that crosses from peninsulas from East to West and back,
connecting Russia to Crimea, the long Kerch Strait Bridge,
that slightly winds across the water past the Tuzla Spit.
And yet, it has an ugliness as well—that lengthy span—
built by Stroygazmontazh, abusing land owned by Ukraine.
Put in by ruthless tyranny, that worships at the door,
of horror, war, and so much more, adoring power’s core.
But then, on Saturday a truck blew up on west-bound lanes,
igniting seven fuel tanks that travelled in a train,
and also, yes, collapsing part of the road carriageway
into the Strait below—the blast destroying its dis-play.
Tacoma Narrows Bridge
by Alec Subre Wide
Tacoma Narrows Bridge, which opened in July of 1940, was the most slender suspension bridge constructed yet, back then. Oh, a mere eight feet was the plate girder that supported the deck. It had a span of 2800 feet, but not much cross bracing. Immediately it became Galloping Gertie, quite quickly began to sway back and forth at the wind’s slightest touch, this sleek bridge designed by Leon Moisseiff. It didn’t last long; for vibrating twists from a swift gust ripped it apart, and down it went into the Puget Sound. It split and crashed into the water with a swound.
Alec Subre Wide is a poet of bridges. He admires the hybrid, modernistic epic, “The Bridge” by Modernist American Hart Crane (1899-1932). According to Beau Lecsi Werd, “swound” is an archaic word meaning swoon. Leon Moisseiff (1872-1943) was an American Modernist engineer.
by Radice Lebewsu
Th’ Ukrainian was dressed in camo, crawling through the brush,
the light-green splotches, dark green blotches, speckled in the shrubs.
His black boots covered with tan dirt, his body odor smell;
he was an active soldier readied for a mortar shell.
It didn’t matter that he wore a wrist band or a ring.
He didn’t need to tell the time, o, hardly anything.
But he kept moving on his hands and knees out in that rough;
to face the coming enemy, he needed to be tough.
He simply had to keep on going round about the bend;
there was no one who cared what happened to him in the end.
Radice Lebewsu is a poet of Ukraine.
At the Göttingen Station
by Uwe Carl Diebes
“Die Stadt, die Wissenschaft”
I saw him standing near the landing in the autumn sun.
His cheeks were glowing on the stairs there at the bottom, wrung.
He waited at the platform for th’ expectant train to come.
He hoped the recent strike would not disrupt…o, what a bum…
The workers had upset the schedules with their new demands
of higher wages, unemployment, laying on of hands.
Commuters often were at whims of rail-working folk;
they could be stuck for hours at some spots…hey, what a poke.
He gazed off to the right for the arrival of the train;
but then it came, and he was ready to proceed again.
Uwe Carl Diebes is a poet of Germany. Göttingen is a city in central Germany of around 115,000.
World Mental Health Day
by Dr. Weslie Ubeca
The overall objective of World Mental Health Day is
to raise awareness of the issues people have to face.
It is an opportunity for all stakeholders to
be frank about the work they do, and share their points of view.
They long to coach their fellow sufferers o’erwhelmed with pain,
to make them feel loved and sane, to free the o’erwrought brain,
to help renew their sense of purpose, when they’ve gone too far,
to make them feel content and happy anywhere they are,
to help them comprehand there always will be struggles, and
to help them feel that that’s okay, to help them understand.
Dr. Weslie Ubeca, not a medical doctor, is a poet of healing. October 10 is World Mental Health Day. This week, intolerant Californians made it illegal for doctors to disagree with politicians; they want to gag doctors, nurses, and other medical personnel, who do not tow state mandates. However, PayPal’s own “misinformation” censorship scheme backfired, after people began dumping it.
The Land Owner
by Caleb Wuri Seed
So happy is the business bloke,
who, like the uncorrupted folk,
is free from owing others cow;
he owns the land his oxen plow.
He doesn’t have a soldier’s arms,
nor does he dread the sea’s alarms.
He keeps away from forum forms
and suits that stir up sewer storms.
He marries climbing vines with elms,
thinned, trimmed by lofty poplar realms.
He oversees the valley herds
that roam about as free as birds.
Caleb Wuri Seed is a poet of farmers and farms. This draws from the Roman Golden Age lyricist Quintus Horatius Flaccus (65 BC – 8 BC).
The Clerk at Work
by Brad Lee Suciew
He sat up at the desk before the compu-monitor,
alert and focused there upon his PC Lenovo.
Politic’lly not incorrect, but awkward just the same,
He needed to type words and letters, and take better aim.
He had to be prepared and ready early in the morn.
He stretched his spine up at the desk, in his gray uniform.
He could not shirk, he had to perk up; he should not be irked.
Within the windowless, gray walls, that secretary, worked.
He worked till evening came at last, his black boots left the floor;
behind him was the desk, o, yes, in front of him the door.
Brad Lee Suciew is a poet of business.
That Evening Sun
by “Wild” E. S. Bucaree
“I hate to see that evening sun go down.”
—W. C. Handy, “Saint Louis Blues”
That evening sun was setting in the west, an orange gold.
He looked upon the far horizon, in an amber glow.
His halo was the light upon his torso, nothing more.
He wasn’t wholly holy, but he was one to abhor.
He was no gold prospector hoping for a yellow pan.
He was no sheriff who had come to help his fellow man.
He was a traveller of valleys, grassy knolls and hills.
He was content with little pleasures, even in his thrills.
But he could stand up tall when needed in some horrid play,
and give as good as he received, to hold all hell at bay.
“Wild” E. S. Bucaree is a poet of the South. William Christopher Handy (1873-1958) was a Modernist American composer and musician.
That Training Dude
by Rudi E. Welec, “Abs”
A dude was training, straining, at the gym, o, panting hard.
his left hard landing on the punching bag, his body jarred.
The bag was black, his shirt was blue, he did his best to stand.
Nearby another man was working out with steady hand.
The straining dude was stoic, knowing this was good for him;
it strenthened him, and that was why he was there at the gym.
He kept it up, the constant exercising…self control…
lest he be overwhelmed by an emotion on a roll.
He saw the black and silver dumbbells stacked up at his left,
his power was configured to deliver greatest heft.
He thought it was important to last as long as he could,
and wondered just how much he could endure—that training dude.
by Rudi E. Welec, “Abs”
He was so tired, he retired to his couch to rest.
He had fast walked around the block. Was it ten thousand steps?
He kicked back on the sofa, leaning gladly on its poof.
He lifted up each foot, and crossed them underneath the roof.
The fan was whirring round and cooling him down with its breeze.
He longed to have a cup of coffee, with cream, yes, o, please.
Within that dim-lit room, he wanted so to say ‘Good night’.
He saw the rich dark-brown and wooden shutter-blinds closed tight.
And then he slowly fell asleep, and dropped in to a dream,
where he was walking quickly through a flower-laden mead.
by Rudi E. Welec, “Abs”
He went out for a morning run, in red athletic shoes.
The day was beautiful, so gorgeous. O, those lovely blues.
He kept on running, running, running, in the sunniness.
O, how he loved step after step. To him it was the best.
He felt so blessed to be out running in that gorgeous light,
yes, climbing hills, by winding rills. He did not feel tight.
Although it took a lot of energy, he kept it up.
It made him happy pounding pavement, pump, pump, pump,
He did not do it for his health, or have a better mood.
Adrenaline-propelled he simply ran, and it was good.
He didn’t try to boost his serotonin levels or
his dopamine, endorphins—no—he simply had to go.
Rudi E. Welec, “Abs” is a poet of walking and running.
by Reid Wes Cuebal
He wanted to play pool upon the top floor of the house.
The green felt table on the beige rug, barely any sound.
He took the cue and racked the balls in the triangle spot.
His lips were tight, as he got ready for the open shot.
The balls were scattered all about. He chalked his cue stick good.
Above him on the ceiling were the cross beams made of wood.
He concentrated on each shot he took so carefully.
He wanted each shot to be firm, and not so airily.
He leaned upon the table. He was not delirious.
Though it was just a game, he took it very serious.
And he was quite content; when it was over, he was done;
and he could go on with his business, since he’d had some fun.
Reid Wes Cuebal is a poet of billiards, etc.