by I. E. Sbace Weruld
The Big Bear, Ursa Major, sits before his eyes,
and rises on the north horizon, grand and vast.
The portion making up its hips and tail lies
within—Big Dipper in its constellation cast.
One wonders just how long it is…its form will last;
and though they’re faint, one sees its legs and dim-lit claws.
Its beauty is magnificent, majestical;
although like any diamond setting it has flaws;
and in reality does not exist at all.
However, in eternity’s nocturnal skies,
it still is awesome looking on its mighty size;
though it’s not still, nor is it in, some Kaiser’s psych or prize.
Mr. I. E. Sbace World is a poet of outer and inner space.
by “Clear Dew” Ibuse
Even white blossoms
of sweet-smelling crepe-myrtle
need to be cut back.
“Clear Dew” Ibuse is a haikuist.
by “Wired Clues” Abe
Once upon a time,
he saw a giant jet-plane
above the sidewalks.
by “Wired Clues” Abe
The infact walks on
the thin, wood, transition strip—
a balancing act.
“Wired Clues” Abe is a NewMillennial haiku writer.
The Glare So Fierce
by Ra Bué Weel Disc
The glare so fierce, its blinding curse pierced eyes within its aim;
with visor down and out-stretched hand, he faced the blazing flame.
Fazed by the Sun’s great radiance, dazed by the new day’s glaze,
he did his best to drive the highways through that eastern gaze.
It wasn’t easy, but he kept on going just the same.
although he felt like as a blind mouse in a solar maze.
He wanted so to close his eyes, but he could not do that,
as he was flying down the golden-trailed gray cement.
At last he reached the turn-off ramp. He had a chance to be
free from the nuclear horizon’s animosity.
Ra Bué Weel Disc is a poet of the Sun.
Who’s going to Scarborough Shoal in the South China Sea?
Sage, parsley, thyme, rosemary and…th’ Imperial Chinese,
who had placed recently a long ball-buoy barrier,
o-u-t-s-t-r-e-t-c-h-e-d three-hundred meters, made up as a harrier;
at which the Philippines expressed outrage and had removed;
the floating cordon posed a hazard and was not approved.
A Kiwi For J. R. R. Tolkien
by Eric Awl de Beus
New Zealand is a perfect place to place a town,
like Hobbiton, that only lives inside a man
who has been dead for years. It’s quaint, and soft, like down,
but also is spectacular and hard and grand.
Its snowy peaks jut high in bright blue skies, while vast
Australia burns, an empty heart bound in by sand.
Out of tectonic crashing plates, New Zealand’s cast,
a gorgeous jewel at the bottom of the World,
where glittering cascading cataracts fall past
cliffs shorn from rock, and cities, like Aukland, Christchurch,
Tauranga, Whangerai, like Nelson, Hamilton,
and Wellington, hold millions nigh in Middle-Earth.
Eric Awl de Beus is a poet of New Zealand. J. R. R. Tolkien (1893-1973) was a Modernist British proset, author of “The Hobbit”, etc. New Zealand cities with their approximate populations follow: Aukland, 1,400,000; Christchurch, 375,000; Tauranga, 150,000; Whangerai, 50,000; Nelson, 50,000; Hamilton, 175,000; and the southernmost capital of the World, Wellington metro, 425,000.
A Pair of Ragged Claws
by Lee du Crab Siew
He should have been a pair of ragged claws
that scuttle cross the floors of silent seas,
because no one cared what he said at all,
because no one cared if he lived or ceased.
Lee du Crab Siew is a poet of the sea view of Singapore and the surrounding areas.
While killing off Ukrainians, Vladimir Putin got
caught letting Azurbaijans crush Nagorno-Karabach.
The persecution of Armenians continues on,
supported by the likes of Turkey’s Recep Erdoğan.
The Burj Khalifa
by Arcideb Usewel
The Burj Khalifa is the tallest building in the World, rising twenty-seven-hundred feet above Dubai, into the sky, a shiny tin-like brilliant spiral minaret of stainless steel, finned, textured, spandrel panels, and aluminum; th’ exterior used cladding to withstand the heat. A quarter-of-a-million gallons flush its plumb diurnally. Outside, below, its fountains’ jets shoot streams of water to Bassbor Al Fourgakom and many other songs. An observation deck on the 124th floor shows the jin, a miracle of oily cash-splashed derrick nets.
Arcideb Usewel is a poet of archistructures. The above prosem mentions Dubai, located in the United Arab Emirates, which has a population of around 3,500,000.
Despite the orange paint thrown at the Berlin Marathon,
by activists who do not want the runners to go on,
from Kenya, Eliud Kipchoga took the men’s first place,
and Ethiopia’s Tigist Assefa, won her race.
by Bud “Weasel” Rice
Despite the eagle, lynx, coyote, wolf and man,
the fox continues on across America,
both red and gray varieties, does what it can
to stay alive on rabbits, rodents, chicks or ducks.
It even feeds on crickets and grasshoppers, yes.
The fox is famous for its cunning. Shunning traps
and chasing hounds, it knows to break its line of scent,
backtracking on its trail; when running, goes so fast,
it’s hardly ever caught if it’s experienced.
The young are speedy demons; clever old ones last.
The fox will even follow streams if needed; and
it’s difficult to see when it is going…passed.
Bud “Weasel” Rice is a poet of animals. One of his favourite songs is the 2009 hit “What does the Fox Say?” by the Norwegian duo Ylvis.
Norwegian Air Force pilots landed two F-35s
upon a Finnish highway, and they managed to survive.
The giant fighter jet with engines running and bejeweled,
took off again…right after it was then hot-pit refueled.
The Demise of Crack Reporter Dorothy Kilgallen
by Caud Sewer Bile
So much back then, in black and white, was really very gray,
including “What’s My Line”, a TV game show in the day,
that is, the Nineteen Fifties, and the Nineteen Sixties too,
with Arlene Francis, Bennett Cerf, and Miss Kilgallen, who,
was killed in her pursuit of probing what was true in thé
assassination of the President—John Kennedy.
She thought it “laughable” Lee Harvey Oswald was alone
in killing JFK. How could he do it on his own?
So, she talked to Jack Ruby and whoever would speak out,
in Dallas or New Orleans, for she still had plots of doubt.
She followed, too, Jack Ruby’s trial, which she found quite odd,
the man seemed sane, but frightened—glassy-eyed, his strained façade.
She felt that she was on the edge—a breakthrough soon would come;
but two months later she was dead at her Manhattan home.
At her East 68th Street townhouse, she was found in bed,
in a blue bathrobe, false eyelashes, and brief floral spread.
Was it an overdose, barbituates and alcohol,
a suicide, an extra pill, “the glass-eyes of a doll”?
Caud Sewer Bile is a poet of the Swamp. Dorothy Kilgallen (1913-1965) was an American PostModernist columnist and journalist.
C. Jackson Craven
by Lew Icarus Bede
Claude Jackson Craven was a physics maven at U. T.
and on the staff of Oak Ridge in atomic energy.
He worked for the Manhattan Project during world war,
where builders of the first atomic bomb faced its harsh roar,
that Rorschach in eternity that blasted peace to hell,
his doctorate degrees come from NC at Chapel Hill.
His research interests included fiber properties,
and gas diffused in varied porous opportunities,
as well as infrared spectroscopy analysis,
this native of Concord, North Carolina’s valences.
Lew Icarus Bede is a poet and literary critic. Claude Jackson Craven (1908-1988) was the PostModernist author of “Our Atomic World.”
by Sirc de Wee Balu
“the/ goat-footed/ balloonman…whistles/far /and /wee”
—E. E. Cummings
He sucked…his stomach in…and lifted up…his shoulders forth;
but he was not attempting to be more or less than Thor.
He merely wanted to extend his spine, his head, his neck;
not naked, still, in untight clothing; he would stretch and flex.
He felt it was important to do high intensity,
such exercises would allow him more dexterity.
They’d make him feel more a king than lounging like a scrounge,
or going to medieval fairs to watch the great knights joust.
Aroused like as a roustabout at oil-field, deck, or wharf,
he could be grinding stone or cutting wood by mounds of swarf.
He tensed his muscles; but he was no circus labourer,
no strong man raising tents nor fipple-fluting taborer.
Sirc de Wee Balu is a poet of bread and circuses.
How Fun It Was
by Cu Ebide Aswerl
How fun it was, when we were young and went to Silver Lake,
where we would water ski across its surface, like a snake.
We reached great speeds amongst its reeds, moved so fast and smooth.
We loved the splash and rush of water we were going through.
O dad and mom, you did so much for us back then I wish
that I could tell you how much I appreciate that sheer
and unadulterated joy you gave to us, by which
we faced a wild and crazy World of chip, chin up and pitch.
But you dies many years ago—dad nineteen and mom twelve;
and that is something I can only ever tell myself.
I miss you even now so many years since you’ve been gone.
It’s been long, but I got your lesson. Yes, I must be strong.
Cu Ebide Aswerl is a poet of sport and leisure.