Newsflash:
Although it has produced aurora-coloured, grand displays,
the Sun sent a coronal mass ejection’s bursting rays.
~~~
The Missing Persons
by Bic Uwel, “Erased”
Back in a century and country that
no longer is, they got aboard a train
to get across the border, but couldn’t.
The train, diverted again and again,
could not get out. The passengers were trapped,
caught in a bureaucratic, tangled web.
If only they were where the water lapped
upon the shore, where tides would rise and ebb.
Instead, they were engulfed by mountains, trees,
and cloistered towns, where citizens were stuck
on darkened roads of narrow certainties,
in barren houses made of wood or brick.
Bic Uwel, “Erased”, is a poet of the lost.
~~~
Haiku
by “Clear Dew” Ibuse
As I grow older.
it is easier to hear
bird singing at dawn.
Haiku
by “Clear Dew” Ibuse
The Sun is setting
in the West, and in the East
the full Moon’s rising.
“Clear Dew” Ibuse is a trad haikuist.
~~~
Haiku
by “Wired Clues” Abe
The world is a shock.
It is not what you thought
it would or could be.
“Wired Clues” Abe is a NewMillennial haikuist.
~~~
Newsreel:
Trump leveed tariffs of 145%
on Chinese imports. What will be the cost? What will be spent?
~~~
A Message from My Lodge
by Wu “Sacred Bee” Li
The mountains now are cold and blue. I do not laugh.
The autumn waters run all day. I’m double chinned.
By my thatch door, I lean anew upon my staff
and listen to cicadas in the evening wind.
The sunset lingers at the ferry terminal.
The supper-smoke floats up from houses—almost all.
When shall I pledge to greet the Hermit once again
and sing a wild poem at Five Willows glen?
Green Stream
by Wu “Sacred Bee” Li
I’ve sailed on the Yellow Flowered River’s waves,
borne by the channels of an emerald green stream
that winds ten-thousand turns thru mountain slopes and caves
upon a trip less than a thirty-mile dream.
The rapids there rushed humming over large, heaped rocks.
Oh, bounding bare in those thick pines, the light was dim.
The surface of an inlet swayed with nut-horned docks,
and weeds were lush along those banks.
Down in my heart I’ve always been, despite hard knocks,
as pure as is this limpid water, giving thanks
at having been upon that broad, flat rock life craves
forever casting fishing lines from upright flanks.
The Society of Poets
by Wu “Sacred Bee” Li
Society of Poets, we aspire to catch a glimpse
of life beyond the highest mountains, cloud-like floating blimps,
…upon eternity’s vast canvas, transient, ambient blips…
Our poetry’s, like water vapours, f…ol…lowing the Way,
sometimes so real, at other times, elusive as the day;
it vanishes before we have a chance to pause, to stay.
Sometimes it flashes in the heavens, reaching way up high,
a momentary beauty arching, shining in the eye,
like a translucent rainbow spread across the open sky,
unfolding in a dream, a mist above a sparkling lake,
that shimmering and glittering, from sleepy peace we wake,
emerging from th’ intangible, these waves of words we make,
that sudden can erupt in panoramic pageantry,
surprising, an arising universal tapestry,
outpouring, stretching, for ten-thousand miles in majesty.
Wu “Sacred Bee” Li is a mild-mannered poet and literary critic of old-style Chinese literature. His hao is shénshèna de mifēna, 神圣的蜜蜂, “sacred bee” in English. His influences include T’ao Yüan-ming, T’ang poetry, and landscape painter/calligraphy poet Wu Li, from whom he draws his very name. The above “translations” are from Wang Wei (701-761), who was a Tang scholar, poet and painter, and contemporary poets Yuan Xi and Jennifer Zeng.
~~~
Newsreel:
More than one-hundred-thousand Afghans have left Pakistan;
they’ve been deported back into the arms of Taliban.
~~~
When Alfred North Whitehead Was a Boy
by Beau Ecs Wilder
When Alfred North Whitehead was a very small boy, Cleopatra’s Needle was not to be found on
Charing Cross Embankment, a Victorian toy. That red-granite obelisk, a very old one, had been built around 1470 BC in Heliopolis by ancient Egyptians. Moved to Alexandria, Mohammed Ali
presented it to the British, recognizing Admiral Nelson in 1819 AD for the triumphant Battle of the Nile; but it wasn’t until 1876 that the 186-ton object reached London.
Beau Ecs Wilder is a poet and art critic of 19th century England. In the above proem, Alfred North Whitehead (1861-1947) was a noted English mathematician and philosopher and Admiral Nelson (1758-1805) was a noted English naval officer. “Nelson” was an unfinished, unpublished Shakespearean poetic drama of the early 21st century. The time of the action was 1805, Act I, August 13th to the 31st; Act II, September 1st to the 14th; Act III, September 15th to the 30th; Act IV, October 1st to the 18th; and Act V, October 19th to the 22nd.
Following are three excerpts:
Act I
Prologue.
Ancient Mariner:
Events are far too complicated for
those on the ground, as well as those at sea,
to know what’s going on. Though there is war,
no battle is occurring presently.
It is August 13, 1805.
Off of Cape Ortegal we find Villeneuve
with his large fleet. French hopes are still alive.
His twenty-nine ships from Corunna move.
Allemand is close by, but not in sight,
with his five ships, while Nelson is within
two sailing days south of Ushant. His might
is at eleven ships. Calder with nine
vessels is but one day’s sail of Ushant.
The rest is history. Take what you want.
The rest toss to eternity. Avaunt!
Act I
Scene v. Arrival at Merton, 20 August
Nelson: How lovely is this home upon the land,
where lovely Emma and Horatia
do dwell, the place I long most to command
from the Americas to Asia, from
hot Afric’s shores to Europe’s cooler coasts.
It’s my intention now to rest awhile
from all my labours, and recruit myself
hereafter my fatigues and cares, to smile
with those I love amid this pomp and pelf,
My stores are brought up from the Victory.
I relish now anticipated joy.
I’ll gladly mingle with society,
and pause in peace from needing to destroy.
(Emma appears.)
Emma: Horatio, my hero and my love!
Nelson: Dear Emma, thou my love and sweetest port.
(They embrace.)
Emma: Come in. We’ve been so long apart, without;
and there’s so much for us to talk about.
Act V
Epilog.
Ancient Mariner: As far as th’ eye could reach, the sandy side
o’ th’ isthmus bordering on th’ Atlantic
is covered, by the low, encroaching tide,
with masts and yards, the wrecks of ships fanned thick,
and here and there the bodies of the dead.
Surrounded by these wrecks, I’ve mounted on
the cross-trees of a mast that has, instead
of standing tall upon the waves, been thrown
ashore. I cast my eyes o’er th’ ocean’s lea,
beholding, at a distance, sev’ral masts
and parts of wrecks floating about. The sea
is calm right now, though ‘n eerie light swell lasts.
Th’ effect produced by all these objects seen
has something of the sad and the sublime.
The soul’s touched by this melancholy scene
of the vicissitudes of life and time.
~~~
World War II Photos of German Cities at War’s End
by War di Belecuse
The equals of any impressionist painting by Monet are some of the World War II photos
of German cities at the war’s end. There, faintly, barely visible, lies the rubble of Cologne. Only the dark cathedral spires rising up high over the city in ruins, broken, comatose, have any firm form left, pointing up to the sky, are all that’s intact. Even off to the right, submerged in the Rhine, is the Hohenzollern Bridge. Why? It was by the fleeing Nazis destroyed, blown up. It was a world where nearly nothing was saintly, and almost everything was vain, vague, or corrupt.
War di Belecuse is a poet of war. In the above proem, Claude Monet (1840-1926) was a noted French Impressionist painter.
~~~
Postlude
by B. S. Eliud Acrewe
He went out for a walk. It was late in the afternoon.
The Sun was shining, skies were blue. There was no blue bassoon.
He walked on past pink roses, flourishing on thorny stems.
He walked on down the driveway; he was prepped for many steps.
He passed the gray and concrete street, as well as many trees.
Their leaves were turning green and big, while bouncing in the breeze.
He passed the dandelions in the unkempt yards of some,
and other plots of neat mown lawns, arising in the Sun.
He saw his shadow up ahead, extended, tall and slim.
It seemed a portent of his future—Brobdingnagian.
He heard the youth baseball players on the nearby fields.
He looked across the meadow and he saw its floral yields.
He saw the water tower towering above the trails
down which he traveled underneath the hawks and swallow sails.
Occasionally he would see and hear the jets fly by.
There were so many journeys one could take without a sigh.
B. S. Eliud Acrewe is a poet of settings.
~~~
Newsflash:
“Life is a game, play it. Life is a challenge, so meet it.
Life is an opportunity, so take it…” then beat it.
Peruvian Mario Vargas Llosa (1936-2025) was a proset of the Latin American Boom.
~~~
Newsreel:
One can peruse news of Peru’s elected president.
Noboa was selected for another four-year stint.
~~~
Upon the Giant Hill
by Brac Lei Uweeds
He saw two boys—Were they returning from a baseball game?
One pushed his bike, the other hiked, they crossed the arching main.
The Indian Paintbrushes rose above the feathered grass.
It was amazing just to watch the charming picture pass.
Two souls who talked about the World, as they walked along,
who spoke of major military nations that were strong.
Rose-Garden Gems
by Brac Lei Uweeds
He sat upon the flat brown bench beside rose-garden shrubs;
they had exploded into blossoms, vibrant pink and lush.
There were so many blooms and green leaves, where there had been none.
O, what a mighty mixture of rain-water and warm Sun.
Bouquets galore of Easter flowers on their thick, brown stems,
more fresh and lovely than the richest crowns of diadems.
Brac Lei Uweeds is a poet of flowers.
~~~
A Processed Cup of Ginger and Turmeric Tea
by Carb Deliseuwe
He made a processed cup of ginger and turmeric tea.
Did that cup have anti-inflammatory properties?
How could it boost brain power with its antioxidants?
improve digestion? and as well, lower all nausea?
How could its small curcumin extracts be so positive—
preventing palpitations and reducing blood clot risks?
How could it really help blood flow and circulation too?
reducing LDL cholesterol—Can this be true?
Could it bring down joint stiffness? Does it boost immunity?
And does it also have some anti-cancer qualities?
controlling diabetes, and drop oxidative stress?
Does it promote more dopamine and serotonin? Yes?
Carb Deliseuwe is a poet of drink.
~~~
An Occurrence Near Cooper Creek
Rudi E. Welec, “Abs”
“What he heard was the ticking of his watch.”
—Ambrose Bierce, “…at Owl Creek Bridge”
He stood up to the plate; he was no baseball hitting ace.
He was no stud known for his RBIs. He had no grace.
He simply was a player who would try to hit the ball,
as hard and far as he was able to. He needed gall.
He readied his position, spread his legs a good amount.
He swung his bat a couple times. He was up for the count.
He watched the windup of the pitcher. What would his pitch be?
He only wanted to reach a strong connectivity.
What would occur, he did not know. He saw the catcher’s mitt.
Of course, the dream was that he would git a colossal hit.
But more than likely he would strike out, or go for a walk.
He stood up to his fate, and swung. He heard the ticking clock.
Rudi E. Welec, “Abs”, is a poet of sport.