An Ocean-Wet Beach Ball
by I. E. Sbase Weruld
The Earth is a planet-globe in motion, not the most, of all known objects, massive, but large enough to contain an ocean, thin and only on its surface, as if it were literally nothing at all, trivial, just a drop in the bucket, nothing more than an ocean-wet beach ball on the sandy shores, of say, Nantucket.
I. E. Sbace Weruld is a poet of outer space. Nantucket, Massachusetts, mentioned in this one sentence prosem, is a tourist town of around 15,000, that can swell to 80,000 in summer.
~~~
Newsreel:
The touchdown on the lunar surface by the Japanese
made them the 5th land to land on the Moon, at Shioli,
the impact crater, that’s located near to Nectar Sea,
south of where the Apollo landed, near Tranquility.
~~~
Haiku
by “Clear Dew” Ibuse
Above the spire
pointing skyward, is the Moon.
It is only nine.
Haiku
by “Clear Dew” Ibuse
Atop the leafless,
ornamental pear tree, clung
a red cardinal.
Haiku
by “Clear Dew” Ibuse
At Acorn Corner,
she flew through the oak branches:
a bright-red beaked bird.
Haiku
by “Clear Dew” Ibuse
Against the current,
he watched the polywogs swim
in the little creek.
“Clear Dew” Ibuse is a haiku poet.
~~~
Haiku
by “Wired Clues” Abe
Upon the storm drain,
the toddler turned in circles,
stepping off whoozy.
“Wired Clues” Abe is a NewMillennial haiku writer.
~~~
In Pictured Polychrome
by Cawb Edius Reel
“Mama, don’t take my Kodachrome away…”
—Paul Simon, “Kodachrome”
He saw the golden grasses and the leafless, winter trees,
surrounded by the wind-strewn red-brown oak and maple leaves.
He stood astride the meadow edge, beside the grassy grounds.
He looked beyond, upon the distant, ruminating cows.
He saw the litter scattered round, not at a minimum:
the plastic, paper, cellophane, cloth and aluminum.
He saw glass bottles, cigarette butts, and the fast food sacks,
as well as the unfinished drinks, french fries and ketchup packs.
He saw old di’pers, beer cans, and assorted styrofoam,
and boxes, pamphlets, packages, in pictured polychrome.
Cawb Edius Reel is a poet of snapshots. Paul Simon is a contemporary American singer-songwriter.
~~~
Newsreel:
On January 3rd she got a whipping in Iran,
because she didn’t want to wear a damn hijab again;
but for such daring boldness, Roya Heshmati received
some seventy-four lashes doffing clothes of slavery.
~~~
The Henchmen from Persia, or from Babylon
by Delir Ecwabeus
In blackest night they come to wreak their havoc on
the unprotected ones, those unprepared, unwell.
They take their cues from Persia or from Babylon,
and with brute force they beat souls down into their hell.
Like cowboys horses, they will break the brave to bits.
If you escape those gangs of horror, count yourself
as lucky; rare is he who keeps out of their pits.
They come with axes in their hands, and chopping blocks.
They laugh at pain and hurt with joy, those masochists.
A pox upon their rugged looks, their chains and locks;
for freedom can’t endure their horrid, deadly spawn,
and must fight back with everything its got, and box.
Delir Ecwabeus is a poet of Persia and Iran.
~~~
Newsreel:
In Jordan, three Americans died in a drone attack.
The proxies of Iran extend their murdering on track.
~~~
The Start of “War and Peace”
by Rus Ciel Badeew
“So Genoa and Lucca are just family estates,
Prince Kuragin,” said Anna Scherer, “of the Bounapartes.
But I warn you, if you do not tell me that this means war,
if you still try defending all the horrors some have borne—
he is the AntiChrist, you know—I will have nothing more
to do with you, and you no longer are my faithful friend.
But how, pray tell, are you? I see that I have frightened you.
Sit down and tell me all the news. O, pray tell, what is new?”
She was the maid of honor of the Empress, this July;
he was a man of some importance, in 1805;
and this was the beginning of Count Leo Tolstoy’s tome,
gargantuan, and longer-lived, than the great Istra Dome.
Rus Ciel Badeew is a poet of Russian literature. “Ciel”, the sky, can symbolize the Great Unknown. Leo Tolstoy (1828-1910) was a noted Realist Russian proset.
~~~
Near Italy
by Uwe Carl Diebes
In Montagnola, near Lugano, Switzerland,
where Hermann Hesse, in serene tranquility
and relative seclusion, took his winter stand,
as close to Italy as a German could be,
he lived for half his life, there writing books until
the end. Like Joseph Knecht in Magister Ludi,
the Glass Bead Game, he strove for ideality,
a new morality transcending what he saw.
Like Friedrich Nietzshe, under his enchanting spell,
he failed as well, but never lost his sense of awe,
in Demian, in Steppenwulf, in Siddhartha;
it was a spiritual kingdom that he sought.
Uwe Carl Diebes is a poet of German literature. Friedrich Nietzsche (1844-1900) was a late-19th century German philosopher; Herman Hesse (1877-1962) was a Modernist German novelist.
~~~
Sonett mit drilling
by Bud “Weasel” Rice
The rhino’s big, the gray “white” is about
four thousand pounds; compared, to th’ African
Cape buffalo which weighs two thousand pounds.
Although it has a heavy hide and wicked lance
upon its nose, it is short-sighted, and
is stupid. It ‘s been known to take on a train
unsuccessfully. Yet, its bulk is grand,
and its strength, a danger to entertain.
Oxpeckers, tick birds, are the rhino’s guard.
They warn the rhino when danger’s present,
and eat the ticks found on its skin’s thick, hard
surface, in symbiotical assent.
Although it’s primitive and ponderous,
and, like the dodo, oft preposterous,
earth would be less with no rhinoceros.
Bud “Weasel” Rice is a poet of mammals. “Sonett mit drilling” is German for “Sonnet with Triplet.”
~~~
Newsreel:
French farmers drove their tractors to place Paris “under siege,”
due to green strangulation, so—“once more unto the breech.”
The above quote comes from William Shakespeare (1564-1616), Henry V.
~~~
In the Laquearia
by B. S. Eliud Acrewe
He sat upon the royal throne, like as a peacock king;
although he was ranked number two upon the anchor ring.
Ensconced beside the sconces, on the shiny porcelain,
he felt somewhat protected in the castle barbican.
The glitter of his jewels rose up to meet him where he was,
above the roiling, with a vitreous, toroidal cup:
maroc, thé vert, menthe verte, et citronelle et menthe poivrée,
he drained it in the lovely, vented laquearia.
He lifted up his body, liquid, troubled, and confused,
drowned in the sensory, the odours from shampoo he used.
From glimpses of Atooi to the wheat sheaves of Van Gogh:
ah, two eyes on Kaua’i, rising yellow Moon—ad hoc.
B. S. Eliud Acrewe is a poet of Eliotic waves. Vincent Van Gogh (1853-1890) was a Dutch PostImpressionist painter.
~~~
Not Hemming
by Lud Wes Caribee
He felt like as a racer who was caught in middle stride
within the mi(d)st of chasing lions—flying, fight or flight?
like an old man caught dreaming on a skiff out in the sea,
heroic’lly embroiled in fate, if ineffectively,
not hemming, no, nor hawing on his way—anchors aweigh.
One has to keep on going, growing through the rules of day.
Lud Wes Caribee is a poet of the Caribbean. Ernest Hemingway (1899-1961) was an American Modernist proset, whose “In Our Time” demonstrated his reverberating, understated style.
~~~
Beyond the Interstate
by Bruc “Diesel” Awe
“The train…track out of sight.”
—Ernest Hemingway
He looked at thé worked-over stretch of hillside, where he found
all manner of construction vehicles upon the ground:
ditch diggers, excavator, cement mixer, and dump truck,
bulldozers, forklifts, roller, crane, and tractors in the muck.
The closest creek was further north; the river east did lie.
The railroad track was far away; there was no bridge nearby.
But lots of stores and parking lots filled up with vehicles:
vans, pick-ups, flatbeds, autos, jeeps, hatch-backs, and SUVs.
He watched them as they changed positions on the gray cement.
He watched them for a long time. His eyes traveled with intent.
Off thé machines, he saw the gleaming, glaring, winter Sun,
here at the worksite by these shops beyond the Interstate.
Bruc “Diesel” Awe is a poet of vehicles.
~~~
The Prisoner
by Bilee Wad Curse
Was he alone and on a suicde watch in his cell?
Did he believe he was protected by the bro-cartel?
Were the corrections officers, who watched the prisoner,
responsible for falsifying records? Is that true?
Weren’t all the jail cell doors locked that night? Which ones were not?
Why was the cam’ra turned off for that night? Who ordered that?
Did someone hiding somewhere for some reason have him killed?
Who was, or were, the ones who had him permanently stilled?
Was the autopsy also bungled, hidden by the press,
complicit in the cherry-picking things they would address?
Who else requir’d security from death threats they received,
or FBI and NYPD lawfare legalese?
Bilee Wad Curse is a poet of crime.
~~~
Newsreel:
Base Fook does not want people going to the border states.
They want to keep the people from the wide and open Gates.
~~~
At This Turn
by Urbawel Cidese
He lifted up his leg, and placed his foot upon the curb,
here in this urban neighbourhood and ultramodern burg.
He took his time, because he knew, he’d have to use his strength
to lift his long leg up, extending its entire length.
Nearby he saw an individual on his dog walk—
a husky, black-and-white, Siberian, trot round the block,
that did not pause upon its paws, but kept on going on,
here in cool dawn, down paved straight lines, beside lawn after lawn.
He sprang upon the grass, and passed to the flat gray cement,
and turned aside to see the sign, that climbed above his head,
octagonal, and red, with big bright white S-T-O-P,
a momentary pause at this turn in eternity.
Urbawel Sidese is a poet of urban spaces.
~~~
After Meditation
by Rudi E. Welec, “Abs”
He sucked it in, his microbiome gut, his hut and home;
wherein he lived, no matter where he went or where he roamed,
no matter if he strode or rode down busy road or street,
in car, if he was going far, or short, upon his feet.
He saw his rib cage as he sucked his abs in just a bit.
He needed to stretch arms and legs but not to bust his git.
He stretched his biceps and his flexors sucking stomach in,
while lifting up his pelvis, like a twisting manikin.
He took a sip of herbal tea, turmeric, ginger gold,
contracting muscles, in a wu-way, hustle-bustle rolled.
It made him happy after meditation to do this,
content, extending rising thighs, if not a kind of bliss.
Rudi E. Welec, “Abs”, is a poet of exercise.
~~~
The Coffee Maker
by Carb Deliseuwe
He thought it was important that he should attempt new things;
that way he’d be experiencing fresh imaginings;
and so, he made a pot of coffee, which he’d never done—
he’d always drunk somebody else’s—then he drank it down.
Carb Deliseuwe is a poet of food and drink.
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