Newsreel:
A day upon Uranus lengthened by a little bit,
the Hubble Telescope in space reported recently.
A more precise rotation tabulation has been made
since when Voyấger 2 collected data in its day.
~~~
Haiku
by “Clear Dew” Ibuse
Pausing from its work,
a scissor-tail’d flycatcher
perched in an oak tree.
“Clear Dew” Ibuse is a poet of traditional haiku.
~~~
Haiku
by “Wired Clues” Abe
The edgers, blowers,
and last year’s old lawn mowers,
have come forth again.
Haiku
by “Wired Clues” Abe
In the rotunda,
he went around in circles—
toddler exploring.
“Wired Clues” Abe is a NewMillennial haikuist.
~~~
Newsreel:
It was the lone skyscraper rising in Bangkok, Thailand,
that fell down into rubble when the earthquake hit Myanmar;
and now the Chinese censors stop researchers from the stats;
they don’t want the inquisitive to find why it went flat.
Some speak of poor materials, some speak of tofu dregs;
but dozens still are missing, o. How many are the deaths?
~~~
Update:
More than three-thousand-and-six-hundred died in Myanmar’s quake;
but who could tabulate the agony and thé heartache?
~~~
Between the Mean of Man and Animal
by Sri Wele Cebuda
He got into the lotus pose. He loved to meditate.
O, even if for but a bit. It made him feel so great.
O, even in the most uncomfterble [sic] of places, yes,
like as upon a hard slab at the bottom of the steps.
He loved to open up his being to the Universe,
relieving stress and the duress he felt each day, or worse.
He spread his legs out, lifting up his neck, his head and spine,
and did his best to think upon the good and the divine.
He lifted up his pecs and chest; he let his arms drift awe.
When he could be between the mean of man and animal.
Sri Wele Cebuda is a poet of meditation.
~~~
Frenetic’lly Amast
by Esiad L. Werecub
He stood up in the study; he’d been sitting in his chair;
but it was time to git up off his seat and meet the air.
He rose up just to do some stretches, shoulders, arms and chest.
He did not have a cup of coffee; he was not a guest.
This was his work. He had a job to do to earn his worth.
It seems as if all people have to labour on this Earth.
He pulled in abs, and other flabs; he lifted up his back.
He found that this was an agreeable and helpful hack.
He knew it was important to take breaks from constant chores.
Though he was in an office, he felt like as he could soar.
O, yes, as times were hard, he was so glad he had a job.
Upon this crazed kinetic sea, he did not want to bob…
Esiad L. Werecub is a poet of work and days.
~~~
The Tall Minoan Labourer
by Des Wercebauli
The tall Minoan labourer was carrying his load;
but this was not unusual; just one more episode.
He felt like as he was in a Minoan fresco scape,
within an atmosphere of movement—weight on his arms draped.
Here was elaborately decorated pottery.
He felt he was involved within a courtly coterie.
He felt like as a figure in a strange exotic scene,
fantastical, ecstatic, in between Egýpt and Greece;
yet he was merely doing ordinary household tasks,
for anyone who wants to know, for anyone who asks.
No Judge or Janitor
by Des Wercebauli
He sat back in his chair; his elbows, in the air, he stretched,
extending legs upon the carpet underneath his desk;
and though he was not in the lotus pose, he raised his spine,
nor was he meditating or aligned with the divine.
He longed to take a break from his computer’s monitor,
to do some other job, like as a judge or janitor.
But such was not to be. He tensed his triceps and his abs.
He had to git back to his typing, and his latest task.
There was no time for basking, sweeping, trying cases, no.
He sat upright upon his chair, and printed letters so.
Des Wercebauli is a poet of ἔργον.
~~~
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.
~~~
Newsreel:
In the US in 2024, the SSA
gave millions of their numbers to noncitizens…away.
~~~
Hardiness at Dawn
by Sbree Dalie Wuc
Despite the freezing weather, th’ orange Sun rose in the East,
that glaring, nuclear-bright Orb, more mighty than all beasts.
It was el día del garbaje, time to clean the house,
but also trim some trees, and knock the growing, wasp nests down.
Rose bushes are alive with brand new buds, despite the cold;
and all across them, bright, pink flowers are made manifold.
The oaks are leaving winter with green leaving on their limbs;
above the lawn and hedges, stimulated blossoms shim.
Despite the bracing weather, plants and animals go on.
It’s good to see and be with all this hardiness at dawn.
Sbree Dalie Wuc is a poet of spring. According to Beau Lecsi Werd, “shim” is a trunc.
~~~
Upon…the Swan
by Red Was Iceblue
Upon the shiny, gray-blue mere o’er, grow
concentric circles from a swimming swan,
which flips its white tail feathers to and fro,
as onward o’er the pond it goes. Upon
its tall white neck its orange bill protrudes
from its black mask and rounded head so wan.
Behind it sunlit curves rise white in towards
its fluffy wings. O’er liquid surfaces
it glides alone, and evenly eludes
the calm or casual observer’s gaze
that follows after folded flaps and flows,
as if they came from William Merritt Chase.
One Brief Glimpse of New York City
by Red Was Iceblue
Oskar Kokoschka perhaps caught it best—New York.
a century after rising Whitmanhattan.
It’s there for all to see from the eye of the stork,
perhaps from the Statue or high above Staten.
Needless to say, wherever it’s from, it’s there—
extraordinarily Northern—hardly Latin—
incredible reds, whites, and blues into the air
pointing their ugly and beautiful shapes upward—
rugged, colossal—crud on the grid of despair,
a testimony of how much life has suffered
under the icy peace of this guttural war—
the total acknowledgement of this universe.
Red Was Iceblue is a poet of painting. William Merritt Chase (1849-1916) was an American Realist painter, with an impressionist inclination. Oskar Kokoschka (1886-1980) was an Austrian exponent of Viennese Expressionism.
~~~
Newsreel:
On “Liberation Day”, the US President Don Trump
inaugurated many nations to a tariff jump.
His main idea was that tariffs be reciprocal,
conditional, predictable, perhaps provisional.
So markets of the World were bungie-jumping all about;
the wealthy more complaining than those many souls without.
And then stock markets leaped, third biggest jump since World War II,
there was a pause to give the “panicans” a bone to chew;
but though, the “yippy” got relief, for tariff-made abuse;
the market slightly dropped back down, with China not excused.
~~~
Back…to the Woods
by Abele Seric Wud
He came on back out to the woods, as he had done before;
because it was so tempting; there was little to abhor.
He loved those pines. Those climbing trees, and what was in between.
He faced those wilds and those hills; they thrilled with each scene seen.
He loved those minor mountains, lonely summits, plants and grit.
He loved the play of shine and shadow in the midst of it.
If he could but be there all ways, he definitely would;
And though he lived in the big city, he still loved the wood.
He tightened biceps, triceps, high pecs, abs, thighs, back and glutes.
He longed to face securely, as he could, life’s absolutes.
Abele Seric Wud is a poet of trees.
~~~
An Early Morning Jog
by Rudi E. Welec, “Abs”
He went out for an early morning jog. It was quite cold.
His nose was numb. But running warmed him up, and so he rolled.
He ran around the neighbourhood, in black cap, socks and shoes.
He breathed in deeply, climbing steep hills, panting on his cruise.
Although his hips were cool before he started, they got heat
from pacing up and down each concrete street on moving feet.
He lifted up his legs, he opened up his gait a bit.
He passed house after house upon his early morning trip.
Although the sky was gray, there was no rain, at least not yet.
Just yesterday a downpour soaked his shirt. He sure got wet.
But now he reached his groove. He trotted automatic’lly.
It was just fun, upon this run, not taxed erotic’lly.
Rudi E. Welec, “Abs”, is a poet of exercise.