The Coming-On of Mighty Time
by Ercules Edibwa
He held on tight despite the coming-on of mighty time.
He chose a spot to hold his ground. He’d fight for the sublime.
He’d never give in willingly to philistines of hate;
but what hope did he have against the furies sent by fate.
He stretched his legs for his firm stance, and held them solid there,
although he felt like he was only standing in the air.
What chance had he against the onslaught of eternity?
Yet still he would not budge, though at his door time turn its key.
‘O, Lord!’ he cried out to the agitated universe,
‘I must hold on until I can’t, and time the worst disburse.’
Ercules Edibwa is a poet close to Hercules.
by Lude Biwa Reeds
He saw the shadow
upon the bright, sunlit blinds
of a butterfly,
along with crepe myrtle limbs
bobbing in the breeze.
Lude Biwa Reeds is a poet of natural settings.
by “Clear Dew” Ibuse
On the horizon,
Earth’s closest cosmic comrade
Venus shines aloof.
“Clear Dew” Ibuse is a haikuist.
by “Wired Clues” Abe
The infant scuffs dirt
at the jazz art festival,
not the music played.
“Wired Clues” Abe is a NewMillennial haiku writer.
by Bruc “Diesel” Awe
All streamed a-swir-l as he went about within his world,
from flaring, glaring, sunbright beams to neon circulars.
He was no Hercules in darkness, as he started off,
upon another daily journey, hopefully not far.
He drove past honey locust trees and groves of cedar elms,
the traffic, on the rugged roadways, travelling pell-mell.
He paused to park, but for a bit, before returning to
the highways and the byways and the landscaped avenues.
He spiraled through skyscrapers, dormitories, banks and shops,
amidst the mix of one-way streets, the yields and the stops.
Because he would not stop, where all he saw was go, go, go,
he kept on moving forward, till he found a place to slow
down, pause and halt; a freeway in the distance filled with cars—
those myriads, ten-thousands soaring on the flat-paved rock.
He turned along some unknown roads, meandering about,
until returning to discerning, his late, present route.
He heard the roaring semis, cement mixers, in the din,
and spotted up ahead a giant flag flap in the wind.
He sighted a huge water tower, where the highways crossed,
and sped from one onto the next. There was no time to pause.
Please hurry up. It’s time to leave the university,
to pass the housing projects where one came to live and be.
How can one pay a half-a-million dollars for a house?
each in his prison, locked at night, one cannot hear a sound.
He noted spindly black-eyed Susans greeting visitors,
with radiating, yellow wreaths for graveside pensioners,
and the hurt, ruddy Beckys covered in coarse, long, blonde hair,
condoling and consoling prisoners beyond repair.
Few, nary all, were contemplating tardy license plates.
He wheel’d his vehicle around. He had no time to stay.
Proceeding past the Crown, he moved along to Trinity.
He didn’t have that long to think upon Eternity.
Bruc “Diesel” Awe is a poet of movement.
O Mio Babbino Caro
by Ewald E. Eisbruc
“O mio babbino caro” the soprano aria
in “Gianni Schicchi” by Giacomo Puccini is
so beautiful, heartfelt, and brief, that one is sorry it
is over so, o, too soon after its beginning…leaves.
In thirty-two bars of andantino ingenuo,
its first inversion chord is used four times in genuine
pure love, with hope and desperation, panning in upon
the moment’s scene, a daughter pleading with her dear papá.
Ewald E. Eisbric is a poet of art music. Giacomo Puccini (1858-1924) was a Realist Italian composer.
B. S. Eliud Acrewe
He had a voice—how shall I say?—that sounded like it came
down from the mountain, powerful and worthy of acclaim.
The angel of the Lord appeared to him, like as a flame
within a bush that was on fire but was not burning up.
O, this is strange, he thought. How can this be, o Providence?
He was not Moses standing on some holy ground—immense;
he was not Zarathustra with a visionary sense;
he was but one soul drinking from an overflowing cup.
Whence comes this voice, he wondered, muttering from way on high?
He was not thunder-striking Thor abiding in the sky;
he was not Zeus in Ancient Greece deciding fates of lives;
he simply was a soul who tapped in to eternal vibes.
B. S. Eliud Acrewe is a poet of daemonic powers.
O, Monumental Njorth
by Eber L. Aucsidew
Yuval Noah Hariri—lo, it was not trivial
that he was born and raised in Kiryat Ata, Israel,
that settlement with residents since back to the Bronze Age,
as he has posited a revolutionary change
in the cognition of the species Homo sapiens,
who would become, the apex preditors, on planet Earth,
some seventy millennia ago—What, is this so?
Aye, sir, all this is possible and certainly much more.—
that strange ability to bring new mental constructs forth,
like th’ wild sea god of opulence, o, monumental Njorth.
Eber L. Aucsidew is a poet of wind and water. Hariri is a contemporary Israeli proset.
A terrorist attack on Israel took place upon
the week-long Jewish festival Sukkot at dawn.
Hamas jihadists went about a human killing spree
and murdered women, children, babies and the elderly.
Death came for myriads who went about their daily lives.
Within that scene, it was a miracle just to survive.
The Couch Potato
by Cawb Edius Reel
He leaned back on the couch to watch another show.
He felt the pillow underneath his head squish down.
He clicked on his remote. O, it was time to go.
He lay back slightly ruffled as the scene unwound.
A man had come into the picture forcefully.
He was bound and determined to thrust, hit and pound,
astounding the reclining dude not on TV.
He gazed in horror as the man began to rush
into the place he’d come to so vigourously.
The watching guy felt he was being bush whacked—shoved.
Reality had morphed into sheer vertigo.
He pressed the button—pause—and kicked back on his tush.
Cawb Edius Reel is a poet of video.
Jon Fosse’s Craft
By Lars U. Ice Bedew
Influenced by the Irish playwright Beckett, in his scope;
his plays are bleak, impersonal and minimal, in hope.
From “Raut, svart” to the doppelgängers in “…Septology…”
his novel on Lars Herterveg, meanders through lost streams,
where he observes two crossing lines, one purple and one brown,
slow painted, thick, which mix and drip—O, how should art be done?
One of the things that is most striking of Jon Fosse’s work
is that his prose and poetry are written in Nynorsk;
where in tense sentences, he gave “voice to th’ unsayable”,
a terse Norse Hemingway, dense, earnest and conveyable.
Lars U. Ice Bedew is a poet of Norway. Norwegian proset Jon Fosse won the 2023 Nobel Prize for Literature. Lars Herterveg (1830-1902) was a noted Norwegian landscape painter. Samuel Beckett (1906-1989) was a noted Irish dramatist, Ernest Hemingway (1899-1961), a noted American writer.
The companies of Google, Amazon, and Cloudfare say
they’ve weathered a denial of a service op today;
perhaps the largest that the Internet has ever seen,
revealing weakness in a new form of HTTP.
Let Me Not
by Wilude Scabere
Let me not to the marriage of two souls, a man and woman tied eternally, as time around them rages in its throes, do aught but gaze in awe most earnestly upon their physical commitment; for,
they’ve linked themselves together for all time, and left childhood behind for something more,
allegiance to the hour, and not the mind. O, that is harder than most anything in life, devotion to a husband or a wife; because so many things do fling impediments ‘gainst that embattled door. All marriage has within its arsenal are gentleness and love to fight time’s squalls.
Walude Scabere is a poet of Shakespearean allusions, as seen in this prosem.
US Grocery Stores (2020 stats in billions of dollars)
1. Walmart, 341…4,756 stores
2. Kroger, 122…2,757 stores
3. Costco, 103…543 stores
4. Albertsons, 62…2,252 stores
5. Ahold Delhaize, 44…1973 stores
6. Publix, 38…1,258 stores in Florida & SE
7. HEB, 28…340 stores, mainly Texas
8. Meijer, 20…240 stores, upper Midwest
9. Wakefern, 16…354 stores
10. Aldi, 15-16
11. Whole Foods, 15-16
Others selling food include
Drugstores, such as Walgreen & CVS
Retailers, such as 7-11 & Target
by Euclidrew Base
Jean-Baptiste-Joseph Fourier was born March 21, 1768, at Auxerre, France, of a forlorn taylor. Torn from that life, he was orphaned at eight. Taught by the Benedictine Order, he became a mathematics teacher soon; later from the École Polytechnique, he went to Egypt with Napoléon, where he contracted hypothermia, or maybe myxedema. Made prefect of cold Isère, where he’d his Theorie analytique de la chaleur perfect, and show heat flow was not reversible, in fine, equations wrought serviceable.
Euclidrew Base is a poet of mathematics and statistics. The prosem notes Jean-Baptiste-Joseph Fourier (1768-1830), a noted French Romantic mathematician.
Some of the Major Health Concerns of some countries in 2023, according to Anna Fleck of Statista.
Sweden Mental Health;
Chile: Mental Health
Canada: Mental Health
Spain: Mental Health
Australia: Mental Health
USA: Mental Health
Belgium : Cancer
South Korea: Stress
Great Britain: Obesity