All Aboard
by R. Lee Ubicwedas
Where to begin? Where one is at. Wherever one may be.
And from there one goes on—a, b, c, d, e, f, and g…
Amid a million elements, suppose to intersperse—
the scale can be vast, an alphabet, a universe;
and so it makes sense to adjoin whatever seems to fit,
and not so much to measly flit about Earth’s dreamy pit.
From danger and th’ unknown, to the familiar and the strange,
each day is an adventure filled with an enormous range;
while each night is a closure, even if there’s much to do.
Where does one end—not ever—till one’s ticket stub is due.
In the Archaean Period
by R. Lee Ubicwedas
“…when layered stone stromatolites first burst onto the Earth.”
—Bud “Weasel” Rice
Around 4.6 billion years ago, the Earth appeared;
the Hadean, an eon of 600 million years,
whose rocks are gone, because Earth’s rocks are ever being changed;
some seared, and then the sears are ever rocked and rearranged.
Then starts the era called Archaean, a fierce period,
which lasted one-and-one-half billion years—a myriad.
The atmosphere was a reducing one; electrons were
available for chemical reactions—hotter then—
as carbon-dioxide and methane, greenhouse gases, brewed;
the Sun itself was younger, fainter in the cosmic stew;
and th’ innermost, rock-centers of the continents, back then,
began solidifying, in their plate tectonic fen.
Volcanos spewed out elements into the atmosphere,
like water and some carbon compounds; it was hot and sheer.
The oceans then condensed from water. Molecules then came
with biological capacities to copy same.
Encapsulated in some oily membranes they were safe
from what looked more like Venus than the planet they would face.
They started filling Earth with nitrogen and oxygen.
Did RNA and DNA evolve with proteins then?
R. Lee Ubicwedas is a poet of cosmic distances.
~~~
Haiku
by “Clear Dew” Ibuse
An old man struggles
to keep up with the infant,
till the kid’s sidetracked.
“Clear Dew” Ibuse is an haikuist.
~~~
Haiku
by “Wired Clues” Abe
The infant travels
all along the neighbourhood,
and marvels at dirt.
“Wired Clues” Abe is a trad haiku writer, following on the work of writers, such as Nakamura Kusatao (1901-1983), Kaneko Tôta (1919-2018), Nagata Kôi (1900-1997), Nakamura Sonoko (1911-2001), and Akao Tôshi (1925-1981).
~~~
Morning’s Magi
by Ra Bué Weel Disc
He caught this morning morning’s magi driving in the day
with Its great radiation’s radiance and glaring way.
He did not dare to look to see It herding camels in
Its speeding jeep that seemed to sweep along like as a djinn,
across the Eastern sky’s horizon, lest his eyes be flashed,
spontaneous combustion hit, and he reduced to ash.
He pulled his visor down and then proceded moving on
from highway on to highway on to highway in the dawn.
Ra Bué Weel Disc is a poet of the Sun.
~~~
Newsreel:
Could it have been the hacker group Gonjeske Darande—
a predatory sparrow muffed gas stations in Iran?
~~~
The Forgotten Soldier
by War di Belecuse
Far, far away, there at a distant gate, I paused.
The sun, always above, shone on incessantly.
I touched the iron skeleton. Beneath white gauze
I sweated, not profusely, but unceasingly.
The dust was everywhere, on hands, on face, in eyes.
So pleasantly I dream of peace that will not be.
Tears stream down my cheeks as I look into the skies.
Dead bodies are strewn all about. Though war is done,
the battle does not stop. Nearby a dead corpse lies.
The dust upon that dead man makes his red blood dun.
He fought hard for a cause most noble, but lost;
and now his thoughts are for forever gone. It’s won—
the afternoon, but no one stops to count the cost.
None casts a shadow on the dusty, dry road. How
much pain must poor humanity endure? I’ve tossed
aside the gun. I gaze around and take a bow.
It’s time for me to leave the stage. I have not crossed
this place; and this is all the time I am allowed.
War di Belecuse is a poet of conflict.
~~~
Newsreel:
Ukrainian jets have destroyed the Novocherkassk—yikes—
that Russian landing warship docked at Feodosia.
It beared the hallmarks of the Brit’s Storm Shadow missile strikes,
a huge explosion in the dock—far from Chaeronia.
Feodosia is a Crimean town on the Black Sea of around 70,000.
~~~
Ten PreSocratic Attics
by Erisbawdle Cue
Miletan Thales thought that water was the basic thing;
Anaximander, that opposing, thought apeiron king;
while Anaximenes conceived the vital link was air;
Pythagoras thought number was the key to everywhere;
in constant flux, for Heraclitus, logos reigned supreme;
Parmenides believed change was illusory, a dream;
for Eleatic Zeno change created paradox;
Empedocles felt love and hate a cyclic spew of rocks;
the nous of Anaxagoras advanced ideal seeds;
Democritus thought atoms stocked the universe’s needs.
Erisbawdle Cue is a poet of philosophy.
~~~
On Meeting Italian Poetry
by Buceli da Werse
When happy circumstances led me to
the study of Italian poetry, I found myself
within a world of beauty and delight,
a new and noble world, a lawn of dew.
I left behind a dark and musty shelf
and entered in a garden fresh and bright.
So like a child, I ran this way and that,
and found such jewelled blossoms everywhere
I looked, I was quite overwhelmed. The air
was sweet and redolent. The welcome mat
became a magic carpet. I was at
the beck and call of wonder. Did I dare
disturb a universe at once so fair?
Of course, I did. I was an acrobat.
Buceli da Werse is a poet of Italian art. The rhyme scheme of this sonnet is abcabcdeeddeed.
~~~
Plaint of the Knight-Errant
by El Cid E. W. Rubesa
I feel like I’m upon a quest,
where all I do is slough.
I strive to do my very best,
but it’s not good enough.
I’ve vied like Don Quixote vied
to do all that I should.
I try and try…oh, yes, I’ve tried;
but never do make good.
El Cid E. W. Rubesa is a poet of unsuccessful adventuring as seen in these pre-tennosity stanzas.
~~~
A Christmas Carol
by Brad Lee Suciew
“Bah Humbug” was the common phrase of Ebenezer Scrooge,
who wasn’t interested in an ultracentrifuge;
he didn’t seek the relative molecular mass of
large molecules within high polymers and proteins, Guv.
His author Charles Dickens is now dead as a door-nail;
and yet one can still read his sentimental Christmas tale.
He had no further intercourse with Spirits since that time,
in that respect upon the total-abstinence of wine.
He didn’t dream of a white Christmas, wanting sunshine’s might,
or exclaim, ‘Happy Christmas…and to all a kind good night.’
Brad Lee Suciew (pronounced ‘Suck You’) is a poet of business. Charles Dickens (1812-1870) was an English Victorian proset.
~~~
Stray Cats
by Clawsieu Breed
He kept on picking up stray cats who seemed to like his food,
but it was very random, yes, and not so very good.
What did they care if Auden’s style was clipped, iconic, or
satiric now and then, detached from the PostModern boar.
They hung about the wooden fence. They jumped into the yard.
And just as fast leapt out of it, for fear they’d find a bard.
They rarely left “meow”, and only stopped to register
some thing they liked—an edgy stir—somehow, a paw print dropped.
There didn’t seem to be a purpose, as he thought must be,
when he was at the University and still a teen.
Clawsieu Breed is a poet of cats. According to B. S. Eliud Acrewe, the boar is a reference to “The Schartz-Metterklume Method” by British Modernist H. H. Munro (1870-1916). W. H. Auden (1907-1973) was an English poet.
~~~
Newsreel:
The New York City Mayor Adams said the reason that
so many have left New York City was—demonic “rats”;
not crime, nor cost of living, nor so many other things.
He said that his administration is “delivering.”
~~~
The Gems of Winter
by Brac Lei Uweeds
He opened up the door, and went out in the early morn.
He loved the smell of roses in the garden, sunlit warm.
He loved to smell their fragrance; it was ecstasy to him
It was a paradisal scent. No, it was not a whim.
If he could have rich pomegranate seeds, that would be bliss,
that gem of winter, emanating with its ruby kiss.
He longed to breathe the fresh air in, so deep, so pure, and long,
exhaling for an even longer time in dewy dawn.
He crouched down on the concrete trail, picking off a bloom,
beneath the beauty of the blue. Yes, this would do for doom.
Brac Lei Uweeds is a poet of plants.
~~~
Lyric Heard:
“It’s beginning to look a lot like Crystal Nacht…everywhere you go.”
~~~
Newsreel:
The President of Harvard, plagiarist Gay, gave no cause
that calling for the genocide of Jews broke any laws.
~~~
The Reality of Order in Western Florida
by Cause Bewilder
The Sunshine Skyway Bridge skims Tampa Bay,
a cable-stayed main span that has a length
of 5.5 miles long, and skirts its way
past sail and barge with steel and concrete strength,
connecting Terra Ceia in the south
with large metropolis St. Petersburg;
across the aqua plain its curves emerge,
and dolphins guard against its smiling mouth.
While up above along 2-7-5,
where twenty thousand cars each day survive,
the yellow shiny gleams of bright daylight,
awash in waves of beauty’s utile font,
are burnished golden beams of brilliant height
that take its drivers lives to where they want.
Cause Bewilder is a poet of the South. The rhyme scheme of this American sonnet is abcabcdedefghfgh. The Tampa-St. Petersburg area has a population of around 2,8000,000.
~~~
Evening Workout
by Rudi E. Welec, “Abs”
“He needed to extend his spine, to lift his head up high,
to keep on striving to be more erect and stand upright.”
—Deuce S. Brawlie
In the beginning, legs tense up, and they begin to ache;
but in a while they get used to it and it’s okay.
They keep a cadence mindlessly, and take to training’s pace,
and slowly build the heartbeat up, o pounding in that place.
There on the baned elliptical, there is no gain, or pain,
though there is tightening throughout, from feet to nape and brain.
The arms as well begin to swell; the coursing blood appears,
as if one’s getting stronger muscles, paying in arrears.
Then at the end, one carefully gets off the giant steps,
and one can walk away to sit, and try to get some rest.
Rudi E. Welec, “Abs”, is a poet of exercise.
~~~
I Trust a Tryst
by I. Warble Seduce
It is today that matters—not tonight.
Tomorrow never will be quite so bright.
Yesterday was truly something.
It was lovely seeing you.
So much better than just nothing,
being all alone and blue.
Now today is even better.
Here beside the faucet’s spray.
Cloudy skies and sunny weather,
it’s a cold December day.
It is today that matters—not tonight.
Tomorrow never will be quite so bright.
Just a few words from your speaking
and a brief but warm embrace.
And the faucet isn’t leaking
while I’m taking in your face.
Oh, the days continue passing,
and the time keeps flowing on.
But I’m thankful for the last thing
on my mind—that lovely dawn.
It is today that matters—not tonight.
Tomorrow never will be quite so bright.
Cars keep passing by us—sort of,
as we sit beside time’s stream.
You are mine and I am yours, Love,
this is really not a dream.
We have come from other places.
We have come to live our lives.
We are working out our graces,
spaces for all that survives.
It is today that matters—not tonight.
Tomorrow never will be quite so bright.
Mr. I. Warble Seduce is a poet of sensual love.
~~~
Beneath the Viscum Album
by Ileac Burweeds
In winter, after leaves have fallen, one can see it grow—
the hemiparasitic organism mistletoe.
The host withdraws its showy gauze amongst the misty twigs,
while kissers love to get beneath a piece—that pre-spring sprig.
Ileac Burweeds is a poet of plants.
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