Newsreel:
Does the joint venture StarGate have the funds that they proclaim,
that made by Open AI, SoftBank, and aged Oracle?
~~~
Haiku
by “Clear Dew” Ibuse
Confabs of squirrels
chatter amidst oaks and pines,
along winding roads.
“Clear Dew” Ibuse is a trad haikuist.
~~~
Haiku
by “Wired Clues” Abe
Inside in winter,
the thermostat is still on,
but it is still cool.
“Wired Clues” Abe is a NewMillennial haiku writer.
~~~
Newsreel:
Though ByteDance went dark for a day, for China’s datatrieve;
the new, elected President gave TikTok a reprieve.
~~~
Granular Bright Faculae
by Sri Wele Cebuda
He could not hear the ticking clock above the faucet drips.
He boiled a cup of herbal tea and let it cool a bit.
It was a blend of turmeric, clove, ginger, cinnamon,
as well as stevia, black pepper, honey, cardamom.
He got into the lotus pose. He wore his dark brown trunks.
He longed to reach a peaceful place within the cosmic flux.
He prepped his seat. He stretched his feet. He lengthened neck and spine.
He brought his cup up to his lips to sup the sweet divine.
Despite the freezing temp’ratures around him on that mat,
he felt quite warm inside, like as a turned-up thermostat.
He gathered in-ner-sights, though they were not spectacular,
and hardly any more than granular bright faculae.
Sri Wele Cebuda is a poet of yoga.
~~~
Aurelius Clemens Prudentius
by Aedile Cwerbus
Aurelius Clemens Prudentius was born in Spain,
a late 4th century Christ-follower and zealous man.
His early years were filled with sorrow, under blows of rods,
yet later, when the toga dyed his words, they were not God’s.
Lascivious, indulgent lust, as well befouled his youth,
and galling shame then plagued him; he was so far from the Truth.
Next came his stubborn animosity, which bore hard fruits;
though served him well in government and various disputes.
At last, advanced from soldier’s ranks, he joined the emperor;
renouncing vanities, he tempered errors prudently.
Devoted to God’s glory, and His martyrs, he wrote hymns,
that still sustain his memory since when his flesh left him.
Aedile Cwerbus is a poet of Ancient Roma. Aurelius Clemens Prudentius was a poet of Ancient Roma. Margaret Coats is a contemporary NewMillennial poet.
~~~
Flashback:
Although he was in Antium away from its first roar,
did Nero cause the Great Rome Fire back in 64?
~~~
“Moonlit Winter Landscape” by Carl Blechen: 1836
by Ewald E. Eisbruc
He saw the “Moonlit winter landscape” on the Internet
the painting done by Carl Blechen—indirect…intent—
He saw the distant pale Moon, white in the evening sky.
He saw the bare and leafless trees rise long and black and high.
He saw the cold, blue atmosphere, the snow out far and wide.
He saw the near brown rugged ground touched by Moonlight and ice.
He saw a fallen log up front and center in the scene.
Was there a sitting fox at one side, looking, studying,
a strange contorted row of trees behind him in the dark,
lit from the Moonlight, for a moment, baring stark, stirn Carl.
Ewald E. Eisbruc is a poet of German artistry. Carl Blechen (1798-1840) was a Romantic German painter. According to Beau Lecsi Werd, the neologism “stirn” is a blend of stern and stirring.
~~~
The Canadian
by Wes Caribu Deel
It was a draw for him—that lone Canadian,
who longed to lie upon the land, the scrub-brush plains,
below the snow-capped mounts, a new Arcadian,
who lay his clothes and self upon the grass and grains,
his brown beard blending in the gorgeous, floral forge.
In thick brown boots and gray, red-lined wool socks, he gains
some peace, kicked-back, his hair on back and head touched or’nge.
He lifts his head above his shoulders to the right,
upon his elbows and his abs, beyond Prince George,
that realm that Robert Service served, that lovely light,
so beautiful, a booty of the radiant
he longed to bathe in for forever—golden bright.
Wes Caribu Deel is a poet of Canada. Robert Service (1874-1958) was a Modernist Canadian poet. Prince George is a city of British Columbia of about 75,000.
~~~
Inauguration Day: 2025
by Brice U. Lawseed
“…the Republic summons Ike, the mausoleum in her heart.”
—Robert Lowell
It was the dead of winter, January Twentieth,
so chill outside the Capitol that one could see one’s breath;
and so the ceremony took its place in history
beneath the domed rotunda in cold Washington DC.
Despite the noisy caterwaul and shrieking dump-it-all,
the nation heard the echo of a pumped-up, trumpet call;
and so the people changed the guard, as had been done before,
and will most likely change again; life ever longs for more.
Justice
by Brice U. Lawseed
One longs for justice, but one does appreciate
receiving mercy, since the world is so hard
at times. But justice is the sweet initiate
of love’s inexorable law. When one’s been jarred,
one feels alive. Still, one needs time to pause and rest,
to get one’s balance back, which is so good to guard,
especially if one is seeking out life’s best.
Along with prudence, temperance, and courage, it’s
one of the classic virtues. Each one is a test.
But justice is the tricky one. It comes in fits.
Yet when it’s working, happiness officiates,
and life’s a wonder—even when one ‘s in the pits.
Brice U. Lawseed is a poet of ethics. Robert Lowell (1917-1977) was a PostModernist American poet.
~~~
Newsreel:
Joe Biden pardoned family, and some who weren’t yet charged,
like Fauci, Milley, Cheney, and the council on J6.
Trump pardoned those who into th’ US Capitol had charged,
more than one-thousand-and five-hundred people in that mix.
~~~
The Bettor
by Cawb Delius Ree
He lives within a house of cards. The deck is stacked
with broken hearts, hard clubs, fake diamonds, and grave spades.
His words are quickly read, then tossed aside or blacked;
no matter what he says, this is what is…pervades.
Round and round the wheel spins; but the house has the edge;
in all that red and black, the only green spot shades
ground zero. He can win roulette, they all allege,
if he just puts his bet; and when his number’s up,
he win. All this, see, here, surrounded by this hedge
of slot machines, and hope for silver in the cup.
One face is smacked. The place is packed. The case is cracked.
Enjoy the water turned into wine. Sip and sup.
The Observer
by Cawb Delius Ree
In the warm desert air beneath the bright full moon
and tiny twinkling glitt’ring stars, his gaze is turned
to the Las Vegas Strip skyline, a lovely boon
of gleaming neon lights electrically burned.
The outlines of the future observation wheel
between the Quad and the Flamingo are discerned—
across the street from Caesar’s Palace—so unreal.
Where are the meadows near this silver scimitar?
He looks among the shadows of the night, and feels
its high, 550-feet diameter
will spin him off to some High Roller’s toss too soon
and leave him but a wide-eyed, gaga amateur
before some rough Illusionist’s mirage-swept dune.
The Magician
by Cawb Delius Ree
“…as if a magic lantern threw the nerves in patterns on a screen…”
—T. S. Eliot
A soft red glow suffuses over all.
It is a corner of a basement floor.
The light’s subdued. Dark red bricks form a wall.
It’s unknown—the location of the door.
It is a magic show. One dude leans back.
He’s floating in the air. How is it so?
Perhaps he is suspended on a rack?
One sees his hair against the lovely glow.
A dark magician moves him with his wand.
He is a strong, broad-shouldered sorcerer.
What is it? Something’s hidden, or beyond?
He seems like he is an enforcer, sir.
The audience applauds. The act is good.
How does he do it? I wish I knew…I could.
Cawb Delius Ree is a poet of Las Vegas. T. S. Eliot (1888-1965) was a Modernist American-British poet. Las Vegas is a city of around 600,000.
~~~
The Carpenter
by Builder See Saw
The carpenter is weighted down with his tool belt,
which holds screw drivers, measuring device and wrench,
and buckles round his blue-jeaned waist. That is his gelt.
He pulls a hammer out. It’s in his left hand clenched.
Although his lips turn down, he seems to be content.
He’s working with some dude who’s working at his bench.
Although his face is puffy-soft, he seems intent.
Though oddly built, arms and chest seem tough enough
to do the job he has to do, which he is bent
on doing. Though his skin looks smooth, it is as rough
as fine sandpaper. Life’s complex—so much to tell—
and yet it is as hard as nails to grasp its stuff.
Builder See Saw is a poet of carpentry.
~~~
In the Weight Room
by Rudi E. Welec, “Abs”
I saw the dude, busting his ass in the weight room.
Sheer agony was on his face while pulling on
a heavy lift, a look of pained, unhappy gloom.
He strained enormously, though he was very strong;
his legs and hips spread wide, bent over at his back;
he pulled with all his might, his shoulders sloping down.
He stood thus at the breaking point, so long, in fact,
I hoped he would not break. It seemed so hard and rough,
so difficult a task to get a power stack,
it hardly seemed worthwhile to be so big and buff.
But, on the other hand, since what awaits is doom,
it seemed right on the mark to work at getting tough.
Rudi E. Welec, “Abs”, is a poet of exercise.
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