by Druc Sbeed Awile
Spring forth; fall back. When it’s time to connect to the mother ship in Colorado, the atomic clock “wakes,” and the second hand, all of a sudden, goes bravado and zips around the numbers one through twelve, as if it were a black bat out o’ hell, flapping as fast as it can…Halloween! I gasp to see how fast time is flying.
Druc Sbeed Awile is a poet of time.
by “Clear Dew” Ibuse
Pink and red roses
bounce up and down in the breeze—
busy honey bees.
“Clear Dew” Ibuse is a poet of haiku.
by “Wired Clues” Abe
In the morning light,
o’er the garage cement floor,
dead beetles are strewn.
by “Wired Clues” Abe
The large, jumbo jet
passes between planet Earth
and the giant Moon.
“Wired Clues” Abe is a NewMillennial haiku writer.
Some photojournalists from Reuters and AP news caught
clear pictures of atrocities Hamas assassins wrought.
Against the Eastern Windows
by Éclair Dub W. See
Against the eastern windows, one can see the dancing leaves;
the dewy roses and the trees are blowing in the breeze;
beneath the eaves, the sunlight flickers in diverse designs,
in pale gray and lit-white swaths across the pulled-down blinds.
Outside bathed in the early morning sunrise, one would see
tall, vivid oaks rise bright and green above the crystal dew;
pink roses and some reddening at th’ ends of leafy stems;
the hedges, too, with shiny drops topped-off with diadems.
Éclair Dub W. See is a poet of visions.
The Ukraine military says it hit Zalyv Shipyard.
In Kerch, the missile ship, the Karakut—was it hit hard?
by El Cid E. W. Rubesa
El Greco was, till twenty-six, trained up in art in Crete,
and traveled thence to Venice, Clovio, his friend aesthete.
His style altered: agile, e-lon-ga-ted figures came,
from Tintoretto; and from Titian, a chromatic frame.
Venetian painters taught him vibrant, atmospheric light
in multi-figured compositions deftly organized.
In 1570, Rome was the next place he would go,
that era after Raphael and Michelangelo,
where attitudes and gestures of the Mannerist Baroque
appeared from Parmigianino and Correggio.
From there he then left to Madrid; Toledo, last was home;
Spain’s King, disdaining his commissions…royal…were no more.
He’d crossed the Mediterranean Sea: Crete gave him life
and painter’s craft he used within contemporary strife;
Toledo gave him home, a place where he could live and work,
and after death, eternal life, could then start to occur.
Pacheco wrote El Greco’s colours crude, unmixed, in blots,
a studied effort to acquire freedom in his plots.
El Cid E. W. Rubesa is a poet of Iberian art.
by Uwe Carl Diebes
It soars up in the sky twelve hundred feet,
the Fernsehturm near Alexanderplatz;
and people in the restaurant at seat
can see below the many streets and lots.
The television tower’s sphere revolves
around once every half an hour’s time;
and to its turning vision, life evolves
Postmodernist’s far-seeing future-climb.
Beneath its red-and-white antenna line,
at moments when the sun is shining on
its stainless steel, tiled dome, there can be seen
a cross across its face, a reflection,
a bright and unexpected silver lining.
So often things don’t turn out like we plan,
and we find meaning where we thought there none.
Uwe Carl Diebes is a poet of Germany. The Fernsehturm is over 200 meters high. Because of political pressure, the kindergarten named after Modernist German diarist Anne Frank (1929-1945) in Tangerhutte, Germany, will change its name.
In Tinted Geld
by Cees Walerd Bui
Born to a prosperous, silk merchant family in 1599 in Antwerp on the Scheldt, important port and import center, Anthony Van Dyck began his short life’s stint, in tinted geld. Becoming an adult in Rubens’ studio, he acquiesced to Ruben’s unrestrained unrest, and felt at first quite overwhelmed by his grand ruddy glow and his undertow. He took off at twenty-one. In Rome he stayed with Guido Bentivoglio. He went to Turin, Florence, Venice, and Milan, Genoa and Palermo, throughout Italy, and everywhere he went he saw —Tiziano.
Cees Walerd Bui is a poet of Benelux art. The painter in this prosem is Anthony Van Dyck (1599-1641), a Flemish Baroque painter. Rubens (1577-1640) and Tiziano (1490-1576) were contemporary painters.
On Some Last Few Words of Góngora
by Edwe Bleca Ruís
Just as he was beginning to know something of the letters of his alphabet, did God call him
forth to Himself. His will be done. So Góngora, similar words, in his last illness, let fall them. So, too, do I thus feel. I only hope to live a longer time in order that, in my autumn, I can use what I’ve had the fortune to receive, an understanding of the language I have learned. I thank God for this happy gift, and hope to give back some of all this I have gained. What I’ve discerned is much, what I’ve earned is less; for purest love, which God bequeathed, and in me breathed, was not deserved.
Edwe Bleca Ruís is a poet of Spanish Letters. Luis de Góngora (1561-1627) was a Baroque Spanish poet of El Siglo de Oro.
by Wilee Read Bucs
In my youth, the school library was filled
with colorful tales that made the world seem bright,
animal adventures that shined and thrilled,
poetic stories generating light.
In my teens, our home library contained
American histories and easy
encyclopedias that well explained
the world in the form of the neat essay.
In my twenties, I enjoyed the high stacks
of classics and literary critiques,
the finest observations, subtle facts,
and unconquered intellectual peaks.
In my thirties, my library at home
had over a thousand tomes in dozens
of areas, and I would often comb
through them for wisdom, knowledge and lessons.
In my forties, our library took in
pictoral works for very young children,
side by side with the scholarly book: thin
once-upon-a-times and thick, dense till-thens.
In my fifties, the Internet became
my library for all manner of texts.
Now I’ve greater access and can lay claim
to more information in all respects.
Wilee Read Bucs is a poet of books.
by Walice du Beers
He paused to see the brand new pickleball and tennis courts,
the blue surrounded by a green rectangle for the sport.
The neon yellow tennis balls now easier to see
than how it used to be, when tennis courts were coloured green.
Complacently, he walked around black-coated vinyl fence,
observing player stances, rackets prepped for their defense.
He watched the serves, the volleys, drop shots, smashes, and the lobs,
while overhead the Sun was shining far from yawns or blahs.
He wasn’t dwelling on the old catastrophe, because
Harmonium was not where he was at, or where he paused.
Walice du Beers is a poet who admires Modernist American poet Wallace Stevens (1879-1955).
More than 500,000 lined the streets of Arlington,
down which the Texas Rangers went—World Series winning fun.
Arlington, Texas, is a city in the Metroplex of about 390,000.