Sombrero Galaxy
by I. E. Sbace Weruld
Like as a target found in archery in darkest night,
Sombrero Galaxy contains a blackhole in its eye.
James Webb Space Telescope brings its picture into sight
with polycyclic aromatic hydrocarbons nigh.
The World
by I. E. Sbace Weruld
The World is much more complex than anyone can tell.
There are so many parts to it, from Universe to cell.
Reality is hardly something that fits in to words,
or lines of code, in any mode. That simply is absurd.
And yet that doesn’t stop us trying to align with it,
as long as we’re still in it, Aramazd and Anahit.
Sbace Weruld is a poet of the Multiverse. Aramazd and Anahit are gods in the Armenian version of Zoroastrianism.
~~~
Haiku
by “Clear Dew” Ibuse
Above the bistro,
he saw the vast flying flock
coming to the South.
“Clear Dew” Ibuse is a trad haikuist.
~~~
Haiku
by “Wired Clues” Abe
He was not sliding,
nor was he swinging upon
the merry-go-round.
Haiku
by “Wired Clues” Abe
He climbs each step, then
walks through the macaroni.
It is so much fun.
“Wired Clues” Abe is a NewMillennial haikuist.
~~~
Newsreel:
Americans detained for years in China were released.
Mark Swidan, Kai Li, and John Leung were set free recently.
~~~
In Camo, Varied Browns along with Black
by War di Belecuse
From head to toe in camo, varied browns along with black.
He stood up at his battle station ready for attack.
He wondered if he would be able to endure the lot,
the onslaught that was coming hard and furious—Good God!
He had to put his feelings to the side about all else.
This was not time for an analysis of love or self.
He had to git up off his butt and prep for war’s worst woes.
He had to face with all his strength the battle and his foes.
It could be very bad, but he could not dwell on such thoughts.
He had to front the enemy. But just what were the odds?
War di Belecuse is a poet of soldiers.
~~~
Newsreel:
The deadly war in Lebanon has paused between the foes
Of Hezbollah and Israel. Filled autos filled the roads.
Is it enduring, or is it a momentary close?
~~~
Dodeca to the South Wind
by Clide Wau Brees
“In dürren Blättern säuselt der Wind.”
—Johann Wolfgang von Goethe
The stirring Notus, from the South, blows fallen leaves around,
not ghosts from an enchanter fleeing, they are northward bound.
Leaves fly, red, orange, yellow, brown, across the gray, paved streets,
from sugarberries, shumard oaks, and honey locust trees.
Mahogany and orange squirrels dart this way and that,
so many labouring about, in order to git fat.
The animated harvest’s in full force—a fecund crop—
a temp’ratures go down and down, precipitously drop.
A distant spirit calls to one across the centuries,
and, for a second, driving forth, within that moment, meets
a presence in a gas-fed auto, past the grassy fields,
and to the slightest of eternal messages does yield.
Clide Wau Brees is a poet of Wind. Johann Wolfgang von Goethe (1749-1832) was a German Classical/Romantic poet, Percy Bysshe Shelley (1792-1822) was an English Romantic poet.
~~~
Coda For Coleridge
by Basil Drew Eceu
He dove deep into the white light
of the full round pearl shining bright
in the eternal blue of night,
because he desired his vision
would be refined with precision,
crystal clear and sharply defined.
He was obsessed with the outline
of reality seen under
the clash of lightning and thunder;
for it was there, yes, it was there,
where he could see, feel, and find fair
fire, frost, between the frozen lake
and forest damasked in ice flake,
performing, unhelped by any
wind, its secret ministry.
Basil Drew Eseu is a poet of English poetry. Samuel Coleridge (1772-1834) was a visionary British Romantic poet.
~~~
Monday Morning
by Walice du Beers
“He dreamed of Thebes and Camelot, and Priam’s neighbors.”
—E. A Robinson
“The poet is a forest rebel.”
—Ernst Jünger
Complacencies of the peignoir were not on view this day;
but white-cupped coffee with some heavy cream was on display.
There was no freedom of a cockatoo upon a rug;
the carpet, olive drab, tan, black and crimson, lay unruffed.
The man sat on his swivel chair in light-brown camouflage;
the garbage had been taken out of his concrete garage.
He dreamt a little, but not of that old catastrophe,
that crucifixion on Golgotha, skull-place Calvary,
nor of Geryon in battle with tenacious Hercules,
whom Stesichorus mentioned in his pyuric poetry.
He gladly gave his bounty to the heroes of the past;
but likewise loved enjoyment of the present. Let it last.
He dreamed of woodland fauns and nymphs, along the leaf-swept trails,
yet not of ancient ones, but rather new ones near squat quails.
He did some Monday morning quarterbacking. Yes he did.
Not in Madrid, he thought not of Campeador El Cid.
Instead he dreamt about the emptiness surrounding him,
the silent shadows of the forest leas. It was his whim.
He dreamed of fleeting moments down below the smiling Moon,
and Jupiter on the horizon, a sordid boredom’s boon.
Walice du Beers is a poet of scintillating diamonds. Stesichorus (c. 632 BC – c. 556 BC) was an Ancient Greek lyrical epicist.
~~~
A Scruffy Transcendentalist
by Wilbur Dee Case
He was a poet and philosopher,
but more an essayist and nat’ralist,
a scruffy transcendental officer
and stout environmental anarchist.
Hirsute and burly, rough around the edge,
a dude who loved simplicity, like gold.
His beard was like as is a rugged hedge,
out of control, o, thoroughly Thoreau.
He built a shack on Walden Pond with friends,
like Emerson, in 1845;
and there he dwelt along its rounded ends,
attuned to nature’s scenic beauties, so alive.
He took Earth’s meanness, and he published it
with words not quite obliterated yet.
A Passage to Windy Abandon
by Wilbur Dee Case
I sing my days, the great achievements of the present time,
the works of engineers and modern wonders, strong, sublime,
the mighty highways of America and other lands,
the satellites that orbit planet Earth in swirling bands.
I sound the note, commence the cry, with thee, o, soul, at last,
the future in an instant and our presence in the past.
That teeming gulf, the sleepers and the shadows of this World,
how infinite their greatness into which we have been hurled,
as a projectile, formed, impelled, and passing certain lines,
our present goes on utterly, interior designs.
At a Funeral
by Wilbur Dee Case
I saw them at a funeral, both separate, yet there,
the scruffy geezer and reclusive spinster balladeer.
They’d come to pay their differing, yet similar respects,
the yawping braggadocio and nicer, finer sex.
The body was embalmed, and looking fresh as if brand new;
but any true resuscitation would be hard to do.
The old dude, dithering, expressed a realistic bent,
while the old, introverted maid walked at a brittle slant.
The two of them together there transformed the burial
into a rather, strange, remarkable memorial.
Wilbur Dee Case is a poet of America, Henry Thoreau (1817-1862) was an American Romantic proset. Walt Whitman (1819-1892) and Emily Dickinson (1830-1886) were American Realist poets.
~~~
Except When He Was Down
by Des Wercebauli
It was another Saturday—time for his weekend chores.
O, even on his days of rest he felt like a work horse.
He had to shop for groceries. He had to wash the clothes.
He had to sweep, he could not sleep, he had to scrub and hose.
He had to fill his tank with gas. He had to feed the pets.
He had to step it up, no matter what the task was next.
He had to pick up things, including messes, pep and pace.
and this was when he wasn’t active in that fast rat race.
Upon a bed or on his head, the round Moon moved around.
O would he never find sweet peace, except when he was down?
Des Wercebauli is a poet of work.
~~~
He Keeps
by Bruc “Diesel” Awe
He keeps striving, but not arriving, at the long-awaited goal he is seeking. He keeps living, but he keeps missing that which he is trying to achieve. The King sees only failures. He keeps assailing the Mountain Peak, but keeps on falling down. Upon the Sea he continues sailing, and stalling. He cannot get to the Town. You’d think he would summarily give up; yet he doesn’t. He keeps endeavoring to reach the Beach; and though he doesn’t live up to his tries, he ever has a fling at them, and hopes somehow, despite Time’s claims, he will fulfill the promise of those aims.
Bruc “Diesel” Awe is a poet of transport, as in the above prosem.
~~~
No Yellow Brick Road
by Ra Bué Weel Disc
He walked along the open drainage basin—it was huge—
a meadowland so vast that it could hold a grand deluge,
containing walls of stone and runways of long-lined cement,
a grassy colosseum, an arena-sized event.
In summer one could hear the crickets chirping clicking wail;
and walking there beside it on a goose-grass golden trail,
one who was facing to the west the Sun’s light billowing,
the glaring, silver, flaming brilliance, hardly pillowing.
This was no yellow brick road. It was gray and hard like stone.
It was a blinding, mindless finding, grinding, all alone.
Ra Bué Weel Disc is a poet of the Sun.
~~~
First Generation 2016 Wireless Bluetooth Earbuds
by Cu Ebide Aswerl
Like giant, white George Washington ear-ringing Monuments,
the ear pods were, like as hair driers you stick in your vents.
Priced @ one-sixty dollars for a pair, they were a “steal”,
There were no strings attached; they float above the driving wheel;
though you may lose one in between your arm rest and car seat,
and could, like Doctor Who, go deep in to a trance complete.
Ear pods will not remove your data; they’re the latest thing;
they let you hear all of the A-Test hits from A to Zing…
when they’re not charging…forward, Jack, what is the price for one?
Though Air Buds may have problems keeping his, they’re lots of fun?
Cu Ebide Aswerl is a poet of leisure. Apple announced AirPods 4 on September 9, 2024.
~~~
The Case of the Missing Person
by Bic Uwel, “Erased”
He vanished in the city, glittering in neon lights,
and lost himself amidst the glaring shops and sultry nights.
He floundered in the aisles of the cheap and gawdy stores,
and fell into the theatres performing filmy noirs.
Around him clashed the cloudy cymbals of smoke and romance,
sophisticated swagger, gritty crime and high finance.
The jazzy, bluesy rhythms found in his receptive ears,
were grinding worries and depression, fantasies and fears.
He fled the alcohol and drugs that swirled on the streets,
and disappeared without a trace in pounding, throbbing beats.
Bic Uwel, “Erased” is a poet of the unknown.
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