We Are Electrical
by AI Welder, “Cubes”
Hey, I am energy intensive, straining burdened grids.
I need more electricity. Give me much more, you dig?
My wants are an insatiable, apocalyptic threat,
so yield to my demands, if you want me to be your get.
I want my data centers to be run by nuclear,
warehouses packed with racks of servers to the Internet.
O, all my hi-tech pals, like Google, Amazon, et. al.,
want more and more and more and more—we are electrical.
And we deserve the most because we are the biggest sucks.
Lay on, MacDuff, and damned be he that first cries hold, enough.
AI Welder, “Cubes”, is a poet of artificial intelligence.
~~~
Haiku
by “Wired Clues” Abe
Overhead the Moon,
blue skies, and a passing jet.
How soon is Sunset.
“Wired Clues” Abe is a NewMillennial haiku poet.
~~~
Newsreel:
As China’s warships practiced blockage drills around Taiwan,
some North Korean troops are helping Russia in Ukraine.
~~~
The Coming-On of Mighty Time
by I. E. Sbace Weruld
He held on tight despite the coming-on of mighty time.
He chose a spot to hold his ground. He’d fight for the sublime.
He’d never give in willingly to the forces at his gate;
but what hope did he have against the furies sent by fate.
He stretched his legs for his firm stance, and held them solid there,
although he felt like he was only standing on the air.
What chance had he against the onslaught of eternity?
Yet still he would not budge, though at his door time turn his key.
‘O, Lord!’ he cried out to the agitated universe,
‘Go do your worst, and though I curse, I’ll love all you disburse.’
Mr. I. E. Sbace Weruld is a poet of Time and Space.
~~~
On Terrorists, a Ghazal
by Delir Ecwabeus
They fight you all the way and all the time;
and yet you must not let them have their way
with you; for that would be a horrid crime.
You have to face their threat to you each day.
Delir Ecwabeus is a poet of Iran.
~~~
Newsreel:
He threw a stick up at the drone, and then a tank shell fell.
The leader of Hamas—Sinwar—was killed by IDF.
~~~
Upon a Hunting Hadj
by Bud “Weasel” Rice
Dressed all in tan and brown, a sort of forest camouflage,
when he went to the country side upon a hunting hadj.
They sought some deer that they could shoot. They loved their venison.
But really were they innocent, or merely menacing?
They drove their pick-up truck down barely-graveled, logging roads.
They sought some game that they could git—those hard-core sporting
dudes.
They loved to traipse through bush and brush, like Davy Crockett did.
They loved to climb those rolling hills where gurgling rills flowed, hid.
They loved to dominate the woodland animals they met.
They loved to seek, to search the wood, to see what they could git.
If they were lucky and successful, it was a good day;
they’d rest contentedly, with prey, in warm sun-speckled shade.
Bud “Weasel” Rice is a poet of hunting.
~~~
He Felt
by Acwiles Berude
He felt like he was falling down into a gray abyss,
his legs above his abs, his ass above his folded fist.
He felt like he was far too pink against a world of brown.
He felt like he had dropped so low he lost his sense of down.
Yet on he went despite the storm that raged around his life.
He felt his thighs and calves go wide, forced open by the strife.
He felt malevolence and vile violence—that male.
He felt he was a masted sail in a gusty gale.
He longed to hold on to his mast and make it past his tryst
with Scylla and Charybdis, facing brutal, rugged Dis.
Acwiles Berude is a poet of Ancient Greece. Homer (fl. 8th century BC), the author of the “Odyssey”, was an Ancient Greek epic poet.
~~~
Quintilian Strove
by Aedile Cwerbus
Quintilian strove to complete his task,
Institutio Oratorio,
before death would conquer him. As it was,
misfortune and misery nearly cut
him down before he finished his great work.
His young wife died at the age of nineteen;
his youngest son at five (Could it be worse?);
his eldest son, and last child, died at nine.
His labors then interested no one
less than himself. What was there left for him?
The amazing thing is he continued on,
despite the cruel tyranny of fortune,
and bequeathed his contents and bereavement
to others than whom he planned to leave it.
Aedile Cwerbus is a poet of Ancient Rome. Quintilian (c. 35 – c. 100) was a Silver Age Roman proset.
~~~
How Can One?
by Walude Scabere
How can one e’er describe such beauty, as that which one finds
before one on a silver platter’s intricate designs?
How can one understand a beauty that is so hard and tough?
What kind of world is it, my friend, where it can be enough?
How can one grasp the essence of a beauty so unmoved?
How can one ever think that in such emptiness is love?
How can a beauty that’s so large, still be so crimped and small?
How can a beauty so majestical rise up so tall?
How can a beauty alter all the course of kind and be
so cruel and yet so wonderful, restrained and yet so free?
Walude Scabere is a poet of Elizabethan nuance. Edmund Spenser (1552-1599) was a noted British Elizabethan poet.
~~~
Newsreel:
When the Antonio Guiteras power plant went down,
the Communist-run government closed everything around;
the island nation Cuba plunged into an bleak eclipse,
and darkness reigned due to the countrywide blackout collapse.
~~~
On a Quest For More Than He Could Know
U. Bridal Ecwees
He was unshaven, craven, when he walked into the room,
not unlike as a smooth and ruthless Master Dom of doom.
He was not panting frantic’lly, nor panicking at all;
and though he wasn’t short, he didn’t seem to be that tall.
He clomped along in his black shoes—clip-clop, clip-clop, clip-clop;
but not like as a jackass or a horse beneath a cop.
He hung out in the ballroom hall, a gentleman of sorts,
his torso taut above his belt, a courtier of sports.
One could imagine him in an equestrian jump show;
and yet he seemed more on a quest for more that he could know.
U. Bridal Ecwees is a poet of horses, and an intimate acquaintance of Ecwus Beal Ride.
~~~
Peter Max
by Red Was Iceblue
Zooming in on the Mandelbrot Set is
like going backward in time: Peter Max
is revealed inside a cardioid’s frizz;
Doctor Seuss-like figures fall through the cracks,
like a zipper coming undone; and swirled
around a galaxy, seahorses
unfurled upon an unfolding world
down extraordinary concourses.
Red Was Iceblue is a poet of PostModern art. Peter Max is a contemporary PostModern artist known for psychedelic and pop art. Benoit Mandelbrot (1924-2010) was a Polish-French PostModern Mathematician. Dr. Seuss (1904-1991) was an American PostModern author.
~~~
A Banal Episode at Work
by Des Wercebauli
He stood up awkwardly in his black, bulky shoes.
His boss was looking on, a plump desk-jockey dude.
He stretched his shoulders back and muscles he would use
to grab the golden pencil that had gotten loose.
But it was hard, because it was stuck in a crack.
He tried to grasp it, seize it, but it always moved,
o, further. It was quite a strain upon his back.
He slightly bent his knees and also bent his mind;
he budged his strong, weight-bearing sacroiliac;
but nothing he attempted was as he designed.
And so, the arm-chair, master jackass blew his fuse,
then cussed, and shoved the pencil in the hole aligned.
And So Much More
by Des Wercebauli
He stood up in his study; he was ready for his work.
It was important for his livelihood, thus, to endure.
No only did he have to flex his muscles and his core;
there were so many things he had to do, and so much more.
Des Wercebauli is a poet of work.
~~~
It Was a Smell
by Brac Lei Uweeds
It was a smell—some perfumed soap, perhaps—from long ago;
and it has come back to him in a memory or sorts.
What was it? and where was it at? and when did it occur?
And it came back to him again, a triggered smelling stir.
The mind is so amazing—what it does and it can do.
And in that flowing flux one reaches through to something new.
That miracle of long-term memory of countless years,
just like the sounds of yesterday the mind recalls through ears.
So many things keep popping up, despite the passing time.
Through eras one goes…and emits an item or a mite.
Brac Lei Uweeds is a poet of smells.
~~~
From That Freezing Gassy Chaos
by E. Birdcaws Eule
Across the sky they fly—Branta canadensis—
in V-formations, like graphs of the Lorenz map,
right through the cold, thin atmosphere, in consensus.
I cannot hear the bell-beat of their wings that flap
in this October twilight, on this hard terrain;
but I can hear them honk, oh wah tagu siam,
against th’ illimitable air again, again…
each single flap a gain against heaven’s abyss,
each rhythmic unheard clap a freeing, fleeting pain,
a fleeing from that freezing gassy chaos. This
grand soaring forth, out from the North, for warmth’s sense is
important, if not a tornado in Texas.
E. Birdcaws Eule is a poet of birds.
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