Haiku
by “Wired Clues” Abe
The camelia
spread the deck with red petals.
It was time to saw.
Haiku
by “Wired Clues” Abe
He tripped and he fell
against the hard gray concrete:
emergency room.
“Wired Clues” Abe is a rad trad haiku writer.
~~~
A Cutting-Edge Mechanical Arcadia
by W. Sidereal Cube
“Thou shalt not make a machine in the likeness of a human mind.”
—Frank Herbert, “Dune”
He stood up at the portal of the port hole, looking out
in to the distant space that raced around and all about.
His countenance showed that he was amazed at what he saw:
the shapes and lights; blue, brown, gold, white; that which filled him
with awe.
He felt like as he was encountering another D,
and entering a path to burgeoning discovery,
his suit adapted to the circumstances he was in,
heme molecules composed of iron and ringed porphyrin.
The circle that he gazed through with its shiny radii
revealed a cutting-edge, mechanical arcadia.
A Sci Fi Blogger Sighs
by W. Sidereal Cube
Although he was an amateur, he loved it just the same—
his favourite book, but “Dune”—Orson Scott Card’s “Ender’s Game”.
Strong characters meant he was not indifferent to them,
despite the kid protaganists, that seemed adult, like men.
Throughout the book, the boys and girls had little childhood,
and were, in fact, forced quickly to grow up, for bad or good.
At times the story’s grim and bleak, as is reality,
and though it’s science fiction, it’s not weak, but is unique.
The children at the battle school can be enjoyed, or not;
some of them could be hated for their actions and their thoughts.
The book has lots of themes: manipulation, friendship, youth,
identity and competition, isolation, too.
W. Sidereal Cube is a poet of outer space. Frank Herbert (1920-1986) and Orson Scott Card are American PostModernist science fiction prosets.
~~~
On Land Or Sea
by Eber L. Aucsidew
What peace there is comes dropping slow, but do not say there’s none;
for even if one’s wrecked at sea, and cannot see the Sun,
there still is some, if only in one’s heart within the waves.
So, prithee, peace, be still at last, though no-one’s near to save.
It is the fate of being human; it’s how it must be;
and it’s worthwhile, since that is all there is on land or sea.
Eber L. Aucsidew is a poet of air and water.
~~~
Flashback 2017:
“May we present Malaysia’s hip-hop artist named Namewee?”
“Mais oui. He won the Golden Melody Award two times.”
~~~
Downpour Spite
by Wu “Sacred Bee” Li
In Spring, asleep—not yet aware of morning taking place,
place, place, one hears the chirp, chirp, chirp, of dawn’s birds breaking peace.
Last night, one heard the blasting winds and rain-plas-ter-ing spew—
rose petals falling down—who knows how many, or how few?
And later, one comes to discover there a manifold;
more than eight hundred petals strewn, across the lawn unrolled.
But every one of them came from the older rosebush stems;
the younger ones, though drooping, lost no floral uncut gems.
Wu “Sacred Bee” Li is a poet of Ancient China. “Downpour Spite” comes from NewMillennial poet Evan Mantyk’s translation of “Spring Dawn” by Meng Haoran (c. 690 – 740), a poet of the Tang Dynasty.
~~~
Newsreel:
Rains lashed Dubai on Tuesday, covering airport and streets;
the city was closed down in a rare flash-flood’s downpour sweep.
~~~
The Die Is Cast
by Israel W. Ebecud
“I woke to black flak and the nightmare fighters.”
—Randall Jarrell
On Saturday, th’ Iranians launched drones on Israel,
with cruise and some ballistic missiles f-i-r-e-d just as well,
more than three hundred were demolished during the attack.
Alea iacta est—the evidence, the black flak fact.
But was it true that Turkey was informed about its op?
and Biden’s admin said it must be “limited” in scope?
Israel W. Ebecud is a poet of Israel. According to Roman historian Suetonius (69-122) of the Latin Silver Age, “iacta alea est” were words used by Julius Caesar (100 BC – 44 BC), when he crossed the Rubicon River on January 10, 49 BC. Randall Jarrell (1914-1965) was a PostModernist American poet and literary critic.
~~~
A Wise Man or a Fool
by Caleb Wuri Seed
“Yet he will rule over all my labour in which
I toiled, and in which I have shown
myself wise under the Sun. This also is vanity.”
—Qoheleth, “Ecclesiastes 2:19”
The darkness came so suddenly, that he was not prepared.
It took him by surprise, when he awoke to find it aired.
He should have seen it coming; it would be less scarier;
but, over the horizon, it broke the time barrier.
So there he was, washed out, as if he hadn’t been at all,
no flying ace in outer space, nor supernatural.
What chance had he, or nearly all of his contemp’ry peers,
of doing more than being in a scene that disappears?
How could he make his situation clear to those not on…
long afterwards, long afterwords, long after words were gone.
Caleb Wuri Seed is a poet of the earth. Qoheleth was an ancient teacher and preacher of Ancient Israel.
~~~
Antonio de Guevara
by Raúl de Cwesibe
At a time, like now, when rhetoric seems
a thing of the past, it is a joy to
think on the didactic-historic dreams
of Antonio de Guevara. True,
his Relox de príncipes was a hoax,
as Pedro Rhúa witlessly revealed,
and his unscrupulous invention chokes
with its elaborate, embellished yield.
Still, these days one looks in vain for any
lush vanities, overblown metaphors,
heaped-up antitheses, or many
overdone sonorous verbal faux pas.
In fact, one must go to Shakespeare—really—
if not to euphuisms of Lyly.
Raúl de Cwesibe is a poet of Spanish letters. Antonio de Guevara (1481-1545) was a Spanish writer of El Siglo de Oro. John Lyly (1554-1606) and William Shakespeare (1664-1616) were English Elizabethan writers.
~~~
A Daybreak Update
by B. S. Eliud Acrewe
He sat up at the table. It was morning, slightly cool.
He sipped his cup of coffee, feeling like an easy tool.
Here in the breakfast nook, he felt he was ridiculous,
a bit obtuse, too neat, and overly meticulous.
Arranging tie and belt, he was prepared to hit the road;
but not quite yet, though ready for another episode.
He steadied himself for what would come. Yes, he was alert.
He needed to be pert, indeed. But also quick and curt.
He had a job to do. Procrastination would not work—
no matter who he had to meet with, gentlefolk or jerk.
He settled rib-cage, neck extended,, as he stretched his spine,
the morning spread out, like a patient prepped, anesthetized.
B. S. Eliud Acrewe is a poet of innuendo.
~~~
His Last Big Act
by Cawb Edius Reel
He died on the floor of a parking-lot
garage, when he was only thirty-one.
That was his end. Since then, he’s been forgot-
ten. His career was over. He was done.
Nobody cared to hear him anymore.
His style caught no imaginative fire.
The wonder was it ever had before.
One wondered how it ever did inspire.
He lay there on the cold, gray concrete stage
beside row after row of cars and trucks.
It was his final act in that crazed age.
He’d had his moment in the sun’s brunt crux,
and faded fast away. I saw him then,
and thought, how strange is life again—again.
The First Part of a Dream Within a Dream
by Cawb Edius Reel
What did I see? Gee, I’m amazed. It was a re-al dream.
Then I awoke, while I was still asleep, and in that dream.
Beside an old wood window frame, next to my resting head,
there was a pile of paper scraps between the wall and bed,
of diff’rent sizes, clumped together, torn pieces that each had
things legible but indeciph’rable upon each side.
I heard a radio, a game show on at eight-o’clock.
The hosts were saying that no one yet had given them a call.
What was that program? and how did these messages appear?
It seems someone had opened up and closed the window there.
I got up to the radio, but someone had called in,
so all these papers representing people did not win.
How quietly those paper pieces had been left with me.
Someone had lodged them carefully and oh, so sneakily.
I told my wife what had occurred, while I was still asleep.
Was this in Italy, and had I gone in way too deep?
Cawb Edius Reel is a poet of film.
~~~
A Premonition
by “Wild” E. S. Bucaree
Up over former cloverleaf designs,
the Dallas High-Five Interchange is found
120 feet above the ground
upon its very highest of inclines.
From there flyover ramps make their declines
down to the lanes on which the cars are bound,
and other vehicles, to get around
the ever waiting gridlock locked in lines.
“Wild” E. S. Bucaree is a poet of Texas. Dallas, Texas is a city of around 1,300,000.
~~~
A Workout Sesh
by Rudi E. Welec, “Abs”
He put his brown trunks on; it was time for a workout sesh.
It was invigourating. O, his breaths were brief and fresh.
Yes, it was quite exciting, if a bit uncomfter’ble;
but he had to exercise to slenderize his butt.
He stretched his arms and back and legs, and all parts in between,
because he needed to address all that which was obscene.
He spread his flesh; he had to shed some of those weighty pounds;
Again, again, again, again. O, he did eighty rounds.
He lifted up his head and tightened up his abdomen;
because he needed to. Besides it was his agnomen.
Rudi E. Welec, “Abs” is a poet of physical exercise.
~~~
Tea in th’ Early Morning Sun
by Carb Deliseuwe
He b-o-i-l-e-d water for some tea in th’ early morning Sun.
A stunning green chai sounded good to, a polyphenol run—
like epigallocatechin-3-gallate, found in plants,
which is one of the better known of antioxidants,
that helps in balancing one’s levels of free radicals,
protecting DNA and other vital molecules,
since prolonged oxidative stress can lead to health outcomes
that can disrupt one’s comprehensive equilibrium.
Besides, he liked the spices found therein, like cardamom,
and some clove bud oil, allspice, ginger root, and cinnamon.
Carb Deliseuwe is a poet of food and drink.
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