The Children
by Cu Ebide Aswerl
Around in a circle the carousel went,
over and over again and again,
horses of plastic beneath the striped tent
under orange and blue went the children.
Where are they now? Down what roads did they go?
Up from the grassy and worn, drab-brown grounds,
dozens of grayish-white pigeons flew, oh,
music-accompanied carousel sounds.
Crinkly, like paper, the leaves fallen down
covered the landscape. The trees were all bare.
Everything seemed to be barren and brown.
Where are those children? What risks did they dare?
Now has that era since vanished and gone.
Ebony poles that they held are no more.
Rising and falling above the hard lawn.
They have dismounted that circular floor.
All the balloons that they held in their hands,
orange and purple and yellow and pink,
have all since popped or have been deflated.
In a far, distant land they wait, and think.
Cu Ebide Aswerl is a poet of amusement parks.
Haiku
by “Clear Dew” Ibuse
Lolling all day long,
the child plays with cars and trucks:
awesome summer daze.
“Clear Dew” Ibuse is a traditional haikuist.
~~~
Haiku
by “Wired Clues” Abe
The Moon’s faint tonight.
He wonders where they’re bombing.
The light’s ominous.
“Wired Clues” Abe is a rad trad haiku writer.
~~~
Newsreel:
Another Chinese general has taken his own life…
supposedly…they die more oft than Russians…Fie, fie, fie.
~~~
You Men of Ur
by Israel W. Ebecud
“…in the land of his nativity, in Ur…
Moses, “Genesis: 11, 28”
Why, of all the possibilities in the universe,
do you arrive here at this place? Is it not doable?
What’s the problem of ending up here at this time? A curse?
Is there a fear that your spirit is not renewable
and by visiting you will be sucked in to a great void,
or are you worried that you do not have the energy
to embrace another? Are you too easily annoyed,
or do you dread another degenerate synergy?
Are you dealing with an inability of meeting
the future head on, or are you drowning in the present?
Do you lack the strength of making a personal greeting
one more time, or do you find it more tiring than pleasant?
Do you not understand what you are missing, because you
fail to appreciate the beautiful, the good, the true?
Israel W. Ebecud is a poet of Israel. Moses (c. 13th century BC) was a Hebrew prophet and proset. The above is a pre-tennosity sonnet.
~~~
A Light-Blue Rhinoceros Sighting
Cur A. Wildebees
He got dressed in his desert camo in the blazing Sun.
He was on an adventure underneath Saharan dust.
He was in hot pursuit of the light-blue rhinoceros.
O, it was very re-al, It was not preposterous.
Testosterous, he gazed up at th bright Amazing One.
He was on a safari, though it was not Africa.
Aeolian calescent air surrounded him, as he
proceeded past the feral cats and scrub brush tumbleweeds.
The dik-diks were nearby; but he could not locate his prey,
and so he had to go away from there, go on his way.
At last he came upon what seemed a wall of pa-le green.
And there it was wherein the light-blue rhino could be seen.
It was so massive, passive there behind the fretful fence.
The gate was opened. The light-blue rhinoceros commenced
to come out in the open. Could he handle its defense?
He was so thankful that he would not have to skin or flense.
But he was tense. He had to drag its carcass to his car.
And then he had to drive a ways, but really not so far.
Cur A. Wildebees is a poet of animals of Africa and Elsewhere. According to Beau Lecsi Werd, the neologism “testosterous” means manly or hard.
~~~
The Summer Heat
by Ra Bué Weel Disc
It penetrated deep into his bones—the summer heat.
He felt it in his wrists and ankles, I his hands and feet.
He felt it in his head and neck, his shoulders, arms and pecs.
He loved to breathe in deeply, as he loved it in his chest.
He loved it in his back and hips, his abs, his ass and ribs.
He loved it in his thighs and knees, and in his private bits.
And though, at times, the heat could get phenomenally hot.
There was no part of him that didn’t love the heat he got.
For so much of the year he was so cold; he was too cool.
In summer, he could garden the hard earth with time and tool.
The Day Was Dun
by Ra Bué Weel Disc
He got up in the early morning light; the day was dun.
Above him gazing up in awe, he stared at the great Sun.
O, it was beautiful, fulfilling his idea of
a wonderful, magnificent, and grand, ideal love.
How could that be, as he was in his dark-brown belt and socks?
He felt like as a rough-edged, circular, but cubic, box.
The pale Moon had risen over him where he was at.
How could he be that satisfied, exactly where he sat?
His feet were staid and stolid where he stood—that standing man.
He longed to be secure and solid, auburn, beige and tan.
He saw the giant orbs in outer space rotating by.
He placed his hands upon his hips, and fell into the sky.
Ra Bué Weel Disc is a poet of Solar Power,
~~~
Like Jarosite
by Earwic Beeduls
Like jarosite in iron ore deposits
in color is Polygonia zephyrus,
its irregular wing edges touching August
with its top covering coat, black and ocherous,
and its crusty, rust-free chromatic underside,
the flying scales of the lepidopterous,
its fine designs revealed when tipped open wide,
not when resting when it appears almost a rock,
its wings folded over its back, pausing from flight,
only momentarily, at its floral dock,
following only, while avoiding all law suits,
the silent ticking of its natural clock.
Earwic Beeduls is a poet of insects. The above poem, a single sentence, is a bidling [sic] and the following is a tennos [sic].
~~~
Vo-vo-ay
by Earwic Beeduls
He saw a butterfly flap past; it was so beautiful;
but it went by so quickly, slickly, highly mutable.
Its sighting was but as a momentary airy swish.
Up in the sky, it sailed by, and vanished in a wish.
He gazed upon the grassy meadows flush with varied shrubs;
no varied thrush shared flowers with its soft and gentle touch.
No airy, fritillary sight was so frenetical;
indeed the auburn dots and lines were quite alchemical.
As nothing gold can stay, I heard the frosty snowman say.
Enjoy, enjoy, both girl and boy, and throw it: vo-vo-ay.
Not a Movie Star
by Cawb Edius Reel
“Mirum videtur quod sit factum iam diu?”
—Livius Andronicus
He was not a beach party muscle type, both stout and tall.
He did not feel like as he was a movie star at all.
In fact, he wasn’t. He was just an ordinary guy,
who tried to do the best he could, but hardly knew just why.
He felt like as a Grecian in a Roman theatre,
a prisoner of war, or just a roaming wanderer.
He didn’t even have a place to take a shower at;
the best that he could do was use a warm soaped-up wash rag.
He did his best to clean away his body odour smells,
there on the edge of hardship far from anybody else.
That was his life then, not so long ago. The skies were vast.
Was it in California, or in Texas he was cast?
Cawb Edius Reel is a poet of the theatre Earth. Livius Andronicus (284 BC – 204 BC) was a Greco-Roman dramatist and poet.
~~~
The Ring
for E. S. & W. S.
by Walude Scabere
“my precious”
—J. R. R. Tolkien, “The Hobbit”
I only knew but one tall dude who had a ring
with magic powers. He had one large, silver ring.
Although still visible when he put on his ring,
it gave him strength. I know, because he used the ring
on me. I was at peace, not thinking of a ring,
when he burst in all tough and macho with his ring.
He pushed me down and shoved me flat with his round ring,
and slammed me hard again, again! with that damn ring.
I fought. It hurt. Oh, then my ears began to ring.
But he continued on—two fighters in a ring.
It left a scar. I would not soon forget that ring,
oh, even now some decades past, remembering.
Walude Scabere is a poet fond of Elizabethan poetic works. J. R. R. Tolkien (1892-1973) was a Modernist English proset.
~~~
Icelandic Water
by Lars U. Ice Bedew
In the beginning, Ymir’s time, there was no sand or grass,
no earth, no sky, no cooling sea-waves, just Ginnungagap.
The country Iceland first arose, year-millions by the clock,
originating fro’ th’ upwelling of volcanic rock,
and was that land, according to sage Snorri Sturluson,
near large Aegir, the white-haired husband of sea-goddess Ran.
From the Icelandic water bottle, he took a small sip.
It quenched his thirst, although it was but just a little bit.
Refrigerated cool, it really hit the spot with haste.
When it was very hot outside, he really liked its taste.
There’d be no waste. Each drop was grace. It satisfied the beast,
inside where he was sitting at, at his computer seat.
Lars U. Ice Bedew is a poet of Scandinavia. Snorri Sturluson (1179-1241) was an Icelandic poet and politician.
~~~
Through Life’s Everchanging Cells
by Dr. Weslie Ubeca
He kept on striving so to understand what he could not,
arriving always at a new positioning of thought.
Could he imbibe a novel pattern he’d not used before?
Could he explore insights galore and then still find some more?
He heard bird chatter and a smattering of many things.
Life was more complicated than he’d ever hoped to think.
And how could strings of words and letters indicate the wealth
of knowledge that expanded through life’s everchanging cells?
Dr. Weslie Ubeca is a poet, and not a medical doctor. The above poem, and the following two poems are examples of curtail tennos (@80%), not curtal sonnets (75%), as can be found in Victorian poet Gerard Manley Hopkins (1844-1889).
~~~
Th’ Advent of New Enfants
by Walice du Beers
One needs be satisfied with what one is and what one has;
for there is nothing else to do, or be. One deals with lacks.
With what one doesn’t have one does the very best one can.
To go against reality may not be the best plan.
That doesn’t mean one should not try to change the things that are;
but there is not much one can do with but a blue guitar.
No one can bring the World quite around to what one wants;
but there may be advances with th’ advent of new enfants.
Walice du Beers is a poet of surreal tendencies. Wallace Stevens (1879-1955) was a Modernist American poet.
~~~
Pennies on the Ground
by Brad Lee Suciew
When he was young, he used to pick up pennies on the ground.
They once seemed like a good-luck charm. But not so much right now.
In fact, whenever he sees copper-plated zinc cents round,
he doesn’t touch them for a couple reasons. Are they sound?
Their value isn’t all that much, so why should he stoop down?
And what if he picks fentanyl bills up that he has found?
Is it bad luck to pick up filthy lucre on the town?
He wouldn’t want to count on lifting pennies from the ground.
Brad Lee Suciew is a poet of money.
~~~
Out at the Bistro
by Carb Deliseuwe
He sat out at the bistro in the early evening heat.
He had a ginger root beer. No, he did not want to eat.
He saw white cumulus go by in the pale azure sky.
It wasn’t time to think. His throat was parched; it was quite dry.
He heard the jet planes flying to the airport overhead,
along with other nearby talk, though not to what was said.
The cold drink felt so good against his throat as it went down.
He saw he was not th’ only one relaxed, at peace, unwound.
The city traffic all around him did not overwhelm,
nor did cicada voices in the oaks and cedar elms;
crepe myrtles lined the avenue, their blossoms white and pink,
his elbow on the bistro table, as he drank his drink.
Carb Deliseuwe is a poet of food and drink.
~~~
Time For His Exercises
by Rudi E. Welec, “Abs”
It was time for his exercises—they would never end—
as long as he was striving to endure, and to ascend.
He had to stretch; he had to bend; he had to do so much;
and though he’d lack enough time, he would have to flex and crunch.
That is what it was like to be in the known Universe;
but as hard as it was, he wanted not t’ imagine worse.
It was the curse, and joy of life, the circus of élan;
so exercising was an potent part of the life’s brief span.
and so he worked on all parts of his body and his mind,
that he was able to discover more o’ th’ hard-to-find.
Rudi E. Welec, “Abs, is a poet of exercise.
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