We Come to the Stelliferous
by I. E. Sbace Weruld
From when the Universe begins to Time Primordial,
we come to the Stelliferous—this Starry Cordial.
Then this great Cosmos goes to Chaos—the Degenerate—
that’s followed by the Black Hole Era, a hard winter age..
But even black holes must depart; they go away as well,
and enter into the Dark Era, the Everlasting Quell.
Mercury
by I. E. Sbace Weruld
Mercury, empty of any living thing,
a messenger of no one, hardly heavenly,
hoards an iron core, while orbiting the Sun.
How could it be a god, so close to such a one?
Mr. I. E. Sbace Weruld is a poet of the Universe.
~~~
Haiku
by “Clear Dew” Ibuse
He turned his eyes to
a stream of stars overhead.
Look—the Milky Way,
“Clear Dew” Ibuse is a traditional haikuist.
~~~
Haiku
by “Wired Clues” Abe
Even in the shade,
was too hot for the gecko,
under the lounge chair.
“Wired Clues” Abe is a NewMillennial haiku poet.
~~~
3rd Century BC
by Wu “Sacred Bee” Li
Song Yu,
a man of Chu,
disciple too
of Qu Yuan,
sang songs,
like Yang Chang
(Sunny Spring)
and Bai Xue
(White Snow),
two qin
of long ago.
Wu “Sacred Bee” Li was a poet of Ancient China. Song Yu (fl. 298 BC – 263 BC) was a Chinese poet of the Warring States period.
~~~
At Times One Reels
by Cawb Edius Reel
At times one reels, as overwhelmed as him,
the innocent man in Hitchcock’s Blackmail,
who runs off to the British Museum
from Scotland Yard police to not get nailed
for something that he didn’t do. So small
against the tall Ionic portico
of 44 columns, compared to all,
he doesn’t know what to do, where to go.
He faces south upon Great Russell Street.
His mind awhirl in vertigo, he lurks,
then up the wide array of steps, his feet
go to that place designed by Robert Smirke.
Down narrow rows of columns now he goes
and finds himself within high-ceilinged rooms,
where guards and statues posture, post, and pose
among the viewers gazing at such tombs.
He pauses near a piece encased in glass,
then walks along antiquities and books.
There are a thousand things that he does pass,
including brooding tourist stops and looks.
Quite suddenly he’s lost in ancient times.
He sees some huge Egyptian pharaoh’s face.
He leaps onto a rope and down it climbs;
by armed police in hot pursuit he’s chased.
He dashes past a myriad of tomes,
the Greeks, the Romans, and a plethora
of other cultures, other people’s homes,
from other epochs, different eras.
He rounds the railing where the Hebrews are
and turns the corner where the Persians sit.
He runs south, east, north, west, as fast and far
as he is able to, as he can get.
At last, he comes upon a ladder that
can take him from all this dead weight, that slows
him down from what he’s trying to get at.
He climbs rung after run, and up he goes.
Oh, finally he gets upon the roof
of this enormous dome o’er London’s din.
He hasn’t time to feel lofty or aloof;
he still is running up the building’s fin.
The clouds soar by him when he’s at the top.
He cries, “It is not me you want. It’s him.”
He takes one step back, then down does he drop
through tiers, tiers of the British Museum.
Cawb Edius Reel is a poet of film. Alfred Hitchcock (1899-1980) was a British-American 20th century film director.
~~~
A Nes
by Israel W. Ebecud
At Asia’s edge, it borders Lebanon
and Syria up north, while, at the east,
are West Bank and the kingdom of Jordan,
Gaza and Egypt south, all enemies,
but the blue Mediterranean Sea
due west, this eretz Israel, beset
upon by many waves of misery:
Assyria, Babylon, and Persia,
Greece, Rome, the Sassanids, Byzantium,
the Umayyads, the Abbasids, and then,
Crusaders and the Mamluk Sultanate,
followed by the Ottomans and Britain.
It is indeed a miracle, a nes,
t’ hang on this long—for four millennia.
Israel W. Ebecud is a poet of Israel. James Michener (1907-1997) was a PostModernist proset who wrote the lengthy work “The Source.”
~~~
Two Ancient Greek Tales
by Esiud L. Werecub
Because of his kindness to Silenus,
god Dionysus offered a reward
to Midas; whereupon he asked then thus,
that everything he touched turn gold. Be warned!
So when his food and drink turned into gold,
he begged the gift be broken. Bathing in
the river Pactolus, the curse unrolled;
although the sands contained gold bits within.
Another time, a musical contest
between Pan and Apollo, Midas judged
that Pan’s sweet woodland melodies were best,
and said Pan won. From this he’d not be budged.
Apollo thereupon changed Midas’ ears
to those long floppy ones seen on an ass.
World History
by Esiud L. Werecub
What was he doing studying World His’try in high school.
Nobody gave a damn about it. Was he just a fool?
His fellow soph’mores didn’t join him; he was quite alone.
His classmates were some seniors and some juniors—no one known.
Though mostly they took this class, since it wasn’t all that hard;
but I was very int’rested in the material.
I even made a puzzle for Scholastic magazine,
a crossword of two dozen nations, with the clues between.
Somehow, though, I did not learn much; I just absorbed its core.
O, knowledge is a strange and changing agent evermore.
The Circle of the Zodiac
by Esiad L. Werecub
Not much is known of Hypsicles. Perhaps he writ
On the Ascension of the Stars, and there did seize
the circle of the zodiac, dividing it
into 360 pieces— degrees.
Esiud L. Werecub is a poet of history, who still remembers playing maps with his father. Hypsicles (190 BC – 120 BC) was an Ancient Greek astronomer and mathematician.
~~~
A Dutch Still Life
by Sir Bac de Leuwe
The motel room is quiet now; a radiance
of sunlight filters through diaphanous curtains.
There is a certain beauty in its fading dance
across the beige and tan, soft, warm, wood furniture.
The center piece is a rectangular bed.
An auburn lamp stands at its head. In the corner,
is crumpled in a mass, a pale dun coverlet.
Upon the bright, white sheets, a brown body reclines.
Its head lies on a pillow, arms are extended
out back along the back. A thin silver chain lines
the neck. The head is tilted left, with a stiff stance.
A pistol, black and shiny, has been left behind.
Sir Bac de Leuwe is a poet of the Netherlands.
~~~
On One Wh)o Pen(ned No Sonnets
by B. S. Eliud Acrewe
T. S. Eliot’s wry, impersonal tone
at once so pontifical and judgmental,
like “a bracelet of bright hair about the bone,”
both shocked and awed; he was not sentimental.
And that was why he was so appreciated,
and still is, even if only by a few.
His critical prose may have vitiated
his poems, and been the better of the two;
but I am thankful for both in this drab time,
when poetry itself has been sacrificed
on the altar of crass mediocrity,
where any quality passes for sublime,
and sonnetless individuals live lives
as if there never had been a Socrates.
B. S. Eliud Acrewe is a poet of the Anglo-Saxon language. T. S. Eliot (1888-1965) was a noted American English poet, critic, and playwright. Socrates (c. 470 BC – 399 BC) was a classical Ancient Greek philosopher.
~~~
Newsreel:
The Ven’zuelan opposition candidate has flown
away to Spain upon a plane on Sunday afternoon.
He may have won th’ election, but Maduro could kill him,
like as the way some SS dudes attempted to still Trump.
~~~
These Word Associations
by Beau Lecsi Werd
He had a ginger root beer. It was cold and fresh and clear,
reminding him of being at the dentist yesteryear.
His nose was runny, so he blew it in a soft white tish.
O, it was what he then hoped for. It was a modest wish.
How many hours had he spent in dentist offices?
But now he would use xylitol, avoid such premises.
These word associations made him think of James Joyce prose;
before his crazy lunacy took him away to doze
to Finnegan’s and insulin resistance in his gut.
What was he thinking when he thought about his verbal glut?
It’s nice to think about dove-tailing many thoughts in one;
but when the strands are random, they are easy just to shun.
Beau Lecsi Werd is a poet and proset of linguistic textures. “Tish” is a trunc. James Joyce (1882-1941) was an Irish Modernist proset, who like other Modernists, like William Faulkner (1897-1962), indulged in stream of consciousness.
~~~
Newsreel:
A half-a-million came out in their shirts of gold and green
on Independence Day in Sao Paolo for free speech.
~~~
The Pianist
by Ewald E. Eisbruc
The pianist sits on the black piano seat
in white tee shirt and faded blue jeans, playing. He
is concentrating on a melody, a beat,
his fingers gliding o’er the white and ebony
keys, seemingly so effortlessly, and without
concomitant pretension. And he plays for free.
He doesn’t care his posture is a curving slouch,
nor that his short hair isn’t neatly combed. In fact,
he is unshaven all about his open mouth.
He doesn’t play emotionally, but with tact,
not passionately, but gingerly, gently, sweet.
He is perfecting something lovely and exact.
Ewald E. Eisbruc (EEE) is a poet of music, including complex structured compositions, like those of the German Romantic Max Bruch (1838-1920).
~~~
US Hellth
by Dr. Weslie Ubeca
With DPC&S, the ARC was held this week,
Big Pharma’s Alan Dunton was the very first to speak.
His biotech has synthesized an anti-bio drug
that kills all the bacteria—all of that nasty crud—
including the commensals that reside on human skin,
and all those other microbes living in th’ intestine inn.
We are so lucky to have all their knowledge and their wealth.
What’s not to like about Big Pharma’s hold on US Hellth?
Dr. Weslie Ubeca is a poet of medical topics—not a certified doctor, supported by Big Government, Big Pharma, or Big Farm. DPS & S (Disease Prevention and Control Summit) and ARC (Antimicrobial Resistance Congress.)
~~~
Time For Some Gardening
Caleb Wuri Seed
It was time for some gardening. He heard a train go by.
Its distant airhorn sighed. There were no clouds up in the sky.
He trimmed the grass beside the craggy boulders at the edge.
He dipped his shoulders, reaching down. He heard a passing jet.
He did…some weeding near the hedges…he pulled up and cut.
The dull roar of the freeway traffic—th’ whoosh of car and truck.
Utility poles, silver gray—black wires, in between,
with birds—rose over roof tops, trees and streets, in that apt scene.
A dry leaf took off down the sidewalk past the flapping flags.
The staid lamp-posts stood stony-still. What is the price of gas?
Caleb Wuri Seed is a poet of natural farming, who prefers grass-fed and grass-finished meat and milk, along with low-mercury fish and organic fruits and vegetables.
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