Wise Words with Bruce Wise

An OMAD Marathon
          by Carb Deliciewe

Although there was abundant food, it was Thanksgiving lite,
four me-als for adults and children, mingled each bright bite:
from normal, vegan, keto, to left-over Chick-fil-A,
each person ate to his or her delight Thanksgiving Day.

Tex-Mex poblano peppers, turkey-stuffed, with rice and cheese
were altered for each person eating them, thus made to please;
so, too, the enchiladas, wraps, to contents put inside,
from vegetarian and beef, variety gone wide.

Plain turkey, too, with varied dressings, for each epicure,
with diverse bread or chicken stock, depending on how pure.
The green beans satisfied adults; they were unfaltering.
Were they the only thing that didn’t have an altering?

Some wanted their cranberries from a can, some wanted fresh,
the latter, keto-friendly, turned out a delicious dish.
Dessert included coffee bread with sugar frosting drips,
a thick, rich apple pie, or crustless keto-pumpkin mix.

And, as if that were not enough, one individual
kept eating tasty victuals, nuts, treats and residuals,
like macademias and keto-sweetened-up pecans,
fresh yoghurt, berries, cookies, ice cream—on his marathon.

Carb Deliseuwe is a poet of food.

~~~

Haiku
          by “Clear Dew” Ibuse

Behind pink roses,
the gardener looks outward
into the Zen zone.

“Clear Dew” Ibuse is a poet of haiku.

~~~

Haiku
          by “Wired Clues” Abe

The infant watches,
in the gray, cloudy heavens,
two helicopters.

“Wired Clues” Abe is a NewMillennial haiku writer.

~~~

Newsreel:
In a rare moment of truth-telling, Biden said that Xi
was a dic…tator…and that he would call him that term still.

~~~

Departing Slow Gear
          by Sri Wele Cebuda

It was so quiet he was quite surprised. He longed to sleep.
But it was time to wake up from his slumbers, strong and deep.
He wished he didn’t have to face another day of life.
But files wouldn’t sort themselves and there was always strife.
So he began his morning meditation on the couch,
and slowly woke, his eyes still closed, arising with the cows.

He concentrated on his breathing, taking deep, full breaths;
like as a snorting bull aroused, however, less intense.
He contemplated his whole body, from its tip to toes,
in inner spaces, planning out his day’s new course, composed.
Then left his doze, and opened up his eyes, his mind, his soul,
to launch life’s chores, a faster pace, and more—departing slow…

Sri Wele Cebuda is a poet of meditation.

~~~

A Nasty Cup of Coffee
          by Carb Deliceuwe
          “Caffeine can suppress root growth.”
              —Brac Lei Uweeds

It was a nasty cup of coffee he was drinking down,
a lot of dregs above his legs, but well below his crown.
Despite the taste—O, what a waste!—he took the bitterness
into his mouth—Thou wretched south—a messy, pit-hole sess.
The MCT oil didn’t help; it still was yucky, yes—
those landfill dregs, remained, alas—those thick and brown sludge grounds.
Yet he could use them in his garden, fertilizing plants,
attracting earthworms to his flower beds, repelling ants.
And so, he was not all that sad, despite those spiteful guys,
who manufactured large supplies of mucky-thick, mud pies.

Carb Deliseuwe is a poet of food and drink.

~~~

The M-Eating Place
          by Carb Deliseuwe

He sought to find a diet that would be sustainable,
not some starvation method that was not maintainable.
He sought a diet that would be enjoyable to him,
to live his life, surviving strife, like wise Ut-napishtim.
He thought just what would happen if he cut most of his carbs,
enjoying fats, like butter, bacon, steak, eggs, cheese and chars.
He thought that when he did that, he felt better than before;
but was that healing him? and what about cholesterol?
He thought of Ubartutu, En-man-dur-an-a, the king:
Did he achieve the meeting place of heaven, earth and Spring?

Carb Deliseuwe is a poet of food and drink. Ut-napishtim (c. 2900 BC) was a king of Shuruppak in southern Iraq, Ubartutu, the last antediluvian king of Sumer.

~~~

Ten Angels
          by Seer Ablicudew

I had a dream the other day:
As I was walking on my way,
I came upon ten angels there,
as if they were upon the air.
They loomed above me, shining bright,
in glorious, radiant light.
I longed to touch them, shake their hands;
I listened hard for sweet commands;
but they remained aloof, on high,
in splendor, winging in the sky.
I reached out for their brilliant robes;
if only I could touch their clothes;
but back they flew away from me.
Oh, all that I could do was see.
They were too insubstantial for
reality, my human core.
I longed to go and be with them,
each shimmering, a gorgeous gem;
but I could not bring them to me.
They kept their distance silently.
Before they left, they threw a bone.
I reached for it, but it was gone.
And so I traveled on alone
with but a vision, something shown.

Seer Ablicadew is a poet of visions, as, e.g., the one above described in iambic tetrameters.

~~~

The Wanderer
          by Bieder C. Weslau

The Wanderer over the Sea of Clouds
by Casper David Friedrich shows one man
atop a rocky crag above the shrouds
of fog and mist that stretch to a mountain.
He and the tor he stands upon are dark,
as if they were a silhouette in black.
The picture of them there is rough and stark.
He is in the center. We see his back.
Before him, at his feet, the vista lies
in sweeps and lines of white and pale blue hues
that travel far beyond to distant skies,
which there, in air, between the two suffuse.
We see him viewing what he sees and seize
upon that thought that holds him at those seas.

Bieder C. Weslau is a poet of German art. The sonnet above refers to a painting by Caspar David Friedrich (1774-1840), a noted German Romantic painter.

~~~

A Perpetual Machine
          by Erisbawdle Cue
          “πάντα ρει”
              —Heraclitus

When I was younger, I used to think there was no such thing,
as what I heard some mention—a perpetual machine.
But now that I am older, such a thing seems hardly worth
considering, as everything’s in motion on the Earth.

Erisbawdle Cue is a poet of philosophy. Heraclitus (l. c. 500 BC) was an Ancient Greek philosopher.

~~~

The Cold Wind Blew
          by Eber L. Aucsidew
          “Yellow, and black, and pale, and hectic red…”
              Percy Bysshe Shelley, “Ode to the West Wind”

The cold wind blew, but he was happy he was warm inside.
Oak leaves were shaking, quaking; orange leaves began to fly.
He sat upright before his monitor; he heard a clunk.
A wayword bird hit the clear window, but flew off with luck.
He gazed upon the street below the house where he was at.
He saw a squirrel in a shaped crepe-myrtle skip and scat.
He saw the gorgous colours of the trees along the lane,
from scarlet, green, to gold and brown, a multi-weather vane.
He got dressed up, black jacket, khaki pants, and soft black shoes—
O, he was ready to go out, and with the W-o-r-l-d fuse.
Although parked cars belied that it was calm and peaceful there,
the swirling air, unfurled in the hectic atmosphere.

Eber L. Aucsidew is a poet of weather. Percy Bysshe Shelley (1792-1822) was a British Romantic poet and proset.

~~~

Newsreel:
In Argentina, he became the president-elect,
that is, economathematic Javier Milei.

~~~

At the Edge of His Rough Gray Realm
          by Caleb Wuri Seed

The Sun’s pink offering attempted burning through the clouds,
while at the edge of his small rough, gray Realm, four large, black cows
were munching grasses, belching and releasing methane gas,
there bathing swallowed food in͡a microbe-teeming rumen pass,
fermenting, brewing all the things the cattle use and need
for energy, like nitrous oxide, they get from their feed,
regurgitating, chewing and rechewing their thick cud,
till it’s digested/filtered-out for further acid flush
and nutrient absorption of the beneficial mush,
like goats and sheep, as well as other living ruminants:
giraffes, gazelles, deer, antelopes, and rugg’d ungulates.

Caleb Wuri Seed is a poet of crops and animal husbandry. According to Beau Lecsi Werd, the single syllable word “rugg’d” above means, at a minimum, having “rug-like” hair, like llamas, alpacas, camels, etc.

~~~

The Apparition
          by Bic Uwel, “Erased”

He stood up in the shallow water on the beach
sands, washing, wading, walking, waiting for the end—
that longed-for peace, oh, sweet release, just out of reach.
He was invisible to everyone, but for a bend.
He seemed to fade in and out of the foam and light,
as if he wasn’t there; still, he seemed to ascend
up from the broad and brilliant bronze into the bright.
Even those nearby looked real close to check his berth,
to see if he was really there and in their sight.
It was as if he had not been on planet Earth
at all, as if he faded faster than a peach
and turned into sunlight and air, and of less girth.

The Unknown Man
          by Bic Uwel, “Erased”

He turns to see if anyone is looking at
his being; but nobody is, nobody cares.
His brow is furrowed right above his nose, and that
makes him appear a beast at bay. Some unkempt hairs
and an unshaven face make him seem untranquil.
Nobody knows the many burdens that he bears.
He’s discontent. Within his mind hard thought rankles.
His pallor is in dark and bright all touched in blue.
He sees in black and white and gray, and always will.
His head is breaking, aches. He feels forsaken too.
His eyes send messages out in spurts like a gat.
He’s ready for a broil, but he will take a brew.

Bic Uwel, “Erased”, is a poet of the obscure and unknown, as seen in the above bildings [sic].

On the Black and Gray Elliptical Machine
          by Rudi E. Welec, “Abs”

He went to th’ exercise gym for his daily work routine,
and got upon the black and gray elliptical machine.
Some think th’ industrial design is flat-out gorgeous flex,
but it is heavy and its structure is a bit complex.
Some think that it’s fantastic, top-to-bottom, but again
it just depends on what one wants from its descend/ascend.

He bent his torso, as he forced his steps up, down, and up…
continuing for minutes, one-two-three-four-five-hup…plus.
He kept on going till his breath was quicker than it was;
he thought it would be good for him—this anaerobic buzz—
his muscles taut, his body hot, his beating heart unleashed;
and he was not required to pay the fitness clerk backsheesh.

Rudi E. Welec, “Abs”, is a poet of exercise.

~~~

Gas Stations
          by Bruc “Diesel” Awe