Atmospheric Notes
by Éclair Dub W. See
He saw the skies rise overhead; white clouds went sailing past;
they were so grand, enormous and so wide and high and vast.
He loved the open feelings of the messengers above,
angelic wispy vapors, wind-warm, flying by, of fluff.
He saw the setting of the Solar Disc so large and bright.
He saw the full Moon rising pale rose, round, real and right.
The azure air was clear and pure, beyond superior,
beyond the City, overhead, though cratered, cheerier.
And though it was just one brief moment in Eternity,
still, what a moment, o, so exquisite and truly free.
Éclair Dub W. See is a poet of the clear.
~~~
Haiku
by “Clear Dew” Ibuse
Beneath the full Moon,
white crepe myrtle, by the house,
towers o’er th’ roses.
Haiku
by “Clear Dew” Ibuse
White crepe myrtle blooms
dangle threateningly at
the study window.
“Clear Dew” Ibuse is a haiku composer.
~~~
Moving
by Ecwus Beal Ride
He saw the highway to the Heavens stretch out far beyond.
The clouds were huge and white and moving, wandering at Dawn.
His rosy fingers turned the Wheel. He turned to the Right.
He loved the trees and flowers growing in the morning Light.
Along th’ Edenic gardens, were crepe myrtles in a row,
white blossoms in the trees, bright beautiful, like blooms of snow,
He had to find a place to live; but what could he afford?
He took a sip of ginger root beer. He was not the Lord.
He was but just a seeker after some place he could live.
The central question: How much money he would have to give?
Apartments cost a thousand per month for a bed and bath,
and much more with more footage. He would have to do the math.
The nearby rentals for a house surpassed four thousand bucks;
while nearby houses cost a half a million—that’s the crux.
He didn’t think that he would move; it didn’t make sense to;
and so he would continue to retain his present view.
Ecwus Beal Ride is a poet of movement of the Be-All and End-All.
~~~
Newsreel:
More than one-thousand people died in Mecca at the Hajj,
a heady price to pay to make a Grand Mosque pilgrimage.
~~~
Death Smiles
by Saudi Becrewel
Beneath a long, wind-swept, white robe,
and hovering head-covering,
death smiles, his teeth bright as a strobe,
savoring all the suffering,
his shiny, hidden, silver knife,
awaiting fleecy sheep and lambs
that leap with spritely, gentle life,
upon the meadows gamboling,
anticipating mutton.
Saudi Becrewel is a poet of cruelty.
~~~
Like Some Old Senator of Rome
by Aedile Cwerbus
“A nation can survive its fools, and even the ambitious.
But it cannot survive treason from within.”
—Marcus Tullius Cicero
He sat before a map, like some old senator of Rome,
a frown upon his countenance, a crown of short-cropped hair.
He had no power over others…underneath a map
of criss-crossed streets and bold-lined highways on an urban plat.
His monitor was off, as he sat at his wooden desk,
a World map beneath his laptop, like a game of Risk.
He was an emperor of nothing, nor was he a king;
the lines upon his face were deep; they were a reckoning.
A wrecking ball was knocking down an older building site.
What would be the new order? Would there be somebody wise?
Aedile Cwerbus is a poet of Roman imaginings. Cicero (106 BC – 43 BC) was a noted Latin proset of civilized expression.
~~~
From the Baroque to the Classical
by Ewald E. Eisbruc
The change in the music from the Baroque
Era to the Classical Period
is a shift, a drift from polytonic
to monotonic, from the harpsichord
to piano forte, from the local
to the cosmopolitan, from ornate
forms to natural ones, to the vocal
from the intricate and elaborate.
The change in the music to the Classic
from the Baroque was a gain and a loss.
As a gain, it was a new style of music,
a simple purity without the dross.
As loss, it sacrificed complexity,
for freedom, frenzy, and dexterity.
Ewald E. Eisbruc is a poet of music, suggesting dates for the Baroque period (1600-1750) and the Classical period (1750-1800).
~~~
The Hunger Artist
by Carb Deliseuwe
“…the perfectly assured spectator of his fast.”
—Franz Kafka
He was so hungry, since he hadn’t eaten for a day.
The twenty-four long hours made him long for an entrée.
Some celery in avocado guac would be quite nice.
A piece of cheese would also please. Yes, he would like a bit.
Perhaps some eggs with mushrooms, olives, and tomatoes sliced.
But he would have to bide his time. He’d have to hold on tight.
A piece of homemade pizza too—that would be good to eat
with luscious toppings on ‘t—would set his heart to beat. O, beat.
Some salad and/or sauerkraut would add a tart-tanged spice,
but would it, could it, satisfy his raging appetite?
Carb Deliseuwe is a poet of food. Franz Kafka (1883-1924) was a Modernist German-speaking proset.
~~~
A Mild Quadruped
by Scubie Dew Lear
He was like as an alien who came from planet Earth,
so very serious, he didn’t seem to have much mirth;
but he was like a thermochemical reacting force.
One wondered where he would be going. What would be his course?
He seemed like as a Houyhnhnm horse, a mild quadruped,
perhaps an upright dinosaur with a protruding head.
He seemed he’d come out of a Charles Lutwidge Dodgsen brain.
How was he even walking? sitting? doing anything?
Perplexing, grand, and vain, what was the purpose of his birth?
How could he seem both magical and yet seem down to Earth?
Scubie Dew Lear is a poet of and an intimate of Celewie Absurd.
~~~
A Druid
by “Bard” Eucewelis
Two anti-oil activists spray-painted powder on
rare lichen-covered Stonehenge monoliths, an orange-tawn,
and causing minor damages—Would they be permanent?
in their desire for attention, wreck a monument.
A NewMillennial druid called their act a disgrace,
pathetic, vile and disgusting in this hallowed place.
He had decided he would go then off to Somerset,
a smaller rocky circle, to enjoy the sunrise fete,
where he could have tranquility, as peace comes dropping slow,
and, like the Solar Disc, appearing there, is where he’d go.
“Bard” Eucewelis is a poet of druids.
~~~
Footnote to a Poem
by Wil Buc Eer Ades
He saw the worst filled with such passionate intensity,
and th’ best lacking conviction, leaning on propensity,
while innocence is changed into an understanding of
the ceremonies of existent, blood-dimmed, loosened love.
Mere anarchy is all around; the centre cannot hold.
The Globe turns round and round; things fall apart about the World.
Behold the falcon cannot hear the falconer’s command.
There are so many revelations coming now at hand.
The seconds pass. The minutes fly. The hours travel on.
The Spirit of the World has left th’ Isle of Avalon.
Wil Buc Eer Ades is a poet of Ireland. William Butler Yeats (1865-1939) was a Modernist Irish poet.
~~~
A Poet and an Editor
by Cadwel E. Bruise
Chad Parenteau is a contemporary poet who
lives in the throes of Massachusetts sunsets, dawns and dew.
It is amazing all he does at Patreon, BlueSky,
Stone Soup and Oddball Magazine; he’s ever on the fly.
It’s hard to catch him as he goes about his many tasks.
Why does he work so damn hard for so many this one asks?
When all the World could hardly care, he lets real foul ones thrive.
Why should he do that when they hardly care he is alive?
Whatever are his reasons and whatever are his ends,
one’s thankful for all that he does for aliens and friends.
Cadwel E. Bruise is a poet of Massachusetts. Chad Parenteu is a contemporary American poet.
~~~
Not a Cowboy on his Horse
by “Wild” E. S. Bucaree
He drove into the sunrise, not a cowboy on his horse,
but rather as an omnivore within his car perforce.
He drove on past the university where he had once
examined many things of varying significance.
He drove beneath the underpass on to the highway ramp,
and yielded to traffic, as he watched the auto map.
He circled round the giant concrete warehouse building structs,
rectangular and square, a massive complex, hard and brusque.
He passed so many things along the freeway where he was,
he couldn’t mention all of their adjoining areas;
and so he turned off to a traffic light where he could pause
before he traveled further in the midst of trucks and cars.
“Wild” E. S. Bucaree of the West.
~~~
It Was Disorienting
by Bruc “Diesel” Awe
It was disorienting, driving in the dark at night.
He didn’t know exactly where he was without day’s light.
The traffic coming white, the traffic going red ahead,
he was dazed as the vehicles along the highway sped.
He was come back from taking one to an emergency;
at least, in that respect there was no longer urgency;
but still, it wasn’t easy gathering intelligence;
there were so many things to take in; and so much to sense.
He needed to prioritize what was of most concern,
to watch for signs, reflectors, and what would be the next turn.
Bruc “Diesel” Awe is a poet of transportation.
~~~
A Walk Around the Neighbourhood
by Rudi E. Welec, “Abs”
He took a walk around the neighbourhood. He wanted warmth.
He was too cool from air conditioning. He loved the tharm.
His arms enjoyed the heat, as did his body overall.
He heard cicada cymbal tymbals sending out their call.
It was the evening, and the Sun was shining in the West.
Long shadows followed him along while stepping on cement.
He loved the flowers and the trees, one lawn was left for bees,
which meant the owner didn’t mow; he’d just do as he pleased.
He heard the semi-distant baseball players every time
a cheer went up for something happening. It warmed his mind.
Rudi E. Welec, “Abs” is a poet of physical exercise. According to Beau Lecsi Werd, “tharm” is a neologism blend of warm, thermal, and heat.
~~~
Out of Area 51
by Earl W. Sidecube
Out of Area 51 have come
unspeakable things: stealth technologies,
alien sightings, toxic waste burns. Some
stories seem like modern mythologies.
Are there antimatter reactors or
gravity amplifiers? Who knows what
one might find if one dare click the cursor
on the computer one is sitting at?
Earl W. Sidecube is a poet of UFOs, etc.
~~~
A Memory of Youth
by Cawb Edius Reel
From skyscraper to skyscraper, they fly,
the urban myths, Superman, Spiderman,
Clark Kent, Peter Parker, the regular guy
with superhuman powers for good. Can
such things not be? Why, then, do we dream them?
What are dreams for? Are they really only
decaying sense? mind-prints of a demon?
Even in cities some are so lonely.
Comic-book fantasies make the world seem
ordered to a child who wants clean borders.
What will not his unsatisfied mind scheme?
All it took was a couple of quarters
and a trip down to the local store, or…
anywhere. There is always something more.
Cawb Edius Reel is a poet of comic books.
~~~
You(th)
by Builder Cee Saw
It appeals to youth: the pealing of bells
over countryside and city, Sunday;
a banana peeled on one of the els,
an electrolyte potassium charge,
facing the future fiercely come what may;
a new plan, a new canal, a new barge.
It fires youth up: the glorification
of technology, the advancing step,
the vast plain of the imagination;
planes flying through the scarlet atmosphere;
heavy doses of joy, energy, and pep
no matter what line or plane one is near.
It obsesses the young mind: statistics,
mass society, amassing money,
five year plans, strategies and logistics;
vast arrays of anything that time brings;
landscapes that are plain, massive and sunny,
dotted with points, innumerable things.
It carries young minds: the winds of the world,
the wings of new ideas, whirling thoughts
spiraling upward, stairs winding and whirled;
dynamic situations involving
aircraft carriers, computers, robots,
all carried away with time, revolving.
Revolution! movements! youth soaks it up:
motion that takes it to a brand new place
away from where it is—two, three, four, hup!
this emotional roller coaster—life—
youth wants to face it straight on, face to face,
the past effaced and erased in this strife.
Cee Saw Builder is a poet of new constructions. The rhyme scheme is abacbc…
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