The Palisades and Eaton Fires in Los Angeles
by Cal Wes Ubideer
Apocalyptic devastation, nearly fathomless,
are Palisades and Eaton fires in Los Angeles,
fanned by the recent drought conditions, low humidity,
and raging Santa Ana winds advancing rapidly,
as well as overwhelmed departments taxed beyond belief,
amidst lost cries of help and desperation for relief.
Cal Wes Ubideer is a poet of California.
~~~
Haiku
by “Clear Dew” Ibuse
In the falling snow,
the paused morning doves are…still…
sitting on the fence.
“Clear Dew” Ibuse is a poet of traditional haiku.
~~~
Allwhere Beyond
by I. E. Sbace Weruld
Like clockwork, they came on—the festive decoration lights—
they twinkled in the darkness, holiday bright, red and white,
the cold and blackness of eternity, allwhere beyond.
Here was a momentary shine from some poor wizard’s wand.
The motorists slid on the streets, and on their driveways too,
as they tried to get into the garages in their view.
They wanted to get back to homes where they could be content,
where wonder could be analyzed away from hard cement.
Mr. I. E Sbace Weruld is a poet of space.
~~~
A Chinese Ditch
by Aw “Curbside” Lee
This stagnant ditch is hopeless, clearly not a lovely place.
here at the bottom of these tofu dregs, that take up space.
Perhaps its best to simply cultivate its ugliness.
Perhaps just that will make a world one can live near, No, yes?
Aw “Curbside” Lee is a poet of Chinese industrialization. Wen Yiduo (1899-1946) was a Chinese Modernist poet.
~~~
He Saw the Nepalese
by Sri Wele Cebuda
He put his flannel jacket on; outside it was so cold;
his zip-front, sherpa-lined fleece with its black and fuzzy hood.
He saw the Nepalese out standing by the snowy rills;
before him mountain peaks rose high, behind him giant hills.
It was so big and beautiful—that Himalayan Range—
Would he be able to connect to that which was so strange?
Perhaps like Caesar Julius who crossed the rugged Alps,
he could advance to Rome and reach the seven Pals.
The Pleiades shined overhead. Were they a crown of stars?
or just some wretched individuals down at the bars.
Sri Wele Cebuda is a poet of the Himalayas. John T. McIntyre (1871-1951) was a Modernist American playwright and novelist. Julius Caesar (100 BC – 44 BC) was a noted Roman leader and writer.
~~~
On Landing on the Desert
by Eswer El Cubadi
When it comes time to jump, you have to jump.
Like little clouds, they billow out—the chutes—
and fall down to the ground below. Men bump
upon the dusty earth—in soldier’s boots.
Then quickly are they buried—the white shrouds—
in night’s cool light, the faintest blue—dark black.
We gather fast together, check our rounds.
Not ever are we going to come back.
There cannot be mistakes. Before the day
appears we must accomplish one big shove.
We travel in the shadows. It’s our way.
Where desert hills roll on along above,
we go; but they do never move. They stay.
We pick it up. We are at the end of…
Eswer El Cubadi is a poet of North Africa.
~~~
Gabriele D’Annunzio
by “Il Duce” Wesarbe
His life itself was like a poem’s girth.
His birth was in Pescara (Abruzzo)
in 1863, the son of worth
(a wealthy mayor of the town), and so
he was sent to the Prato, Tuscany.
While still at school, at age of 16 years,
he wrote and published his first poetry,
influenced by Carducci and his peers.
From there he went to Rome, and published more,
both prose and poems, startling, Modernist.
Then he began to soar, in drama, o’er
contemporaries and his creditors.
He fled to France in 1910 when
his love affair was done, and then began
supplying lyrics for the op’ra men,
returning at the start of World War I.
D’ Annunzio next volunteered to be
a fighter pilot, where he lost an eye.
He took part in the Bakar Mockery
and in the flight over Vienna’s sky.
He next became involved in the Affair
Fiume (now Rijeka, Croatia),
where he and his men held out for a year,
a crazed daredevil, bracing, voracious.
A crude attempt upon his life deferred,
he was ennobled 1924
by King Victor Emmanuel III,
as Principe di Montenevoso.
He died in 1938, while at
his home in Gardone Riviera,
and later was interred. A stroke is what
he had, that, and a fine state funeral.
“Il Duce” Wesarbe is a poet of Modernist Italy. Gabriele D’Annunzio (1863-1938) was a Modernist Italian poet and proset. Giosué Carducci (1835-1907) was an Italian Realist poet and proset.
~~~
Like an Ode to Bliss
by Bieder C. Weslau
He took another sip of an organic herbal tea;
it felt so warm and wonderful, and said so verbally.
Though it was in the midst of winter, and his coat was on,
he stretched his neck up from his pecs, his spine, and photon buzz.
He loved its buzz, its gorgeous rush, its loveliness undone.
He took another sip, as if he was imbibing Sun.
He felt a little warm about the edges of his self,
as if he were a pirate who had gained good-gotten pelf.
His body started making noises, not Beethovenish;
but somewhat less exaggerated, like an ode to bliss.
Bieder C. Weslau is a poet of Germany. Ludwig Beethoven (1770-1827) was a Classical/Romantic German composer.
~~~
On Jakob Steiner
by Euclidrew Base
The farmer’s boy who could not read nor write
until he had turned fourteen years of age
(At eighteen he’d become an acolyte
of Heinrich Pestalozzi.) turned a page
when his extr’ordinary powers in
geometry revealed themselves. He went
from Switzerland to Heidelberg, and then
off the Berlin, as tutor and student.
Next he discovered these, duality,
the geometric forms, curves, surfaces,
inversions, inellipses, chains and trees,
and questioned algebra’s true purposes.
The greatest pure geometer was he
since Appolonius of Perga was.
Euclidrew Base is a poet fond of mathematical thinking. Jakob Steiner (1796-1863) was a Swiss Romantic geometer. Appolonius of Perga (c. 240 BC – c. 190 BC) was a noted Ancient Greek mathematician.
~~~
A Blessèd Isle
Cu Ebide Aswerl
It was one of those rare occasions when he would dress up
He wore a black suit and dark tie to be appropriate.
As there were lots of people celebrating, he did too;
it was a chance for joy, instead of dwelling on the blue.
There’d be no Cinderella, nor Prince Charming at the ball;
but it could be a lot of fun, like as a festival.
He saw a lot of smiles and a lot of grins as well;
and that was good enough, a bit of magic for a spell;
for it was good enough if folks were happy for a while.
In such a world as this, such moments were a blessed isle.
Cu Ebide Aswerl is a poet of fairy tales. Charles Perrault (1628-1703) was a NeoClassical French writer of fairy tales.
~~~
The Snow Was Falling
by Lars U. Ice Bedew
The snow was falling in large flakes; it covered cars and streets,
like as a pour of powdered sugar dropping past the trees.
The roof of house and driveway to each porch was covered white,
like as a gingerbread house sweetened to ‘n insane delight.
No one was going anywhere except to go outside,
and making snowballs thrown by children, happily applied.
Air traffic landing jets were rare, and few flew overhead,
and even road-bound vehicles were very limited,
while harried squirrels fought the varied birds on tall tree limbs,
or down below the bushes in between the leafless stems.
Lars U. Ice Bedew is a poet of winter.
~~~
After the Presidential Election
by Brice U. Lawseed
The Country still continues, but one wonders just how long.
When there’s so many that can’t get along. Can it go on?
One wants there to be unity in one’s community;
but from division’s visions, there is no immunity.
Some argue that there must be conflict; it’s the state of life—
forever to be in the flux of universal strife.
There is no rest for anyone; there is no peace on Earth;
It’s human fate, and as for war, there never has been dearth.
Brice U. Lawseed is a poet of elections.
~~~
A Creature Moving Through His Neighbourhood
by Bud “Weasel” Rice
His flesh was wrapped about his bones, blood vessels all around.
He lifted up his spine aligned, from top to bottom bound.
Between the dripping water streams, the tile and the wood;
he felt like as a creature moving through his neighbourhood.
He cut the rough hairs on his head, around his ears and peaks.
The shaver’s blades were sharp and harsh, as were his chin and cheeks.
He had to put on sock and shoes; he tightened up his tie;
and now he had to git on out into his car and drive.
Bud “Weasel” Rice is a poet of mammals.
~~~
Into the Silence of the Metroplex
by Urbawel Cidese
He entered out into the silence of that metroplex
at two o’clock in sunny winter, silver jet complex.
He placed his shoes upon the buckling concrete sidewalk way.
He stepped across the grassy seams and run-off water stays.
He heard the storm drains flush with melted ice and recent snow.
His feet were numb from cold, as were his ears, his cheeks, and nose.
He stood upon the corner of each intersection to
peer down the sunlit lanes, beneath the January blue.
On this day he proceeded west past houses with closed blinds
He did not know what monitors were on each home inside.
Urbawel Cidese is a poet of urban landscapes. Ray Bradbury (1920-2012) was an American PostModernist proset.
~~~
A Chance to Chat
by Bruc “Diesel” Awe
Although the day was freezing, after taking garbage out,
he planned to get his car’s emission’s testing done in town.
He got into his vehicle, and opened the garage,
a warm coat kept him from the onslaught of a cold barrage.
He carefully drove down his driveway to the street below,
and then proceeded on his way…for he had miles to go…
He passed the church that stood upon the intersection cross,
continuing past thé library’s store of data-arcs.
He drove on by the mall’s large anchor supermarket store
on to the east-west highway to the sticker station North.
Late opening, he stood beside the locked, wrench-handled door;
it was a chance to chat with people stopped from going forth.
Bruc “Diesel” Awe is a poet of vehicles and their maintenance. Three influences on the poem above are Emily Dickinson (1830-1886), an American Realist poet, Robert Frost (1874-1963), an American Modernist, and Elizabeth Bishop (1911-1979), an American PostModernist.
~~~
Inhuman, Underhanded Hate and Haughty Disregard
by Bic Uwel, “Erased”
They did not care to listen to a single thing he said.
It was as if he had the plague, or worse, that he was dead.
He never really understood the reasons for their hard,
inhuman, underhanded hate and haughty disregard.
Perhaps it was because he didn’t fit into their scheme.
Maybe he wasn’t crass enough and wouldn’t yell or scream.
It’s hard to tell the reasons why he could not say a thing.
He only knew his words were all not worth remembering.
Bic Uwel, “Erased”, is a poet of the unheard, unlistened to, and the ununderstood.
~~~
When He Came to the End of His Quest
by SubCIA Weedler
When he came to the end of his quest—in the East,
he found what he was looking for—his answer—at
the top of a tall skyscraper, escape in a feast
of bright night lights. He finally got there, to that.
It was as if he were all alone upon the roof,
and all around him was a cosmic photostat.
He had it now, if he ever needed it—proof.
Then he took a dive for he was right at the brink,
and no longer could he remain aloft, aloof,
He had to leap into the deep—no time to think—
he had to act, drive, go, be—at the very least—
to see where he would land, the sea where he would sink.
SubCIA Weedler is a poet of the espionage. Tom Clancy (1947-2013) was a PostModernist American proset.
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