Newsreel:
Butch Wilmore and Sunita Williams were relieved, with mirth.
Stuck NASA astronauts in space were brought back down to Earth.
The Space-X Dragon Crew spacecraft undocked from th’ ISS,
and splashed down off west Florida; the mission, a success.
~~~
The Astro Not
He took a spoon of Tang and put it in his water glass,
but he was not inside a rocket minimizing mass.
He wasn’t in a highly specialized space-pressure suit
enroute to Mars. or even closer to the blood-red Moon—
a diamond ring phenomenon, that witnessed 14th March
by Firefly’s Blue Ghost, a gorgeous, beaming, charging arch.
He was instead on planet Earth, preparing for a launch
of a new day, hard working play, the pitch and punch of paunch.
What day was there that he did not need to work out some more,
avoiding hatred, while embracing welcoming amor?
It was important to have less stress in his life, he knew…
for health…could bring forth blessings, wealth, to cherish and accrue.
~~~
Haiku
by “Clear Dew” Ibuse
It is a new day.
The goldfish are still swimming.
It is now Nowruz.
Haiku
by “Clear Dew” Ibuse
Wild gusting winds,
March comes in like a lion—
forty miles-per-hour.
“Clear Dew” Ibuse is a trad haikuist.
~~~
A Yellow-Bellied Flycatcher
by E. Birdcaws Eule
He saw a yellow-bellied bird up in the leafless oak,
a fidgety flycatcher flicking feathers poka-yoke.
But what was that bird doing in a forcing-function loop?
Why did it have to flounce about, since it seemed error proof?
It had no boss; Shigeo Shingo did not order it
to flap or flow, to sing and go, or take a shorter sit.
Perhaps this tree had insects for a momentary stay,
that could fuel it, as it left wintering upon its way.
It had to git to Canada, to flee hot Mexico,
a couple chirping chips, and it was off in sunshine glow.
E. Birdcaws Eule is a poet of avian matters. Shigeo Shingo (1909-1990) was a PostModern Japanese industrial engineer.
~~~
Newsreel:
To stop their Red Sea piracy, the Houthis were attacked
by US fighter jets and submarine-launched Tomahawks.
~~~
While Reading News Reports
by Wilee Read Bucs
He had a cup of coffee with some squirts of MCT,
while reading news reports from varied nations’ companies.
He sipped the hot black oily liquid, focused and alert,
while scanning trending empty seas, still in an undershirt.
From China, south to India, from Egypt to Iraq,
the stories passed his eyes and mind, as he went forth and back.
Iran and Greece, to Italy, then off to Pakistan,
South Africa, Nigeria, Brazil, the facts amassed.
and though he didn’t like most of the info he received,
he kept on treading through the datafog, deceived and peeved.
At least there was this coffee cup that sat upon the desk,
returning to his sked from journeys through the kafkaesque.
Wilee Read Bucs is a poet of reading. Franz Kafka (1883-1924) was a Modernist Austrian proset.
~~~
A Grand World
by Aedile Cwerbus
Truly it was a grand world, a good place to be
at, yes, a fantastic time, a marvelous era,
simply living there then in Rome at th’ empire’s height,
unification brought on by the great Julius Caesar,
if one was lucky enough to live, to make it along thru
th’ horrors of Civil War, or if one had money or clout,
power to sustain one’s life, strength to endure, might,
those things he remembers most when he imagines Rome
now!
His Poetry
by Aedile Cwerbus
Fine, like a sculpture of Phidias,
tho more likely to be made of
ivory, marble, or glass—
smooth curves carved in stone and/or love,
his poetry—pumice and porous,
cooled forms of lava, like sponge,
definitely near Horace,
if not nearly so orange,
Pound—crashing into existence
with a fresh breathtaking vision—
violent, extreme, and insistent,
sure and rugged, sheer ragged precision,
blasted into the atmosphere’s blue
hard, clear. and loud—ab arce extulit,
et rauco strepuerunt cornua cantu—
wildly passionate and exultant!
shaking the langu(age) new,
if not rosy or plastic or cinema,
certainly not false or true—
a snake’s forked tongue—venomous,
to a more powerful beat
a rhythm dynamic and charged!
pulling the sandals off his feet,
throwing his toga to the birds and dogs!
fighting a part from the mud
of ideologue, dogma and doctrine,
all the muddle-headed scud
rushing this way and that for Gawd knows wot.
Aedile Cwerbus is a poet of Ancient Rome. Phidias (c. 480 BC – c. 430 BC) was an Ancient Greek sculptor, painter, and architect; Horace (65 BC – 8 BC) was a Golden Age Roman poet; and Ezra Pound (1885-1972) was an American Modernist poet and proset.
~~~
Flashback:
Some know Lee Harvey Oswald did not murder JFK;
but who did were scrubbed out by FBI and CIA;
yet more important is How many people had been killed
to keep the lies ongoing from that day the Earth stood still?
~~~
The Catholic Priest
by Crise de Abu Wel
He rode a motorcycle across the city streets
in search of God. He said his rosary…again
his mind went wandering among the hidden beats,
where one would find the lonely, sad, forgotten men.
He took a movie in, and felt that he was on
a wild adventure to a long forbidden den.
He drove past ladies standing at the curbs at dawn,
and parked his bike beneath a billboard of regret.
He felt trapped in a huge computer game, like Tron;
and longed to get out of his world before sunset.
He carried on despite a series of defeats,
but thanked his Lord for anything that he could get.
Monday Morning
by Crise de Abu Wel
Sun beams upon the carpet, lit up ankles, calves, and shins,
the car in the garage, the cat complaining at his feet.
The World spins; one hardly can keep up with anything—
there is so much to do—and yet it’s mete that one can sing.
Here on this Monday morning, no complacency is here,
the coffee with its MCT drained in this sunny chair.
The black and tan cat, like a tiger, stretching to suffice,
is free from any cockatoos, or ancient sacrifice.
This is Saint Patrick’s Day; trees flower white and green and pink,
while flocks of starlings, in their murmurations, rise and sink.
The tomb in Palestine is now a porch of fingering,
within the chaos of the Sun and people lingering.
Crise de Abu Wel is a poet of Catholicism. Saint Patrick (c. 385 – c. 461) is the patron saint of Ireland. “Tron” was a 1982 sci fi action adventure.
~~~
A Doodle
by Wilude Scabere
It’s due to you that I do argue thus.
I do not think that what I do is crude.
The dew drops in the crease and you do cuss.
Why dost thou, dude, decry song so endued?
You do despise my dooby, dooby, doo.
I am not Frank enough, I do assume.
My duty is to be, but not to do.
Oh, dunes, they do stretch to the crack of doom!
Damned if I do, damned if I don’t, I don’t
know what to do. Do I dare drop a doo?
Though you do neigh, I cannot say I won’t.
Besides, I do not gentle go into
a dukedom where you do not do what’s fun.
Against my Will, I never could be Donne.
Wilude Scabere is a poet of Baroque English literature. Frank Sinatra (1915-1998) was PostModern American singer.
~~~
Newsreel:
Across the US, Tesla vehicles are vandalized,
from Oregon to Massachusetts, stocks have been down-sized.
~~~
Spring’s Unfolding View
by B. S. Eliud Acrewe
The force that through the green fuse drives the flower drives me new,
that blasts the roots of trees, likewise is my destroyer too;
and I am dumb to tell the crooked rose this, as are you;
that my age now is bent as well by spring’s unfolding view.
Bermuda grass is dormant, tan, and dry, as straw accrued,
and rosebush stems, are crinkled, wrinkled, really hard and crude;
the leafless oak without its cloak, is gray, contorted wood;
but all of this alive, that drives and thrives, God found was good.
Still, I am dumb to tell how time ticked heaven round the stars,
but, for as long as I can I will drive despite time’s bars.
B. S. Eliud Acrewe is a poet of Brit lit. Dylan Thomas (1914-1953) was a Modernist British poet and proset.
~~~
Questions:
Who signed his papers and his orders with an autopen?
Was it by robots, or perhaps rubato, blotto men?
~~~
Exercising Time
by Rudi E. Welec, “Abs”
He stood up in his study; it was exercising time.
He did his stretches, up and down—enthused, if not sublime.
He had a cup of coffee, with some MCT oil in;
he loved those greasy bubbles forming; they made his head spin.
He touched his toes, and then arose to work his abdomen,
around and round, he lifted up his shoulders—back again!
He worked his glutes and arms; he opened up his being’s whole.
O, he would love to sit right down, but he continued, ho!
He worked his flabby skin, his shabby chest, with snappy moves;
he felt like as an auto in the room—varoom, varoom.
He kept on moving; he knew it was so important to.
Yes, he was in a groove; there was so much…to be…and do.
Rudi E. Welec, “Abs”, is a poet of exercising.
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