Newsreel:
Sent by the NASA Psyche was a laser out in space
transmitted from one-hundred-forty-million miles away.
~~~
Haiku
by “Wired Clues” Abe
Yesterday he saw,
on the college campus lawn,
no cherry blossoms.
Haiku
by “Wired Clues” Abe
Beneath red yuccas,
and a white Adam’s Needle,
he stared at pebbles.
“Wired Clues” Abe is a rad trad haiku writer.
~~~
His Interrupted Circadian
by Leeb Sercadiuw
He woke up in the middle of the night well after dark.
He checked his phone beside his pillow. It was four o’clock.
It had been interrupted—his circadian—again—
and so he started listening to a taped book online—
Haruki Murakami’s “After Dark” seemed apropos.
And then, he heard his neighbour’s truck, without a muffler, go.
Enjoying Murakami’s prose—in Denny’s restaurant—
but then he switche—“Wildberger’s Math”—itself a worthy want.
The topic was “Topology”—continuous shapes morphed—
es-pe-cial-ly those properties unchanged when they’re deformed,
like 2-D spheres into dumbbells, or tori into cups…
and listened till he had distilled his early morning spunk.
Leeb Sercadiuw is a poet of sleep. Haruki Murakami is a contemporary Japanese proset, Norman Wildberger a contemporary Canadian-Australian mathemetician.
~~~
Colonel Mustard
by Cu Ebide Aswerl
He felt like Colonel Mustard in the study with a clock,
his skin was yellowing; he’d tripped on pavement with a shock.
It was as if time had slowed down, while he was falling down.
The ground was hard, and of an import. Damn, it was profound.
He looked up at the corner glass display and cabinet.
Above the whiskeys and liqueurs, the fancy clock was set—
its time five-fifty—ten till six—forever stuck right there,
between some plastic plants near by the matching wooden chair.
A cat was at the window sill. What was it gazing at?
The wind was wildly blowing all about, this way and that.
Upon the narrow ledge, room for a charging phone de jure.
Cool Colonel Mustard slowly faded into furniture.
Cu Ebide Aswerl is a poet of the study.
~~~
Newsreel:
Has the USA purchased eighty-one Soviet jets
from Kazakhstan, which is updating its air-conflict fleet?
If not, who put this miscommunication on the Web,
some secret agency that wants to interrupt this sale?
~~~
Ammo of the Bandoliers
by War di Belecuse
He hated fighting all the time—a target on his back.
The enemy surveillance was continuous—alack.
Though he could hide in shrubbery or in the trenches deep,
he ever had to be concerned of scouts and bouts of sleep.
At times, he felt like as an animal upon all fours,
here crawling through these bushes in amidst tyrannosaurs.
The Sun could be up in the sky, but that would not be good;
because he was more vuln’rable to scrutiny and brute.
And modern warfare was horrendous on so many tiers,
the tanks, the planes, the guns—O, ammo of the bandoliers!
It Was Not World War
by War di Belecuse
He sucked his stomach in; he had to brave another day,
one that was cloudy, with a min-gl-ing of white and gray.
But through the sky he could see some slight strips of azure hue,
that were quite beautiful, if really only barely blue.
It’s true, he loved to look upon the heavens; they were cool;
and though he loved them fervently, he took note not to drool.
He saw the liquor cabinet; he saw the monitor.
He thought about the naming of the parts—not juniper—
nor glistening japonica—it was not world war—
yet in Ukraine and Israel, the missiles reigned galore;
and proxies kept on sending in more weapons to the storm,
as if well-meaning gestures would help keep them safe and warm.
War did Belecuse is a poet of conflict. Henry Reed (1914-1986) was a Modernist British poet and proset.
~~~
The Lightning Storm
by Éclair Dub W. See
The lightning storm was violent; one strike hit close to home.
Exploding on his neighbourhood was one terrific boom.
Just up the road, a roof was hit; the bolt’s jolt shook his house.
O, Zeus struck hard from Heaven’s perch, and with a rainy souse.
He put on his thick, black coat, and a black cap for his head.
Upon his feet, black shoes and socks would keep him from the wet.
He stepped outside to see what had occurred, though it was dark;
and then he heard the sirens coming, shrill and eerie, stark.
Police and ambulance were there; a fire truck as well.
There near the realm of Hercules, had come horrendous Hell.
He saw the flashing lights: blue, yellow, red, and white too boot;
but he gave up his view and stepped inside his humble hut.
Éclair Dub W. See is a poet of visions.
~~~
Tassoni
by Alberdi Ucwese
No Tasso he—Tassoni, who attacked
the ancient authors. Favoring the new
and not the old; the fresh was what he backed;
and in that Inn he stayed, while outside blew
the wind. In twelve grand cantos he explained
the war between Modena’s Ghibellines
and bold Bologna’s Guelfs. Their stands were strained
until their insignificant cant cracks, demeans.
The mock-heroic poem, which Tassoni named
The Captured Bucket, a new kind of work,
that writers, Dryden, Pope, Boileau, reclaimed,
then vanished with the novel’s rising smirk.
Why is it we no longer have that fit
that mixed together poetry with wit?
Alberdi Ucwese is a poet of Italian moments. Italian poet Alessandro Tassoni (1565-1635) was the author of the mock-heroic poem La secchia rapita. John Dryden (1631-1700), Alexander Pope (1688-1744), and Nicolas Boileau (1636-1711) were Neoclassical English and French poets.
~~~
Algebra
by Euclidrew Base
He didn’t understand what he was doing in his youth.
What was it his instructors tried to teach him—truth or proof?
Take, for example—algebra—what did it even mean?
At least he vaguely understood the dates of history.
In algebra, his work was practicing, apparently,
group theory’s adumbrations via logic and its laws;
but how could he know that, when he was only barely twelve;
and had not delved within math’s realms where Pascal, when young, dwelled.
Now decades later, it began to make sense to his mind,
how generality became an ever greater find,
a treasure in this Universe, that is no friend to man,
absorbed into Eternity, considering life’s span.
Euclidrew Base is a poet of mathematics. Blaise Pascal (1623-1662) was a French Classical mathematician, physicist, and writer.
~~~
Reminder:
So many thousands die each day on this our planet Earth,
yet also all across the Globe, life claims its many births.
~~~
In the Great Scheme of Things
by Esca Webuilder
He sat at his computer; it was his work station site.
He typed away. Outside he saw trees fly, the birds in flight.
He felt a bit un-com-fter-ble; his shoes too tight, he thought;
his long-sleeved coat too heavy and his belt too overwrought.
Yet still he worked on vigourously; he had things to do,
which didn’t have to do with outside things within his view.
He gazed up from his desk, down to te floor and carpet there.
The jostling leaves of tall oak trees were bouncin in the air.
He saw the darling buds of May; he saw clouds scuttle by;
o, these were but a couple things seen in a live man’s eye.
Yet still he wondered as he laboured under the belief
that what he did had some import in the Great Scheme of Things.
Esca Webuilder is a poet of computers.
~~~
Rest Can’t Impede
by Des Wercebauli
It was time to get up and go to work—to break his sleep—
to wake and shake his ta-il-fea-thers. He got up and peed.
Some coffee and some exercisies take him from his rest.
Each day of life is both a miracle and toilful test.
One can’t impede its necessary and incessant flow.
One has to get up off one’s bed. One simply has to go.
There are so many things to do, one can not do them all;
and yet one has to rise and shine, stand tall, and do not fall.
He felt like as a runner who was at the starting line,
preparing to align to the divine, his stretched out spine.
And now that he was starting, heart was beating, he was prepped.
How would he do today, he wondered, from his having slept?
Des Wercebauli is a poet of work, who in his youth was a workaholic.
~~~
By the Clock
by Rudi E. Welec, “Abs”
His shoes were black, as was his coffee. He stood by the Clock.
He did his morning workout listening to its tick-tock.
The second hand, the minute hand, the hour hand went round.
His hands moved all about, o, back and forth, ah, up and down.
His heart was pounding, breathing panting; it was not for show.
He knew it was important to keep moving—on the go.
He lifted up; he stood erect; he reached up to the sky,
while lightning hit and thunder roared, another exercise.
He heard the rain crash hard upon the lit gymnasium;
the venae cavae carrying blood to the atrium.
An Early Morning Jog
by Rudi E. Welec, “Abs”
He went out for an early morning jog, as was his wont.
He thought it was important to go out for such a jaunt.
And he would run—o, yes, he would—but sometimes he would feel,
like as a guinea pig inside a cage upon a wheel;
and then the gig seemed like a chore, his jig a constant bore,
until his heart was beating, beating, and repeating more.
His breaths came faster, deeper, as he mastered the terrain—
and then he felt, like as a puffing-and-car-pulling train,
that rolled along, without disdain, round passing hills and curves,
avoiding swerves, if needed, but still keeping verve and nerves.
Left leg, right arm, right leg, left arm—ah, forth and back he went,
while panting heavily, and, heaving air that he had spent.
He kept it up, his heart was pumped, step after step he’d run,
his own will power with his mighty mitochondria.
He did not think about the foggy, atmospheric dome,
but focused on what was before him on this winding road.
He needed to be careful, as he did not want to trip,
until he reached the end of his hip-soaring, morning rip.
This Race
by Rudi E. Welec, “Abs”
It was a cloudy, windy day, when he went out to run.
Though it was there in bright white light, he could not see the Sun.
The white clouds looked like poofy pillows, billowing and free.
He felt like as a locomotive chugging sluggishly.
O, he kept moving even though he didn’t feel like it.
In fact, he’d rather take a hike than trot along or sprint.
But, such was not to be. He’d been assigned to do this race.
It was his fate as a team mate; and he could not escape.
He stretched his legs out as far as he could. His stride was strong.
But did he have the strength for this—the course was rough and long?
Though he had pep, he felt each step, his feet impacting—Zounds!
He felt like as an animal unbound, pound, pound, pound, pound.
O, would he make it? Could he take it to the very end?
His breath was furiously growing, round each curving bend.
O, coming to the finish line, he ached, and he was numb.
Beyond the gasping, raspy panting, he heard the throng’s loud thrum.
Rudi E. Welec, “Abs”, is a poet of exercise.
~~~
For His Own Goodness Sake
by Cu Ebide Aswirl
He sat back in his chair to play a game of solitaire.
He did not have a deck of fifty-one, Why would he care?
He did stare out the window, though, upon his neighbourhood,
while he was doing laundry, if not pursuing what was good.
His right leg folded over his left foot upon the chair,
content to be where he was at, not going anywhere.
He finished off his coffee cup, and started drinking tea.
He had a sinking feeling he was merely being free.
He put his right leg on the desk, and crossed it with his left,
as he proceeded losing one more game. He did not fret.
It was relaxing—no, not taxing—pausing for a break
that crashed around him natch’rally for his own goodness sake.
Cu Ebide Aswirl is a poet of leisure.
Leave A Comment