Newsreel:
The NEOWISE exploring tracker has come to an end.
It has ceased gathering new data. It will soon descend.
The NASA NEOWISE, Near-Earth Object Wide-field Infrared Survey Explorer, quit checking for objects flying close to planet Earth on July 31st, and will fall to Earth sometime later this year.
~~~
Above the Rooftops of the World
by I. E. Sbace Weruld
As you’re observing toward the South, one sees the azure skies,
and tints of pink on the horizon where skyscrapers rise.
One sees the waxing Moon above the rooftops of the world;
the triple digit heat warms one, aloof from cold space whirled.
It is so wonderful, though momentary, transient,
a beautiful and airy atmosphere, fair, ambient.
It cannot stay, and it will pass. That is the way of Earth.
And yet that won’t diminish its great value and its worth.
In fact, that may be why such time of life upon the place
is precious to those here who are not hurled into space.
Mr. I. E. Sbace Weruld is a poet of cosmic moments.
~~~
Haiku
by “Clear Dew” Ibuse
He was out shopping,
with a flock of black grackles,
for his groceries.
“Clear Dew” Ibuse is a traditional haikuist.
~~~
Haiku
by “Wired Clues” Abe
While at the bistro,
Puccini’s Nissun Dorma
brought tears to his eyes.
“Wired Clues” Abe is a NewMillennial haiku poet.
~~~
Newsreel:
The coral mass across the Great Australian Reef has grown,
in north, in central, and in south parts, three years in a row.
~~~
Meditation in E-Flat
by Sri Wele Cebuda
He got into the lotus pose, his legs were spread apart.
He sat upon the sofa seat to satisfy his heart.
He lifted up his head, he stretched his knees out and beyond.
He thought of ancient tales, of grand viziers with magic wands.
And though his couch was drab and gray, he dreamed of gems and jew’ls,
victorious in duels, and facing wild aggressive ghouls.
At times he tightened abs and shoulders on his escapades.
At balconies, occasionally, he sang serenades.
And on he went down avenues to places yet unseen,
content to be just where he was and where he now had been.
Sri Wele Cebuda is a poet of meditation.
~~~
Aaron
by Israel W. Ebecud
He was the brother of the man we know
as Moses, standing tall and lean and tough.
He wore a breast piece, shining silver-blue,
that gleamed before our eyes, large, polished, buff.
Fine twisted linen hung around his form;
a gold ephod on his broad shoulders shined.
Bejeweled thus, he was set to perform—
topaz, sapphire, diamond…all aligned.
As such we thought he was a Priest of God.
Although he was a man, he seemed divine.
We hung on his each gesture. We were awed.
How could he be a man, and still so shine?
Why, then, great Aaron, spokesman for an age,
did you, with your golf calf, lead us astray?
Israel W. Ebecud is a poet of Israel. Aaron (fl. 14th century BC) was the traditional founder and head of the Israelite priesthood.
~~~
Newsreel:
Ukraine’s incursion into Kursk, surprising many souls,
has changed the war’s trajectory, creating brand new lows.
~~~
The Cost of Being Any Person
by Bic Uwel, “Erased”
Then, if you ever find yourself, somewhere and lost,
surrounded by your enemies who will not let
you speak your language, and destroy your statues—tossed
like stones upon eternity, time will forget
it; and nobody cares about your troubles, cuz
they’ve got their own; we’ve all so many troubles yet:
Then, if the truth be known, and everybody does,
this is a part of being human in this universe,
and always will be so, just as it always was.
This is the curse of being human here, and what is worse,
this is the cost of being any person. Ha!
to dare to be…you end up in a line of verse.
Bic Uwel, “Erased” is a poet of those who have been eliminated by their enemies.
~~~
Justice
by Brice U. Lawseed
Why is true justice ever so hard to attain?
Why can’t we grasp its perfect form within our hands?
Why will its utter fairness never leave the brain?
Why can we not obey its absolute commands?
Why is it difficult to find or see sometimes,
and harder yet to catch its fire when it stands?
Why does it rear itself so oft in wrongs or crimes?
Why is it so elusive and so beautiful?
O, justice, I’m exasperated by your climbs!
I long to be your servant, to be dutiful;
but you are always fleeting, leaving me again,
behind, in awe and wonder, o, but hardly full.
Brice U. Lawseed is a poet of justice.
~~~
E. P. Ode
by B. S. Eliud Acrewe
He was so right. It was not wanted—structured poetry.
And yet he tried to do his best—Hugh Selwin Mauberley.
Of course, it wasn’t good enough. How could it ever be?
The World demanded, still demands, so much to do and be.
And yet, despite the mess he made of his accomplishments,
there still remain, despite the savages, astonishments.
We are all flawed, and yet we strive to reach a better place.
We have to struggle—after all, we live in outer space.
We know the suffering of Troy—our own as well unhurled.
We can’t give up, we must strive harder in such a hard World.
B. S. Elius Acrewe is a poet of Modernist poets and prosets, like Ezra Pound (1885-1972).
~~~
So So
R. Dewie Becalse
He felt boxed in by circumstance, beyond all his control.
Stuck in the past, he felt like as his future was unrolled.
And yet, he did so badly want to move forth from this place.
Why was there so much hardness that he ever had to face?
But he went on, and he’d go on, as long as he could go;
because there was no other choice he could be glad to know.
So he would try to make the best of situations that
he found himself in at each moment. Patience could be pat.
So, in the concrete jungle, he would try to do his best.
He only wished that he could meet each part of each new test.
R. Dewie Becalse is a poet of the Hard.
~~~
Blunderbust
by Bud “Weasel” Rice
He pulled his socks up. He would have to make an effort to
improve his situation and behavior—through and through.
He was too prone to whine and groan. He needed to buck up.
He had to git up off his ass and suck it up—his pluck.
Life’s hard for everyone, he thought, one needs to press and strive,
if one is going to arrive within this strafe and strife.
Endure the chafing. Grease the raffish. Give one’s all in all.
He had to lift his spirits up, especi’lly in a fall.
Especi’lly then, o, most of all, for that would show his grit.
He loved it when he could git down and could be fighting fit.
At times, he didn’t feel like it; and yet he knew he must
attempt whatever he could try, though he be blunderbust.
Bud “Weasel” Rice is a poet of animal spirits. According to Beau Lecsi Werd, the neologism “blunderbust” is a blend.
~~~
The Tenant
by Urbawel Cidese
He stood outside beside his box apartment’s dirty walls.
In bright blue baseball cap, he stalled, positioning his balls.
His belt too tight, he wanted to be much more comf-ter-ble.
In scraggly beard, his adam’s apple was quite prominent.
He saw the windows up above; he saw black garbage bags.
He bent down to pick them up to where he was at. He gasped.
He saw the tree beside the door. He felt the warm light Sun.
Here in this dark niche, it was wonderful. But was it fun?
He loved those moments he could be free in the open air,
a slight breeze blowing, going through his close-cut, dark-brown hair.
Urbawel Cidese is a poet of urban spaces.
~~~
When He Was Younger
by Bruc “Diesel” Awe
When he was young, he didn’t realize so many things.
He didn’t have a clue about how he should live, or sing.
How could he be so ignorant, embarrassingly so,
from learning how to drive a car, to thriving on the go?
At thirteen was he capable of climbing up a rope,
naïve in politics and murder, how to hope and cope?
At fifteen was he really ready to drive vehicles?
He certainly did not appreciate life’s miracles.
His points of view were immature. He was ingenuous.
And what was he to make of life as being tenuous?
It was a miracle of sorts he managed to arrive
post adolescence, past his learning, and how to survive.
A Trip to Verna
by Bruc “Diesel” Awe
Although the heat was very high, he had no time to bask.
He pulled his socks up; he was ready for another task.
He got up on his tip-toes; for he had to reach up high.
The shelf had everything he needed. He pulled up his spine.
Today the job at the garage required extra strength,
but thought that he could manage it, and could go the full length.
At times the strain seemed all too much. He panted like a dog.
He gazed out to the Sun, and said a prayer to his God.
If he could just get through all this, he’d make it to the end.
and send a missive thereby saying he’d ascended then.
Bruc “Diesel” Awe is a poet of the Garage. “Of Missing Persons” is a short story by American PostModernist Jack Finney (1911-1995).
~~~
This Staged Event
by Caud Sewer Bile
O, for a muse of fire to ascend this present time,
before it passes into history and l/i/n/e/s of rhyme.
This staged event, in Butler, where ex-President Trump stood,
and democratic op’ratives attempted death’s hard rood.
Who shot down Corey Comparetore, ex-fire-chief and dad,
now gone for good, killed by clandestine services for bad.
Such sinister, disgusting murderers, for goodness, sake,
for all the pain and ache they caused, forbid that they escape.
Remember JFK, and all those others left behind,
in graveyards of the Earth and cemeteries of the mind.
Please do not stop investigating till the truth be known,
and crooks unleashed allowed no peace till they be caught and blown.
Caud Sewer Bile is a poet of the Swamp.
~~~
Just For Him
by Rudi E. Welec, “Abs”
He got up on the orange bench at the gymnasium.
O, he was back at it again, again ad nauseum.
He could not quit, although he wanted to so badly, yes.
But he was back at it again; he needed muscle mass.
In gray shirt and red shoes, his face was filled up with chagrin;
his long gym shorts were pale, like the colour of his skin.
It was time to begin. He was no happy camper there
compared to others in that giant room with room to spare.
But still, he tightened up his abs and biceps in that gym.
He would press on despite it all; this fate was just for him.
Rudi E. Welec, “Abs”, is a poet of physical exercise.
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