Tanka
by W. “Cured Eel” Sabi
He ate wild-caught,
delicate brisling sardines,
hand packed and wood-smoked,
before heading back to work
at his office computer.
W. “Cured Eel” Sabi is a poet of the sea.
~~~
Haiku
by “Wired Clues” Abe
The social worker
claimed the “sidewalk cruiser” could
not walk a straight line.
“Wired Clues” Abe is a NewMillennial haiku writer.
~~~
His Overarching All
by Sri Wele Cebuda
He saw the shiny sunlight pouring in where he was at,
projecting a gray shadow on the wall near where he sat.
He felt its warmth upon his shoulders, as well as toes and feet.
His eyes were open; he was hopin’ he could feel complete.
Extending back, his arms and legs, his head down to his ass:
too bad that UVB rays cannot get through window glass.
He sought to reach nirvanal piece, if for but one brief time.
It might rejuvenate his energy, his might and mind,
unwind the tenseness that he felt, becoming more composed,
and bring his overarching all into alignment, o.
Sri Wele Cebuda is a poet of meditation.
~~~
Newsreel:
Maersk, Hapag-Lloyd, and CMA with CGA have stopped
their trips through Red-Sea straits because of Yemen’s Houthi lobs.
~~~
The Soldier Dressed in Camo
by War di Belecuse
He saw the soldier dressed in camo on the gloomy muck—
o, waiting patiently, for the bold enemy to come.
On hands and knees, he was like as a runner prepped to run;
but he was not about to leave; he turned his head around.
Could he observe that sneaking soldier creeping through the woods?
Would he remain alert—alive? Here was no room for prudes.
The Moon above was sitting on the near horizon plain;
but how long would it keep up there? How long could it remain?
He held his gun next to his leg in utter readiness,
like as a gutter snipe, prepared to shoot, if needed—yes.
The Maginot Line
by War di Belecuse
The Maginot Line was…not imaginary, an idea dating from 1929, a series of fortifications with nary a break on twice 150 miles, an armoured mine made with 1,500,000 square yards of reinforced concrete, and, winding serpentine, 150,000 tons of steel, that guarded France in the East. Moles, half a million soldiers, 100 feet below, rode in trains over shards, and dwelled in night, ennui, and diurnal doldrums. It was not a fairy tale, nor light and airy, but six years of hard, innumerable bonjours.
War di Belecuse is a poet of conflict. André Maginot (1877-1932), mentioned in the above prosem, was an advocate for the defense of France.
~~~
Seasonal Reasoning
by Crise de Abu Wel
“Jesus is the reason for the season.”
—Anon
It was another year, as cold December came along.
For cheerful sounds, one started streaming carols, hymns and songs.
For lack of light and warmth outside, one had a string of lights,
that followed very carefully the varied front roof-lines.
Inside, one placed an artificial tree with ornaments,
bright decorations for some scintillating sentiments.
Some presents too, presented underneath, red, white and green,
and other hues…there for the scarcity of goods and things.
For hunger’s sake, as well, some foods to quell the appetite;
if only just one single meal, so one could sleep at night.
And last, despite the cosmic inclination to destroy,
a simple, heartfelt prayer for a World of peace and joy.
In Just
by Crise de Abu Wel
And was it John the Baptist who was at the riverside,
remembering one who had drowned, flowed down on one last ride?
His mouth there at the Dead Sea, and below sea level, like
the country of the Netherlands, upheld by drunk and dike.
How could he ever reach a place where he would be content?
Was he forever seeking happiness he must confess?
Concentric circles of canals embody Amsterdam.
Do you recall them—Isaac, Jacob, and old Abraham?
And what of those who jumped into Seine? Were they in pain?
Did they hope for clemency? or were they just insane?
Crise de Abu Wel is a poet of the Good Father. In addition to Biblical allusions, ghosts of E. E. Cummings (1894-1962), Albert Camus (1913-1960) and Paul Celan (1920-1970) appear in the above tennos.
~~~
Fictive Speech
by Cale Budweiser
His voice; it was remarkable. I met him at a bar—
la Ciudad de México, or was it Amsterdam?
He was so talkative, a prolix individual,
like Gratiano di Venezia—continual,
in some habitual audiovisual domain,
who just went on and on, as if he had some thing to say.
He was a nuisance, yes, and yet intriguing just the same,
lodged in this Babel ziggurat, this Homo sapiens.
But what was so amazing was, amid his jabbering,
wise thoughts kept coming to the surface unbelievably.
Cale Budweiser is a poet of bars, who has appeared in “Last Call”, an anthology of beer, wine, and spirits. Spirits hovering about this tennos include Shakespeare and Camus.
~~~
Root Beer
by Carb Deliseuwe
“Because it is a low-carb drink, and made with stevia,
he loved imbibing cans [nonplastics] plant-based Zevia.”
—Cale Budweiser
Despite its many uses, as in soap, tooth paste, and more,
in 1976 sassafras was outlawed for
root beer consumption, since its safrole’s cancerous;
although nutmeg is still approved, and it contains that stuff.
Since then today’s root beers contain some other flavours, such
as wintergreen, vanilla, sars’parilla, licorice,
anise, nutmeg, and ginger, also cherry-tree bark and,
perhaps as well that lowly weedy dandelion plant.
There are so many root beer brands, from A & W
to Barq’s, Dad’s IBC, and Henry Weinhart’s brew,
from Maine Root to Sioux City, LA Virgil, Fitz’s fizz
Mug, Dog n Suds, Dang, Sparky’s, Hank’s, and more, show its big biz.
Carb Deliseuwe is a poet of drink, as is Cale Budweiser.
~~~
The Snowman
by Walice du Beers
One need not have a mind of winter to regard the frost,
or pines encrusted with white snow in a cold tempest tossed.
Behold green ice-shagged junipers and spruces glittering,
the bitter freezing all around the useless littering.
See shimmering aluminum, feel numb December winds;
they have not sinned—dry, dead-brown leaves—aswirl in the din.
Observe the huge inflatable, airblown and twenty feet,
with gift and candy-cane, in top-hat, high above the street.
White-coloured polyester, with green shirt and scarlet scarf,
it dominates the yard, when near, but not when one is far.
Its large, black eyes, black-pebble mouth, and orange-carrot nose,
are seen in LEDs at night, the whole a shining glow.
Walice du Beers is a connoisseur of fate, as, for example, when Elizabeth Bishop said his essay on “The Comedian as the Letter C” was “too good” for a college student.
~~~
Newsreel:
The journalist Steve Baker was arrested by the Feds,
who did not like his reportage on January 6th;
but he is only one who has been prosecuted, yes,
such as Rivera, Horn, Montoya, Pope, and Witzemann.
~~~
Newsreel:
A staffer in the Senate hearing room on video
was seen revealed in a compromising city show;
but this is not surprising for the DC City Swamp,
where legislators and executors are on a romp.
~~~
Down the Concrete Maze
by Urbawel Cidese
Dawn’s Sun was glaring as he drove on down the concrete maze,
his face and chest lit up by rays that hit him with its blaze.
He dropped his visor, as he lifted up his neck and head,
the hinged flap blocking deadly beams throughout the auto spread.
He stretched his legs, while still controlling his gas press and speed.
His seat and back were warm. What did he want? What did he need?
He wondered where the next turn would take him. Where would he go?
It was important to decide. Right now he had to know.
He did not want to be like one of those guys in a truck,
stopped at an intersection on his phone. Ho, what the fuck.
He had to swerve to miss him.
Urbawel Cidese is a poet of urban spaces.
~~~
Damn Selfies
by Cawb Edius Reel
He stuck his mug up in the air; he wanted to be taped.
Another one of those damn selfies everywhere displayed;
like high upon a cliff, a mesa, or some tableland,
where the participant portrays a fierce enabler.
He longs to be up in the regions very few go to—
He loves to think upon those risky heights. O, what a view.
He focuses the camera. He wants a record of
the beauty of the scenery—and him there high above.
But he is so obnoxious, unctious, wanting to be seen,
in black, upon that rocky crag, the danger in between.
Please spare the righteous indignation, post the postured pose.
Flee quickly danger’s threatening and beckoning pink rose.
Cawb Edius Reel is a poet of film and photo.
~~~
Frederick Law Olmsted: 1895
by Basil Drew Eceu
The architect and urban planner Burnham said
of him, he paints “with lakes and wooded slopes; with lawns
and banks and forest covered hills; with mountain sides
and ocean views.” Here it’s appropriate, he’s on
a ground with laurels, rhododendrons, and dogwood,
about to lose his noggin to dementia’s spawned
dimensions, father of American landscape.
Though Sargent probably did not know Olmstead’s state
of mind, it seems that the faint face could not escape
his paint, the old man leaning on a cane, though great,
his gray and scraggly hair, disheveled round his head,
an involuted melancholia portrayed.
Basil Drew Eceu is a poet of paintings, like those of American Realist John Singer Sargent (1856-1925). In the above bilding [sic], Frederick Law Olmsted (1822-1903) was an American landscape architect, Daniel Hudson Burnham (1846-1912) was an American architect and urban designer.
~~~
The Office Chair
by Cabriel W. Suede
He sat back in his cushioned chair, his legs up off the floor,
tha chair positioned over there beside the open door.
Although its fabric had been torn, and it was getting old,
on caster, rubber, swivel wheels, he loved the way it rolled.
To him it was fantastic, yes, for him a perfect fit.
With tightened abs and upright spine, he’d sit and sit and sit.
It wasn’t pretty, but it held divers identities,
unchastities as well ensconced in sacrosanctities.
But overall, he wasn’t ready yet to give it up.
Besides, where would he find another one that was as pug.
Cabriel W. Suede is a poet of furniture.
~~~
Beside the Monitor
by Des Wercebauli
He sat up tall beside the monitor, an old, yoked yob.
The man was back at work—again—so thankful for his job.
His desk was made of wood, and brown, the surface fairly smooth.
Honed through so many years, one saw his body, sure and thewed.
He placed his hands upon the silver keyboard where he sat.
His knees were underneath his palms, as if there up to bat.
He gazed on the computer screen, attempting to make sense
of what he saw and what it meant—abundant recompense.
Could he but type away and get the information down,
he would be so content if it was counsel to the crown.
Des Wercebauli is a poet of work.
~~~
At Night
by Arcideb Usewel
He saw the Christmas lights at night, from the gray sidewalk squares,
so many colours on the street, out in the open there.
Beyond the neighbourhood, he saw skyscapers rising tall,
up to the airplanes flying overhead, lit too, aloft.
The day was gone, that time now done. The air was fresh and cool.
Enchanted by nocturnal sky, into the dark he looked.
And as he gazed, the clouds enshrouded city streets and cars.
There were some hundred-thousands all around. He saw no stars.
What could he make of all of this—this universal stage—
where nothing is but what it was—this strange and changing age.
Who would he pass here in the night? Who’d pause within its glows?
Who could he say ‘Good night’ to, as the World ever goes?
Arcideb Usewel is a poet of architextures.
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