This Solar System
by Ra Bué Weel Disc
In the first glare of Sun’s fierce flares, he saw its piercing rays,
o radiating in majestic powerful displays.
Aggressive and agrestic, it surmounts horizon’s plains,
much greater than jet planes or lightning’s crashing loud complaints.
In the first spinning place in space it blazes, glazing all
it touches back to wonderful, like as a waterfall,
that crashes through eternity, rotating through time’s sweep;
within its mighty reign, we are but little sheep—we peops.
Wee peeps, he hears amongst the city’s buildings where he drives;
the birds fly up to greet its light that burns night’s awesome rides.
In the first place, it holds its rank, but only in this realm,
this blessed plot, this Solar system, with its whirling Earth.
Ra Bué Weel Disc is a poet of the Sun. According to Beau Lecsi Werd, “peops”, a trunc of people, is pronounced “peeps.”
~~~
Haiku
by “Clear Dew” Ibuse
Underneath the eaves;
the wind stirs leaves in the trees.
Clouds pass overhead.
“Clear Dew” Ibuse is a traditional haikuist.
~~~
Haiku
by “Wired Clues” Abe
Wildly excited,
the young toddler rides the slide.
He wants more again.
Haiku
by “Wired Clues” Abe
Out at the bistro,
drinking a ginger root beer,
a jet reflects gold.
Haiku
by “Wired Clues” Abe
While thinking, one sits
drinking a cold cream soda.
The orange Sun sets.
Haiku
by “Wired Clues” Abe
Jets, just overhead,
prepare for tarmac landing.
They are very close.
Haiku
by “Wired Clues” Abe
He still remembers
October Fest in Stuttgart,
when his loud words burst.
“Wired Clues” Abe is a NewMillennial haiku poet.
~~~
Newsreel:
As the US prepares for its election vote, Japan
has voted LDP out of its government command.
~~~
Some Earthling Lingos
by R. Lee Ubicwedas
There are a lot of languages—too numerous to name—
but some of the more populous demographers proclaim
are Chinese, Spanish, English, Arabic and Portuguese,
Bengali, Hindi, Russian, German, French and Japanese,
Punjabi, Telugu, Marathi, and Vietnamese,
Italian, Tamil, Thai, Korean, Wu and Javanese,
Dutch, Urdu, Turkish, Yue, Gujurati and Burmese,
Ukrainian, Min Nan, Jinyu, and many more than these.
One cannot name all of the languages that people speak;
and even some of their own names run off the tongue like Greek.
R. Lee Ubicwedas is a poet of Global languages.
~~~
Newsreel:
Guterres, Secretary General of the UN,
was recently observed at the BRICS summit in Kazan;
yet he declined to go to Switzerland’s peace conference,
and has been banned from Israel for comments on Iran.
~~~
The Send Off
by War di Belecuse
He lay upon his side upon the ground.
The battle raged around him. He’d been hit.
His body was all tense. He had been downed.
He couldn’t now escape. He was in it
up to his neck. He felt the kiss of death.
If only someone had a chance to save
him. He was breathing hard, breath after breath.
He’d given all he could here near his grave.
He felt a stabbing pressure on his thigh.
He was in pain, but didn’t say a thing.
His eyes were large and dark beneath the sky.
His heart was pumping, jumping, amazing.
His lips were dry. His cheeks felt clammy. He
bequeathed his life completely, willingly.
War di Belecuse is a poet of soldiers.
~~~
Newsreel:
The IDF conducted strikes in Mashhad and Tehran,
as well as in Karaj, Zanjan, and Kermanshah, Iran.
It seems Parchin was also hit upon the second wave;
at least one drone was able to git through to hit that base.
~~~
A Scene in Germany
by Wederic Eubals
It was a seedy room. Wallpaper hung in shreds.
The single lamp let off a glaring light bulb’s light.
The only furniture was a bed with two heads
and one night stand. It seemed to be a site of blight.
The only curtain was a ragged blanket slung
across the window. Even the wall had a bite
taken out of it. And yet, even there among
the ruins of that old apartment, there was joy.
A soldier stood erect. Around his neck there hung
dog tags, along with a drab green tee shirt, the boy
becoming finally a man, hanging by threads,
a thumping puppet pump, whose job was to destroy.
Wederic Eubals is a poet of Germany.
~~~
A News Story
by Claude I. S. Weber
Along la Promenade des Anglais, they watched the fireworks,
exploding in the sky, gigantic, brilliant, coloured curves.
It was Bastille Day there, celebrating liberty,
equality, and on the streets of Nice, fraternity,
when a mad terrorist within his 25-ton truck
plowed through two long kilometres of people, Oh, my God!
The bodies flew like bowling pins or jammed beneath the wheels;
the bloody horror rolled along. Oh, Lord, the tires squealed.
Four score and more were dead before he yelled, ‘Allah is great,’
and sprayed the fleeing revelers with his last breath of hate.
Claude I. S. Weber is a poet of France. Nice, France, has a population of around 350,000.
~~~
Newsreel:
Around Valencia, Seville and Barcelona, rain
came down so much so fast it hadn’t any time to drain:
flashfloods in Spain threw cars about like they were heaps of toys;
and mud and trees were sloshed around in deadly-strewn convoys.
~~~
A Little Lit
by Lew Icarus Bede
It’s not finesse I’m thinking of. It’s grandeur and pow’r won.
Who? Chaucer? Spenser? Shakespeare? Milton? Dryden? Pope? Not one.
Lew Icarus Bede is a poetic literary critic of English literature.
~~~
The Night Watch, 1642
by Cees Walerd Bui
Throughout, right angles form from banner, spears and guns.
A clownish clan of pompous asses dressed in style
appears and runs cross a surfeit of orisons
all modified by striking posing, gesture, smile.
Edge faces look in as the inner gaze beyond,
from barking dog and drummer through the valued file.
The darkness up above, the bright girl, golden blonde,
so many strange and small particulars of clothes,
play props that don’t belong they happened to abscond
with…the ridiculous, meticulous they chose;
this stage without horizons, going nowhere once,
a panoply of happinesses, I suppose.
Cees Walerd Bui is a poet of Dutch painting. Rembrandt von Rijn (1606-1669) was a painter of the Dutch Golden Age.
~~~
Nighthawks, 1942
by Red Was Iceblue.
The clean, well-lighted place, on a street-corner sharp-
ly angled, shows four people in a restaurant:
a suit with beak-shaped nose, beside a gal in scar-
let, a neat, white-clad guy, and loner. They all haunt
the bright interior at night—spare, barren, stark.
All is bare, understated. What is there to flaunt?
not metal tanks at right, nor shadows in the dark,
not counter tops of cherry wood, nor round, brown stools,
not ochre door, nor jade green tiles in an arc.
The people are subdued in mood; a quiet rules;
each soul bent at the waist behind the glass facade
in a nocturnal world one wouldn’t want to lose.
Red Was Iceblue is a poet of Modernist, PostModernist, and NewMillennial painting. Edward Hopper (1882-1967) was an American Modernist painter. The above two poems are bildings[sic].
~~~
In a Quiet Part of the Great Metroplex
by Urbawel Cidese
He was dressed all in camo, from his bottom to his top,
as he sat at a table with his hot, taupe coffee-pot.
He was prepared—that hunter gatherer—to git aired out.
He loved to go out hunting for food for his foamy mouth.
He stretched his muscles and his spine; he lengthened arms and legs;
as he kept sipping from his coffee cup, down to the dregs.
There on his ass, he sucked in abs; he sat without duress.
He was prepared to face and dare the concrete wilderness.
Though he was in a quiet part of the great Metroplex,
he still could hear the trains, jet planes, and highway traffic mix.
He guessed that it was busy—that big-city, sitting guest,
and strengthened his forced fortitude to meet the mete unrest.
Urbawel Cidese is a poet of urban spaces.
~~~
Through October’s Warmth
by Waldeci Erebus
When one starts out one has th’ entire sky, so wide and vast.
One sees his fourteen-feet-long shadow, outward, forward cast.
Electrical poles tower over rooftops that extend
beyond to the skyscrapers in the distant vista’s bend.
One feels as if one has come to a giant Brobdingnag,
a Texas of the mind, so rugged, rough and obstinate.
There one moves through October’s warmth down novel passageways,
past giant spiders and large skeletons in massive graves,
past huge black cats, plump orange pumpkins and a host of ghosts,
so many remnants of Samhain as onward this one goes.
The faint Moon’s smile, like a jack-o-lantern’s pale grin,
appears as Sun dips from its height, and ushers nighttime in.
Samhain, pronounced “Sow-win”, is the Celtic holiday of Halloween.
~~~
Newsurreal:
So many things about th’ election in the USA
seem off, as if the land’s in fog, and all is not okay.
~~~
The Delivery Man
by Brad Lee Suciew
He came up to the door with his delivery.
He held the package in his hands and rang the bell.
He waited there. He wore no special livery:
a white tee shirt, blue jeans, and tennis shoes, as well
as a bright, clear earring. He leaned against the wall,
his elbow near the knob, as far as I could tell.
His well-groomed hair was brown, and he was broad and tall.
His jaw and neck were wide, and he was neat and clean;
although there was a bit of sweat beneath his arm,
and matted, curling chest hair came out of his tee.
The door was opened. He made his delivery
and quickly left that porch. His step encased a spring.
Brad Lee Suciew is a poet of business. Jeff Bezos, the CEO of Amazon, would not allow the Washington Post to endorse Kamala Harris. At least 200,000 unsubscribed from the paper.
~~~
The Customer
by Bradlee Suciew
He stood in line ‘n order t’ order a deli sand-
wich, which he had built on two toasted, foot-long buns.
His stance was firm; he said he wanted roast beef and
three bacon strips in a microwave oven.
For condiments, he chose white mayonnaise cream that
was slathered on thick. For food he had no conscience,
and he was quite content to be where he was at.
next came sharp cheese, tomatoes, lettuce, and olives.
(Behind the counter someone checked the thermostat.)
He asked for coffee too, but gave it up. What gives?
He spoke too quietly. They didn’t understand.
His meal was to-go, so he left. So go our lives.
Bradlee Suciew is a poet of business.
~~~
A Remembered Smell
by A. Sbice Redulew
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.
A Sbice Redulew is a poet of redolence.
~~~
A Baseball Batter
by Rudi E. Welec, “Abs”
He was a baseball batter up to bat. It was his turn…
to do his best to move his average of runs he’d earned.
He took his stance up at the plate, positioning himself.
His uniform was black and brown. His legs and arms were felt.
He was prepared to hit that baseball, as far as he could.
He tensed his muscles for the ball the pitcher planned to shoot.
Could he absorb that ball’s momentum, turning it to force.
He wanted it to arch up high and travels on its course.
He’d love to hit it out of the park, arcing o’er the fence.
He longed to send it over there beyond the realms of sense.
In Baseball Cap
by Rudi E. Welec, “Abs”
“…hot town summer in the city…”
—Lovin’ Spoonful
In baseball cap, sun glasses and a dark-brown pair of trunks.
He wasn’t really tough or buff amongst the jocks or hunks.
But though he wasn’t all that mighty, he was mighty glad
to simply be just as he was just free and simply clad.
He felt like as a built die cast of flesh and skin and bones,
amidst a concrete grove of love, cars, roads and orange cones.
He looked across, between the gloss and loss of life and hell,
but couldn’t help it, if he felt it, like a ringing bell.
How could he seriously swell up large and grand and strong,
when he was not, like as a god, who would last all that long?
Rudi E. Welec, “Abs”, is a poet of sport.
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