A Double Rainbow
by Red Was Iceblue
Behind me in the air, a double rainbow arced,
blue, green and yellow, orange, red, violet.
Its gleaming was remarkable, perfectly so parked,
its gorgeous lines, though insubstantial, brightly lent.
I longed to hold such colour in my mind’s fine scape;
but it was only airy, beauteous and bent.
It seemed these rainbows were God’s heavenly-drawn drapes.
I longed to touch His miracle of loveliness.
More exquisite than silk, more ravishing than crepes,
I wondered why our minds were touched by this finesse;
for when I turned away, they vanished. I stood stark.
And I was left to ponder such beneficence.
Red Was Iceblue is a poet of New Millennial vistas.
~~~
Haiku
by “Clear Dew” Ibuse
They have been zapped—
the buzzing and zipping flies.
He can take a nap.
“Clear Dew” Ibuse is a traditional haikuist. This haiku reacts to one by the Meiji poet and literary critic Masaoka Shiki (1867-1902).
~~~
Haiku
by “Wired Clues” Abe
Beneath a jet plane
roaring overhead, one hears
cicadas voices.
“Wired Clues” Abe is a NewMillennial haiku poet.
~~~
Upon the Cushioned Couch
by Sri Wele Cebuda
He got into the lotus pose upon the cushioned couch;
it was maroon, elastic leather, smooth and cool to touch.
He lifted up his head as high as he could make it go;
he stretched his spine and dipped his toe into life’s river flow.
He felt like as an arrow readied to shoot through the air,
but where he might land he did not know. Was he unaware?
He gladly faced the future, as he firmly stayed the past.
He was as staid as he could be. He’d hold until the last.
It would not be an easy task, and more such tasks would come;
but he’d try not to yield in thought, in action, or in muck.
Sri Wele Cebuda is a poet of meditation.
~~~
Newsreel:
In Tehran, Ismail Haniyeh targeted and stilled,
just hours after Fuad Shukr in Beirut was killed.
~~~
The Man Upstairs
by Wilee Read Bucs
The man upstairs is sitting in his chair.
He’s reading words that float upon a page.
He wishes he were somewhere else—right there!
a concentrated essence of the Age.
He looks to see the worlds he has made,
all vanishing before his very eyes,
as if they were guitar strands softly played
and gone into these vast and airy skies.
He is alone. The emptiness is hard;
though it will disappear before it hits.
He wonders why he took the part, and starred
in such a somber moving picture’s stint.
And then he notices a blue fly buzz,
and rests his head—the king that ever was.
Wilee Read Bucs is a poet of reading.
~~~
And Flush It Out to Sea
by Claude I. S. Weber
One must be a contortionist in writing poetry;
one has to push the language out, and flush it out to sea.
It isn’t easy as a task; it can, in fact, be hard;
but still it can be pleasing too to be a breathing bard.
He Ran Away to the Sea
by Claude I. S. Weber
He ran away to the sea when he was
eleven years; but, sent home in disgrace,
he promised he would travel only thus:
in the realms of imagination’s space.
His depths went down thousands of leagues under
the sea, where no man had ever before
gone, in those dark arenas of wonder,
those remote areas of nevermore.
There, in his submarine, Captain Nemo
arose from the rise of Poseidon’s tide,
from the regions of the sea cucumber
to the trails of the sirens as they ride,
a keen boatsman, until at fifty-eight,
a mad man hit him with a bullet’s hate.
Claude I. S. Weber is a poet of French literature.
~~~
The Shadowland
by B. S. Eliud Acrewe
He saw his shadow following as he walked on past gnomes,
so thankful when he was within the shade of trees and homes.
He saw the flags, the flowers, while the Sun kept pouring forth.
He traveled east, he traveled south; he went both west and north.
He left the “news” upon his phone, computer and TV,
and entered in to the realm of dramatic poetry.
And though here was no play, no paean, mythic tragedy,
it still seemed very serious in its imagining.
How can that be? he wondered. What does that tell us of us,
this air, these planes, this era, where doves hover overhead?
B. S. Eliot Acrewe is a poet of shadows.
~~~
Newsreel:
Protests broke out across Venezuela for its vote,
another fraudulent election for those keeping count.
~~~
No Tea at the Palazzo
by Walice du Beers
He was not driving in a purple El Camino truck
when he had come on poems in a Wallace Stevens book;
nor more because in purple, he went through that western day,
he took no tea at the palazzo, Hoon not on display.
But rather he was walking all around; he had no car;
and what he saw and heard weren’t sights and sounds of Zanzibar.
Exotic sultans came occasionally to this place,
down which he traveled through the night in loneliness and grace.
He sang the strangest songs out to that Stadium of Nought,
where were the hard realities that came forth to his thought;
but no one sat upon those seats, when he was there afoot;
beside the massive concrete walls and cantilevered roof.
Walice du Beers is a poet of surreality. Wallace Stevens (1879-1955) was a Modernist American.
~~~
The Pilot
by Air Weelbed Suc
Although he was the pilot on that jumbo jet,
he felt a bit ridiculous and miniscule.
Could he control this giant object, yet still get
to where he had to go? O, did he have the fuel,
the stamina, the strength, the clarity of mind?
He had to guide this flight and oversee the view.
He did not know what turbulence and storms he’d find.
He had to operate the throttle,
and monitor display.
He had to make sure all was properly aligned.
He needed each to reach his destination safe.
It was the task before him. Was he ready, set?
Could he do all this, and then go on his way.
Air Weelbed Suc is a poet of flight.
~~~
Midnight Driving
by Bruc “Diesel” Awe
He landed at the airport; it was in the dark of night.
Off boarded, lights were all around, a swirl of sighs and sights.
He hit the restroom first, and then he traveled to escape
the restaurants and concourses to make th’ arrival gate.
And going the long length, with his suitcase in tow, he walked
to the Impala Uber waiting to take him away.
In the back seat, he saw the stream of city neon lines,
directions to the byways and the highways sweeping signs.
Once off the Interstate, the streets and avenues grew dark,
as he made his way down the farm-to-market in the car.
With so few lights, the driving seemed an eerie nightmare’s dream,
but when he got inside his locked door, he was glad, abeam.
Bruc “Diesel” Awe is a poet of driving.
~~~
Newsreel:
On Freeway 15, from LA to Vegas, drivers were
for hours stuck, due to a lithium fire on a truck.
~~~
Hanging Out Around the Lounges
by Cawb Edius Reel
Ah, he was hanging out around the lounges all unfurled…
casinos in the biggest little city in the World.
Amidst the neon letters, shining arrows, letters flashed.
He had just washed his head and face, hot soapy water-splashed.
He felt like as a narrow barrow carrying a load,
there resting in a lovely niche far from the cars and road.
He could not get excited all about the slot machines,
nor did he long for silver dollars, or clean, hot latrines.
He wanted most some rest, his shirt was white and fitted tight.
He lay down near a flower bed and afternoon delight.
Cawb Edius Reel is a poet of Nevada. Reno is a city in Nevada of around 260,000.
~~~
To Grow Muscle Cells
by Dr. Weslie Ubeca
He wanted to grow muscle cells, advance hypertrophy;
his muscle mass was lower than he thought that it should be.
Resistance training was, therefore, upon top of his list,
of things that he should do, so as t’ improve his strength and grist.
He also knew he needed to increase protein in meat,
but though he was not carnivore, he wanted beef to eat;
since beef’s the closest food that most is like what humans ate
two-hundred-thousand years ago up to the present date.
Because he wanted creatine, whey protein, and caffeine,
a cup of coffee in the morning seemed to be the thing.
He loved all meats, especi’lly beef, grass-finished and grass fed,
as well as yogurt, keto ice cream, cheese, et cetera…
Dr. Weslie Ubeca is a poet of health and medicine, not a licensed doctor.
~~~
Do Some More
by Rudi E. Welec, “Abs”
It was time for his morning exercises: Do some more.
They were good for his body, not an item to abhor.
The shadows of the Earth were fading, turning to the Sun.
Perhaps he could get more growth hormone, somatotropin.
He lifted up his arms and legs. He lifted up his spine.
With open panting lips and shaking hips, he left the night.
He had a sip of coffee in between his varied sets,
his breathing rapid, brain waves sapid, he took thrusting steps.
His abs and ass were moving fast, he stretched both head and chest,
while breathing deep and hard, anticipating longed-for rest.
Rudi E. Welec, “Abs”, is a poet of physical exercise.
~~~
Newsreel:
Now Google’s trying to hide thé assassination try.
What is it that that major corporation has to hide?
~~~
Centripetal Force
by Cu Ebide Aswerl
We stay upon the merry-go-around
instead of flying off in a tangent,
because centripetal force keeps us bound
t’ its turning pageant, swirling and profound.
The feeling you are going to fly off
along a line is the inertia of
emotion coming on. You soar aloft,
a whirling dervish high on life, above.
Commercially, mechanic’lly and clean,
you circle with the masses you are with,
like entertaining puppets on a string,
on threads that hold you out, taut, straight and thin.
And though disoriented when you stop,
you’re glad that you can walk and do not flop.
Cu Ebide Aswerl is a poet of movement.
~~~
The Years Have Fled
I Warble Seduce
The years have fled, and time so swiftly flees,
since that brief hour when you and I first met;
but how we loved I still remember yet;
so purely did you live and love and please.
You were a wonder then and still are now,
a form of beauty and of loveliness;
your spirit shines with light and blessedness;
you are a bright and cheerful soul. And how!
When you’re around you do not understand
how happy is my heart and soul and mind.
You make me glad that you are near; yes, and
when I see your infectious joy, I’m blind
to everything else, which seems drab and bland;
and my cold soul is warmed by what I find.
I Warble Seduce is a poet of love.
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