Haiku
by “Wired Clues” Abe
It was a long walk.
He found discarded toy cars,
and lugged them along.
Haiku
by “Wired Clues” Abe
He went for a walk—
through province, realm and empire—
in his neighbourhood.
“Wired Clues” Abe is a NewMillennial haiku poet.
~~~
Newsreel:
The Chinese hit some Philippine ships in South China Sea.
It seems the Chinese claim the waters round the Philippines.
~~~
Ah, Buddha
by Sri Wele Cebuda
He sat upon his swivel chair, his leg upon the desk.
He felt like as he was composing a sweet arabesque.
The Sun was shining on his legs, his RD, and his abs.
The bard was typing at his monitor upon his ass.
He longed to formulate his thoughts, to give them strength and girth,
although the pen is mightier than few things on this Earth.
He leaned back on the chair-back like a spreading lotus bloom,
there meditating on eternity there in that room.
He tensed his feet, his shoulders too; he touched his tongue to air.
He lifted up his neck and head above his dark-brown chair.
He sucked his stomach in; autophagy was on his mind.
He opened up his eyes. He saw gray shadows on the blind.
Sri Wele Cebuda is a poet of meditation.
~~~
Newsreel:
Six hostages were shot to death—close range—in Gaza strip.
Their bodies were found in a Rafah tunnel Saturday.
~~~
No Missiles Soared
by War di Belecuse
He heard the early morning jet-plane roaring overhead.
He was aroused by hardness, but he was still in his bed.
No missiles soared. It was not horrible, nor frightening,
although he felt his glutes and abs were firm, and tightening.
He shot up to the bathroom, for brief pissing, hissing…and
he took two xylitol mints, as he kept on listening.
He hopped back in to bed. Th’ alarm had not gone off pell-mell.
There were no harsh explosions, tearing up his life with hell.
Taut biceps and tense triceps kept him far away from sleep;
Though eyes were closed, his full circadian could not be deep.
Like Theophrastus’ tamarind, his leaves were opening;
night leaving under this new Moon, required focusing.
He longed to be content, but slavery was vile, yes;
it was hard on those Earthlings who were undergoing tests.
Another jet flew overhead—thank God just passengers—
and only the arrival of angelic messengers.
War di Belecuse is a poet of war. Theophrastus (c. 371 BC – c. 287 BC) was an Ancient Greek philosopher, noted for his works on botany.
~~~
Closely Nav
by Acwiles Berude
He opened up his back door, gazing on his grassy lawn.
It was so beautiful he thought, especially at dawn.
The shadows and the sunlit glow, played all about its surf.
He loved the growth of the Bermuda grass across the turf.
He looked off to the right. O, what he saw was quite a sight.
Apollo lying on the ground, bathed in bright argentite.
What was that god there for? How was he now attempting more?
Was he a muse who was amused, a lazing mighty saur.
He did not dare to get too close. It was so dangerous,
connecting with a spirit or a grazing ancient cuss;
and this reality was hardly what he longed to have;
between this Scylla and Charybdis he must closely nav.
Acwiles Berude is a poet of Ancient Greece.
~~~
On Slavonic Dance Number 1
by Waldi Berceuse
Antonin Dvořák ‘s Slavonic Dance Number 1 ‘s
fantastic, a wild Bohemian furiant,
a rapid, fiery movement with shifting accents
that’s not for the subdued or overly prudent.
Performed at presto, it starts bursting at the seams
immediately and goes a good minute
through flourishes and varied melodies
before it quiets down, halts abruptly,
and then begins to slowly build again
meandering so purposefully
throughout the whole scenario, and then,
while playing through its keys, returns ever
so neatly, constantly, to C major.
Waldi Berceuse is a poet of Slavic music. Anton Dvořák (1841-1904) was a Romantic Czech composer.
~~~
A Nonet For No One
by Buceli da Werse
In the art museum, so many come and go.
They talk about DaVinci, Leonardo, so,
and Titian, Raphael, yes, Michelangelo,
but not one like Sebastiano del Piombo,
well, hardly ever, at least nearly never, no,
that grand Venetian painter who began below
the spell of Giorgione and his calming glow,
which he lost when he fell into Rome’s vertigo.
There are so many things that we will never know.
Buceli da Werse is a poet of Renaissance Italy. Sebastiano del Piombo (1485-1547) was a High Renaissance Italian painter.
~~~
Ennio Morricone
By Ewald E. Eisbruc
He heard the howl of the coyote on the desert plains,
that crazed, benighted, plaintive sound, like as a hound—insane—
a mad dog, oh, a vile canine, traipsing over ground,
the pounding paws, the desperate pursuit of living’s laws.
He heard the blowing wind, the flowing river’s harrowing,
The arid, atmosphere of time’s harsh, constant narrowing—
The good, the bad, the ugly, and the terrible sublime,
A world of brutality, of primal crime and might.
He was so thankful for the rain, as it came pouring down.
He loved how it replenished flowers, lawns, and trees around.
Dry, dying roses could be soaked, tan grasses could be soaked,
crepe myrtles, oaks, and ornamental pears could be
Ewald E. Eisbruc is a poet of central European music. Ennio Morricone (1928-2020) was a PostModernist Italian composer.
~~~
We Travelers
by Beau Lecsi Werd
We looked in Rome for Rome, we travelers;
yet in Rome itself we didn’t find Rome,
but ostentatious walls, where we would roam
through its cadaver, like unravelers
who wound about its maze, drunk revelers,
from Colosseum to great Caesar’s home,
the unpalatial Palatine, Forum
below, the marketplace’s levelers,
up Capitoline, and down to Tiber
flowing furiously in May beside
shrines to Hercules and Portunus,
to Circus Maximus, and at south side,
the Aventine, the business biber’s port,
and north, Subura on a Metro ride.
According to Beau Lecsi Werd, “biber” is a trunc. This poem draws from Francisco de Quevedo (1580-1645), a Spanish poet of El Siglo de Oro.
~~~
Newsreel:
The CEO and founder of the Telegram platform—
Pavel Durov—has been arrested, per French Prez Macron.
~~~
America
by Usa W. Celebride
Just as, in Spain’s El Siglo de Oro,
America, too, has its qualities
that time, must of necessity corrode,
its noble thoughts and its idolatries.
Which of all those are those we each admire
and would not like to see disparaged so,
when time unleashes brand new raging fires
that will excoriate our purest gold?
Who knows? We only know it won’t be us
alive right now; and yet it must be those
who must derive from us, this copious
and fertile source, that is, one of our flows.
How strange it is to think that future will
inevitably use what we distill.
Usa W. Celebride is a poet of America.
~~~
Jeremy Betts
by Sirc de Wee Balu
He sounds like early Pound, with witty jeremiad scoff;
but t’ where he’ll next send airy litter to—all bets are off.
Sirc de Wee Balu is a poet of the fun and silly. Jeremy Betts is a contemporary British poet.
~~~
E. P. Owed
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 sa/l/vages, astonishments.
We are all flawed, and yet we strive to reach a better place.
We have to struggle—after all, we live in-out-er 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. Eliud Acrewe is a poet of Modernist tendencies. Ezra Pound (1885-1972) was a Modernist American-European poet and proset.
~~~
Newsreel:
Brazil began to block Elon Musk’s X on Saturday,
one more example of judicial censorship displayed.
~~~
A Pianist
by Rudi E. Welec, “Abs”
He leaned back on the mat to start his exercise routine.
He first did stretches, as he wasn’t merely a machine.
He stretched his arms and legs; he even did some fingering;
but wasn’t a pianist lengthening and lingering.
Rudi E. Welec, “Abs”, is a poet of exercise.
~~~
King Midas
by Ra Bué Weel Disc
As he went riding Sunday morning in his shiny car,
just aft great Hercules and locust plague, he came across
King Midas sitting glittering upon his golden throne.
He was so happy he was still in th’ habitable zone.
As he drove on, he saw King Midas burning hydrogen,
beyond his changing World of nitrogen and oxygen.
His blazing, flaring, glaring stare was far too much to bear.
O, he was blinded by his light transmitted through the air.
How horrible, yet wonderful, to see his reigning flame,
that poured forth through the atmosphere a glowering gas main,
distributed in all directions, outward into space,
at this specific, time and place, from which life must escape.
Ra Bué Weel Disc is a poet of the Sun.
~~~
Each Generation
by R. Lee Ubicwedas
Each generation, like a phoenix, rises up
out of the ashes of the previous one; and
it is transformed, though not without some interrup-
tions, torn seams; for this is the law, nature’s command.
How beautiful it is, the new replacing th’ old.
It is both wonderful and sad to see. It’s grand;
yet also filled with misery, as life’s unrolled.
We all go through this. Maybe we will be aware,
and will observe the great bird rising high and bold,
its flaming, fiery wings spreading in the air,
a shining treasure gleaming in a golden cup,
before it dissipates into a deep despair…[or happily creates the future in its gulp].
R. Lee Ubicwedas is a poet of life.
~~~
So Thankful For the Rain
by L. Eber Aucsidew
He was so thankful for the rain, as it came pouring down.
He loved how it replenished flowers, lawns, and trees around.
Dry, dying roses could be soaked, tan grasses could be soaked,
crepe myrtles, oaks, and ornamental pears could be
His Air-Conditioning Blowgun
by L. Eber Aucsidew
The summer heat was so damn hot, he sweated up a storm,
by only mowing for a little while, as was his norm.
When coming in from one brief spin, out in the morning sun,
he was so thankful for his air-conditioning blowgun.
It made him happy, wingless flapping, in the cooling breeze.
He was so grateful for the ventilating, chilling ease.
O, do not go away, sweet icing, on such hot beef-cakes—
refrigerating all his body. Yes, for goodness sake.
He took off socks and shirt, but kept on briefs for confidence,,.
so he could sit back on his chair in airy diffidence.
L. Eber Aucsidew is a poet of air and water.
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