At the Threshold of a New Dage
by Ra Bué Weel Disc
He woke up to the dawn, a pale lavender and pink.
Above electric poles and roofs, the or-ange sun-beams peek.
Aurora spreads her thin, white streaming gown up high and out,
as day breaks overhead in loveliness, o, all about.
Her golden hair takes to the air in bright and shining lines;
the beauty of the morning moves around in bright designs.
Her saffron robe, dispels night’s roads. Yes, they have gone away.
He opens up his eyes and mind, renewed by her display.
Ra Bué Weel Disc is a poet of light. According to Beau Lecsi Werd, the neologism “dage” is a blend of day and age.
~~~
Haiku
by “Wired Clues” Abe
The morning Sun gilds
the traffic in the city,
glittering buildings.
“Wired Clues” Abe is a NewMillennial haiku poet.
~~~
At Karnak
by Ra Bué Weel Disc
The brilliant sun shines in the sky much as it did
in the times of the New Kingdom, when Iknaton
abandoned the worship of multi-faceted
Amon for Aton, the one and only true one,
and isolated himself near Hermopolis
in the newly built capital of Amarna,
where he dwelt, as the empire around him toppled
to little more than a memory, at Karnak.
Ra Bué Weel Disc is a poet of the Sun.
~~~
Creation
by Crise de Abu Wel
In the beginning God created Earth.
It was without all form, and void. The dark
enveloped all. And then came forth its birth
in light and fire, the brightness breaking stark.
The meteors embroiled the spinning ball;
and wild, roiling fires raged throughout the night,
a miracle from the impossible;
and God created day out of the light.
Nobody knows how many years ago
the Earth was made; perhaps it was about
4.5 billion. But how it did glow!
On that there is not much dispute or doubt.
Then slowly earth solidified to rock
upon the outer reaches of its face,
and waters formed therein by God’s own clock,
perhaps from meteors from outer space.
Then came the clouds of carbon dioxide,
and hard torrential downpours, liquid falls
from reddened skies where nothing lived or died.
It rained a hundred million years in squalls.
Brown, iron-rich and oceanic seas
covered some eighty-nine percent or more
of Earth; but underneath did never cease
volcanic acts to make the waters roar.
God’s granite planet thus began to grow,
and tough, new crusts began to firm and form.
A half a billion years did come and go
and still the blazing heat did stir and storm.
Then all the waters came together green
beneath the firmament, around dry lands;
the continents were shaped; and then marine
life formed within the seas at God’s commands.
The algae in stromatolites began,
through the process of photosynthesis,
to turn sunlight into fresh oxygen
and green seas into blue in the abyss.
Two billion years brought vegetation, plants
that yielded seeds, and fruit trees bearing fruit.
And God saw it was good, a perfect stance
for bird, sea creature, and land-loving brute.
Then forth came, each according to their kind,
the kine, their kin, and creeping things and beasts.
And over plants and animals the mind
of man, in God’s own image, for his feasts.
Crise de Abu Wel is a poet of the Good Father.
~~~
And Then Some
Erisbawdle Cue
Don’t dwell upon the bad that you have done,
but take that energy to do the good.
Shun wallowing. Do something for someone.
There’s always something you could do—and should.
And learn from your mistakes. Don’t do again
that which should be avoided. Get and grow.
Don’t live in the past either. Let it go.
There’s always something else to do—and then
some.
Erisbawdle Cue is a poet of philosophy.
~~~
strong>The Role of Mathematics
by Euclidrew Base
The role of mathematics is one of
systematizing, summarizing, in
symbolic language what has been observed
or found out by experimentation.
Then from those formulae, things are produced,
as information that cannot be known
except by what the symbols have produced;
something that you cannot see has been shown.
But not all mathematics—only that
which cleverly predicts what’s happening.
Just then will we willingly claim such fact.
This mental mapping’s an amazing thing.
It leaves us often with a mystery
cleared only up by ohs of history.
Euclidrew Base is a poet of mathematics.
~~~
Two Fighters
by War di Belecuse
They were two fighters in a ring, no more than that;
and they were falling fast together in one of
the corners. They’d hit bottom hard. There was no mat.
There was no happiness or bliss. There was no love.
And yet they freely fell into this enterprise
of pounding on each other, thwack, jab, push and shove.
They were not thinking outside the box—those guys.
They were content to be inside and beating each
one down. What was it they desired realized—
a world of exhaustion lacking joy or cheer?
as if they longed to have what little they could snatch
from out the jaws of death that they could never cheat.
War di Belecuse is a poet of war.
~~~
A Bloated Oblomov
by Alecsei Burdew
At times he felt like as he wasn’t getting anywhere,
a bloated Oblomov stuck in between his bed and chair.
It hardly was a dream, more like a wraith of Goncharov,
a-slow-to-move plump loiterer, a fat and slothful oaf.
He felt exhausted from his chores, momentum real-ly-slow;
in fact, he longed to fall asleep; he did not want to go.
And so he would conduct his business from his bed all day;
but would not play; for all he wanted was to stay alway.
Though he’d receive some visitors, occasionally, yes;
he still preferred to meditate upon his head and chest.
Alexsei Burdew is a poet of Russia. Ivan Goncharov (1812-1891) was a Russian Realist novelist.
~~~
You Crane Your Head
by Radice Lebewsu
“The Blonde Assassin passes on.”
—Emily Dickinson
Th’ uptight Ambassador is now the latest passenger.
And yet, the war goes on. Can no one halt the massacre?
You crane your head to count the dead across the countryside—
two-hundred-thousand total deaths, oh, no, it’s true, have died.
Radice Lebewsu is a poet of Ukraine. Emily Dickinson (1830-1886) was an American Realist poet.
~~~
El Greco’s Home
by Raúl de Cwesibe
Upon a steep and rocky hill it lies,
upon the right bank of the Tago River. At
the top th’ Alcázar stands beneath blue skies,
a huge, square edifice with towers that
command a central view. Its history
goes back to Greek, Phoenician, Roman times,
while Visigoths, the Arabs, and the Jews
all lend to it an air of mystery.
In summer, it possesses arid climes;
in winter it is cold and pays its dues.
It now depends upon the tourist trade,
seat of the Catholic primate of Spain,
that and th’ occasional Toledo blade
are what the local merchants count as gain.
Raúl de Cwesibe is a poet of Spain. El Greco (1541-1614) was a noted painter of the Spanish Renaissance.
~~~
The Hands of Time That Clutch
by B. S. Eliud Acrewe
“the last fingers of leaf/ Clutch and sink into the wet bank.”
—T. S. Eliot, “The Wasteland”
At times he didn’t feel very good. It was so plain to see.
He’d grimace in the throes of either pain or misery.
Yet, still he would press on, despite the jerks he had to meet,
and do his best to be a working member of the team.
If he fell down, he’d pick himself back up to face his foes;
with all his muscles he would fight, for there were lots of blows.
In darkness he’d extend his chin, though he felt hard chagrin.
He’d love to go out to the beach and watch the waves come in.
He took what satisfaction he could get, if not that much.
O, God, he wished, he could escape the hands of Time that clutch.
B. S. Eliud Acrewe is a poet of difficult moems. T. S. Eliot (1888-1965) was a Modernist Ameri-Anglo poet and proset.
~~~
The Millennium Bridge Opening
by Alec Subre Wide
June 10, 2000, finally they opened it—
London’s Millennium Pedestrian Bridge walk.
Great expectations were what had been hoped for it—
this gleaming “blade of light,” to which ten thousands flocked.
It crossed the Thames. The southern end passed near the Globe
and Tate; the north side came out just below St. Paul’s.
The 8 suspension cables hung bY sectors broke
to 81, 108, and 144
meters; but on that day it all became wobblY,
and side to side the bright aluminum deck’s four
feet wide began to oscillate—a sloping step,
another marker made for half a centurY.
Alec Subre Wide is a poet of bridges.
~~~
Newsreel:
It looked, like as a warzone, devastation reigned supreme,
with hundreds dead in the Southeast from Hurricane Helene.
~~~
This Piercing Curse
by Dr. Weslie Ubeca
Sometimes the pain was more than he could stand, but he had to
endure his fate, go through the gate to reach sweet calm anew.
He held on to the bathtub rim, to steady his fierce nerves.
With verve he strove to get through all he could—this piercing curse.
Dr. Weslie Ubeca is a poet of medical moments.
~~~
Inscrutable Malice
by Usa W. Celebride
Always it seems I fail, and though I try to make
poetic visions out of the things of this world,
it seems I can’t succeed. Such stuff is hard to take.
Why should a person ever dare connect the word
to this wild swirling mess? Like a Pollack painting,
where the paint has been dribbled, dripped, draped, dropped, and hurled,
before our very eyes the cosmos whirls—a fling
impossible to make sense of if Ahab capped.
A great white whale fantails beneath sailors fainting.
Look, Starbuck, how our starstruck partner’s warped and rapt.
He tasks me with his madness, lame and Romantic,
a crazed, obsessive mania man can’t adapt.
Usa W. Celebride is a poet of American culture. Herman Melville (1819-1891) was an American Realist proset and poet. Jacson Pollack (1912-1956) was a Modernist American Abstract Expressionist painter.
~~~
In-Box Gone Was Done
by Des Wercebauli
“the best gesture of my brain is less than your eyelids’ flutter…”
—E. E. Cummings, “Since Feeling Is First”
He leaned back on his office chair, sunlight on arms and head;
extending elbows in the air, this was a morning stretch.
He knew he had a lot of work to do, and so he did…
all that he could—o, yes, he would—he blinked his two eyelids.
He saw the shadows on the blinds, reflections on the shelves;
he made connections to reality and other selves.
His left leg underneath his desk, positioned on his right,
allowed him to be more erect, while focusing to write.
His left arm stretched seemed like a comet racing through dark space,
the arc along his head was like a waning moon in space.
He thought about the practice of Dean Koontz as he pressed on;
he had to keep on typing till his in-box gone was done.
Des Wercebauli is a poet of work. E. E. Cummings (1894-1962) was a Modernist American poet and proset. Dean Koontz is a contemporary proset.
~~~
The Changing of a Tire
by Bruc “Deisel” Awe
A stout man walked into the closed garage in army boots,
but he was not a soldier in one of their drab-green suits.
He walked on over to the shiny scarlet car parked there.
His hands were at his hips, as he crouched like an arc in air.
He squatted low beside that glow above a long lug wrench.
There also was a jack nearby that hardy, hardened mensch.
He wondered was he waiting for someone to help him out.
He wondered what was on his mind as he was dipped and down.
He could not tell if he was loosening the tire nuts,
because his back was turned to him, and he did not seem stunned.
In fact, he seemed content, despite his awkward bent-knee pose.
Was this dude a mechanic, or a typical John Doe?
On gray cement, it seemed he spent a short eternity,
as if he were stuck in a pic, a city of concern.
But though his focus looking there was not upon the whole,
he left that stout man at his station in that cubbyhole.
The Rest Was Good
by Bruc “Diesel” Awe
He got into the auto; it was time to head up north.
He wound around the parking lot and drove to Unicorn.
From there, he crawled behind th’ apartment speed-bumps o’er.
He didn’t need a compass; he had been this way before.
At last, he came to a gas station filled with lots of cars,
though he was full and didn’t need to stop to fill up more.
He drove on to the Interstate; the Sun was beating down.
He built his speed up on the ramp, so he was gaining ground.
But drivers weren’t that careful at fast speeds; they were insane.
One passing eighteen-wheeler had nosed into his lined lane.
And later up ahead a car did the exact same move.
Thank, God, the braking worked within that violent varoom.
He drove ahead to soon arrive at his chance to escape,
and took a ramp off of that highway to another scape.
This four-lane high way took him to his quiet neighbourhood,
where he could stop and pause in peace. O, God, the rest was good.
Bruc “Diesel” Awe is a poet of transportation.
~~~
Tooth-Brushing
by Dr. Weslie Ubeca
At first he had to swish and rinse the liquid in his mouth;
around and round the fluid went, to east, north, west and south;
and when he spit, a myriad food-bits would hit the sink,
which he washed down the bright white basin, where they could not cling.
Next came the cavity protection, sodium fluoride,
the tooth-brush bristles on the pink gums going for a ride.,
foam building up on the saliva, over, under, on,
the menthol, thymol gar-gl-ing ensued here in the dawn.
And then, the soothing, oozing pooling—zero alcohol—
completed by refreshing mints of lemon xylitol.
Dr. Weslie Ubeca (not a licensed practitioner) is a poet of cleaning. His favourite dentist is contemporary dentist Ellie Phillips.
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