Visions in the Zeitgeist
by Erisbawdle Cue
Last night’s time-ghosts danced, danced wildly over above Us,
flying fantastical phantoms, a skein of incredible spirits,
sweeping about in a whirl of patterns, mysterious motions,
pale and shadowy figures, intriguingly lit by a faint light,
nebulous fabulous forms, shapes, shades, Swedenborgian kantours,
going around and around and away, an electrical ballet,
We, Us, seeing the cosmos, o, deving in all in a new way,
simply, an ultimate vision, a fine breathtaking reception.
Erisbawdle Cue is a poet of philosophy. According to Beau Lecsi Werd, “kantours” is a neologism meaning “Kant-shaped”; “deving” is a neologism of the 1980s, meaning perceiving-divining. Emanuel Swedenborg (1688-1772) was a Swedish philosopher of the Enlightenment.
~~~
Haiku
by “Clear Dew” Ibuse
A vee in the sky;
an avian flock flaps by.
Winter is so cold.
Haiku
by “Clear Dew” Ibuse
In the freezing cold,
a young coyote searches
for food, friend, or warmth.
“Clear Dew” Ibuse is a trad haikuist.
~~~
The Nauseating Smell
by A. Sbice Redulew
The nauseating smell of this scented candle
arouses in his mind such horrors of past times,
that he desire to flee, lest such smells enkindle
in him the thick and heavy centuries of grime
that hover round those ancient inactivities.
Such blithering does seem to him the worst of crimes.
‘Oh, spare me from the worst of such proclivities,
around which death hangs. Let me not linger near them,
lest I be guilty of plunging declivities
where there is nothing valuable. Steer me from
such triviality, such hopeless holes, and dull,
blood plasma with fibrinogens removed, serum.’
Mr. A. Sbice Redulew is a poet of smells.
~~~
Newsreel:
Hamas says they will soon release the corpses that they own,
dead members of the Bibas family—mom, daughter, son.
~~~
On the Finding of a Foundling
by Aedile Cwerbus
In Roman legend, Romulus and Remus were
twin sons of Vestal virgin Rhia Silvia,
or Ilia, and Mars. Cast into the Tiber,
the two male children were miraculously saved
and suckled by a she-wolf. Found by Faustulus,
they were reared by his wife Acca Laurentia.
When they grew up, the brothers asked the Fates which was
the one to found a great, new city. Th’ auguries
then favored Romulus, who made a fabulous,
place called Rome, but not until he had killed Remus.
On seizing Sabine women, Romulus offered
wives for outcasts and fugitives. Resultant war
with the Sabines produced a union of the two peoples.
He disappeared then in a thunderstorm, and thence
was worshipped as a god with name of Quirinus.
Aedile Cwerbus is a poet of Ancient Rome. George E. Duckworth (1903-1972) was a Modernist American Classicist. The above fifteen lines are unrhymed iambic hexameters.
~~~
At Ramstein Airforce Base
by Uwe Carl Diebes
Though he was in his office doing very little work,
it was enough to place his bosses. Was this job a perk?
He felt like he was in a Kafka story being told
in Western Germany—not Prussia. What had made him bold?
He had been forced to wear a uniform. He blended in…
with thousands upon thousands of all kinds of crazy men.
What hope was there for such a one who didn’t understand
much more than he was but an asterisk in Time’s Grand Plan…t,
who would as like as not have a math book before his face
in that strange world and that strange place, at Ramstein Airforce Base.
Uwe Carl Diebes is a poet of Germany. Franz Kafka (1883-1924) was a Modernist German proset.
~~~
Kings and Queens
by B. S. Eliud Acrewe
Though one may never be a king, when one drives through past times,
one may find all about such things as one regards such mights.
One may depart from royalty, when one leaves off from home,
and as one drives along one may continue in that mode.
When driving past communication towers, one may see
a retinue of trees, some kings and queens, from history.
As one turns past a fire station, one may turn upon
a castle of a noted family…one must belong.
And climbing hills or rolling down across a concrete mote,
just past a meadow or a tangled wood, returning home.
B. S. Eliud Acrewe is a poet of royalty.
~~~
Newsreel:
How did the Delta Airlines jet flip over on its roof,
while landing at Toronto’s Airport Monday afternoon?
The good news was there was no loss of life upon that wreck.
Was there an air flow “bump”? Was one wing missing? What the heck!
At minus sixteen-and-a-half degrees in Fahrenheit,
was it so cold, the damn thing rolled? the tarmac slick and white?
The flight attendants quickly helped the strapped-in passengers
depart the CRJ-900 aircraft fast and sure.
Because the cabin is six feet, the people didn’t have
to fall so far to get out of the fuselage, thank God.
There Was Life
by Lars U. Ice Bedew
Although it was the dead of windy winter, there was life,
from purple field pansies to quick yellow butterflies.
The yellow dandelions peak out from the coiffured lawns;
Bermuda grass, though tawny, dormant, still continues on.
Green hedgerows flourish in the freezing weather, as do crows,
that fly and caw across the neighbourhood, oe’r-cut-back rose.
The final leaves of oak and sugarberry leave their heights,
and scuttle down the concrete streets and sidewalks grayish-white.
Ah, what a sight, there is such life, despite the bitter cold,
but in the cosmos, that is quite a statement to behold.
Lars U. Ice Bedew is a poet of cold weather.
~~~
A Moment in Eternity
by R. Lee Ubicwedas
There is a certain slant of light that fills one up with joy—
on afternoons, when blinding Rays inspire and annoy:
the Herculean Sun climbs up the earthly atmosphere,
like as the God of Jesus Christ, whenever He is near.
That golden Light in Winter’s white shines incandescently
in the translucent transcendental air’s resplendency.
And though it go into the flow of cosmic flickerings,
it filters out the pale doubts and mental bickerings;
for when it comes, it’s like the presence of new life, and berth,
a moment in eternity of merriment and mirth.
R. Lee Ubicwedas is a poet of cosmic flickerings. Emily Dickinson (1830-1886) is a Realist American poet.
~~~
The Security Guard
by SubCIA Weedler
“Who…inflicted a brown burn on his yellow shirt purchased…from Yves St. Laurent?”
—Donald Barthelme, “Concerning the Bodyguard”
He stands erect beside the entrance door.
His arms are folded close against his chest
below square shoulders tightened at the vest.
Unflinchingly, as if his eyes could bore
right into you, into your very core,
he stares behind sun glasses. It’s a test
of wills. Are you an enemy or guest?
He trusts no one. Constantly his eyes pore
o’er ev’ry individual he sees.
He tries to figure out their motives and
their wants. What are their capabilities?
There is so much he wants to understand.
He will not smile. The only way to please
him is to yield to his unvoiced command.
SubCIA Weedler is a poet of security. Donald Barthelme (1931-1989) was a PostModernist American proset.
~~~
The Business Man
by Bradlee Suciew
“I gotta fight my way through the hustling mob.”
—Allen Reynolds, “Five O’ Clock World”
In suit and tie, he goes to work, to do
all that is needed to be done this day.
He has to suck it up, the morning brew
and all the challenges that come his way.
His company requires that he perform.
There are new sales, new clients, and new jobs;
yet he must be the calm eye in the storm,
while solving problems as they rise in gobs.
Can it be any wonder then, that he
is thankful for the evening when it comes;
and he can loosen tie and shirt and be
free momentarily from life’s problems,
and pause to just partake is one of life’s
sweet joys—embracing bracing love’s own strifes?
Bradlee Suciew is a poet of business. Allen Reynolds is a contemporary lyricist.
~~~
The Monday Morn Commute
by Bruc “Diesel” Awe
It was a sunny freeze upon the Monday morn commute;
a Herculean effort would be needed for his route.
From his park arbor, he proceeded to the traffic flow.
He needed to drive fast enough. He had to Go dog go.
He had to press on through the crazed tailgaters at his back,
who were allowing no safe distance, pressing their attack.
In that packed deck, that stack of cars, what chance did he have
to not end up in an emergency-spawned medevac?
He sped along past roundabout and two-laned avenues,
to highways filled with jos-sel-ling, impatient switcheroos.
But when the business that he sought was finally achieved,
he thanked his lucky stars he made it there. He was relieved.
Bruc “Diesel” Awe is a poet of transport. P. D. Eastman (1909-1986) was a Modernist American children’s author. According to Beau Lecsi Werd, “josselling” is an alternative spelling for jostling.
~~~
Each Day He Takes a Shower
by Beaudiwel Cres
Each day he takes a shower, he recalls “Let’s Twist Again”.
When he is drying afterward, he still remembers then.
Round ‘n around, ‘n up ‘n down, the cotton towel goes,
absorbing moisture through its contacts with his body’s zones.
He is so thankful for his radiant-white terrycloth,
a great rectangular cut that creates a wide-length swath.
Beaudiwel Cres is a poet of cleanliness. Douglas Adams (1952-2001) was a British PostModernist proset, and author of The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy.
~~~
The Thrill Seeker
by Cu Ebide Aswerl
He leaps from the bridge, like a bungie jumping fool,
but has no cord to hold him up as he flies down.
Adrenalin sweeps through him, but he keeps his cool,
and opens up his parachute, and in one bound,
he hits the ground running to an automobile.
He leaps in, turns the key, spins out and then around,
and speeds off, like a card shark pulls a bottom deal.
He slams on the breaks, grabs his skate board, and propels
himself along the walk beneath the glass and steel
up to a motorcycle, which he leaps on, swells
with energy, and drives, an animated fool,
whose quest for new adventures is not effortlessly quelled.
Comings and Goings
by Cu Ebide Aswerl
He threw the fallen leaves up to the sky; the winds took them.
They flew along the concrete street and lively diadem.
Released from stems, they danced along in winter’s w-i-l-d ways,
in gusts that blasted them to places in unique displays.
He felt like as he was in nature’s circus, swirling free,
a toddler seeing fleeing pieces of eternity.
He sped along the sidewalk, racing with these myriads—
a smattering of e. e. cummings words and periods.
He longed to still retain that joy found in the youngster’s heart;
and yet, remain adult as well. That was a tricky art.
Cu Ebide Aswerl is a poet of adventure.
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