The Giant Solar Disc
by Ra Bué Weel Disc
Up in the sky, he saw on high—the giant Solar Disc—
peek through the puffy blue-gray clouds above his deep-brown desk.
It streamed in through the atmosphere with iridescent rays,
like as a pouring waterfall of shining, blinding blaze.
It seemed, like as an ugly ogre, larger than a moon,
both horrible and terrible, but likewise a great boon.
This was our pleasant prison guard who brought us food and light,
a chance to exercise out in the yard to our delight.
This guard was hard to love, but I was ever thankful for
the time it held us in its thrall, for that and so much more.
Ra Bué Weel Disc is a poet of the Sun.
~~~
Haiku
by “Clear Dew” Ibuse
First one direction—
and then quickly another—
the dragonfly moves.
Haiku
by “Clear Dew” Ibuse
On the backyard fence,
a mockingbird flaps at a
scurrying squirrel.
“Clear Dew” Ibuse is a NewMillennial haiku writer.
~~~
Haiku
by “Wired Clues” Abe
Pulling a toy dog
on a long, red, ribbon leash,
the girl goes to bed..
“Wired Clues” Abe is a haiku poet of the New Millennium.
~~~
Good News
by “Weird” Ace Blues
It was like—fast!
it happened before I even had an idea
of what was
going on—
the lights everywhere!
which is not to say the Ol’ Sun
was
going down or shining, no,
it was exploding!
—tinted TNT
not earlier this morning or later on tonight
but now!
hot and wild energy
burning wildly
out of control,
freely!
blazing heat—
somewhere between Cincinnati and Osaka—
some saying it was near the angels of hell
others nearer to Saint Francis of Assisi—
on some fabled island.
I simply didn’t know where
it was—
the glare of the pavement,
the groins of flaming love,
but I do know this—
it was good news, yeh,
good news.
“Weird” Ace Blues is a poet of free verse.
~~~
Newsreel:
East Africa Rift System is the largest on Earth’s crust.
A superplume of hot rock’s pushing up to make this bust.
~~~
The Secretary for the Base
by War di Belecuse
Again he got into the lotus pose beside his desk,
like as an arabesque in camo, marking off his checks.
As though the checks were given, he recorded them as such.
as neither not unnecessary nor too friggin’ much.
He had come to the office once again in the kaserne.
O, he was ready for his tasks, but was he that concerned?
He started filling out forms for each soldier who appeared,
the crazed, the active, and the wild, as each soldier neared.
Who would have thought that he would end up working in this way?
Most certainly, not him; but it was how he got his pay.
Each month he earned four-hundred dollars. He was glad for that.
He was the secretary for the base where he was at.
War di Belecuse is a poet of Army moments. “Kaserne” is German for barracks.
~~~
Newsreel:
The Czech Republic’s been attacked by Chinese cyber hacks.
Why are they threatening the Czechs with planned malicious acts?
~~~
A Moose
by “Blue Cedar” Siew
He stood up tall right at the fall of woodland and delight,
like as a bear beside a cave, nor bare of bulk or might.
O, it was quite a sight. The shrubbery was beautiful;
the stickers rubbery, but hard; the bushes bountiful.
He was prepared to enter in that dense and gorgeous grove.
Although the scenery was lovely; there was little love.
A moose had come out of the im-pe-ne-tra-ble wood,
and stood erect there by the truck, at the edge of the road.
He towered antlerless, high as a church, or homely house.
The engine’s hot hood won’t explode, because it still was good.
Was it in Nova Scotia, near New Brunswick by the bay?
He looked about with penetrating eyes, for it was day.
Blue Cedar Siew is a poet of Canada. Elizabeth Bishop (1911-1979) was a PostModernist American poet.
~~~
A Fatal Incident
by Slade U. W. Bierce
It was a fatal incident. Did you see anything
beneath those flashing lightning strikes, such bright imaginings,
that crashed along the sky, like neural networks of the mind?
It must have been a shock to such a one who was so blind.
It all seemed so nefarious. What were you doing there?
There were no niceties, nor pleasantries. It was not fair.
What kind of a society did you find yourself in?
What kind of sense did it make to think that you’d ever win?
Still things had to go on beyond those locked and metal gates,
down driveways to white-brick rectangles in the rainy spates.
Slade U. W. Bierce is a poet influenced by American Realism (1850-1900), influenced by writers, such as Emily Dickinson (1830-1886), Ambrose Bierce (1842-1914?), and Stephen Crane (1871-1900).
~~~
It Came on in the Night
by Cawb Edius Reel
It came on in the night, a moving music coming on,
and then a woman’s eye and face in blue, a man’s in red.
He turned his head; and then her lovely fading face was gone.
Was that the orange Sun beneath the sycamore instead?
Gray clouds were moving by. And they were in an orange light—
the woman and the man, each looking at the other one,
then walking from each other there in darkness and in fright—
the car leaped from that stark, rock height, and fell, fell, fell, dropped down.
into a nightmare’s blaze, that she recalled, in silhouette,
that touched so many people’s lives, who vanished into time.
She stared off in the distance, as he smoked a cigarette,
each at a desk in black and orange, moving to a tide.
Gene Hackman
by Cawb Edius Reel
In Santa Fe, New Mexico, when he was ninety-five,
he died beside his wife, who was, at that time, not alive;
but he may not have known of this, Alzheimer’s held him fast;
and heart disease was the report, that left him at the last.
Cawb Edius Reel is a poet of film. The surveillance state saw its benighted expression in “The Conversation”, a film of 1974 starring actor Gene Hackman (1930-2025).
~~~
Newsreel:
Trump threatened Apple with a tariff for Cook’s iPhone costs,
if they’re not made in the US. That’s hardly a good spot.
~~~
So He Pressed On
by Ubs Reece Idwal
He peered in darkness by the pier, so many years ago;
but he did not appear, Seattle, he remained alone.
He had not come to meet the ferryman of the long dead.
The ferry let the cars and trucks drive on themselves instead.
He did not know where he should go, but he did not desire
to make that trip so early, no. Why was life here so dire.
But he did not want to go there. There must be some place else
beyond these dark and dismal shores, these dangerous strange hells.
So he’d continue on his way, down sidewalks over hills,
along long winding roads past houses with lit window sills.
He did not understand the World. It made no sense to him.
So he pressed on past cemetery and grand stadium.
Ubs Reece Idwal is a poet of the Pacific Northwest. Seattle, Washington, is a city of about 750,000.
~~~
Crepe Myrtle Takes the Air
by Dewie Arbuscle
“four or five [peacocks] crash out of the crepe myrtle hedge”
—Flannery O’Connor
Like lilac or gardenia, crepe myrtle takes the air;
its sweet and floral fragrance passes when its petals fair.
Spring breezes carry them away. So briefly do they fall,
they cover over roses like confetti in a squall.
They hang up high, those darling buds, bright white against the sky,
and go away so quickly, tiny dots before the eye.
Their smell is so refreshing they outdo the garden’s scents.
If not long-lasting as the rose, they bring great recompense.
Dewie Arbuscle is a poet of flowering trees. William Wordsworth (1780-1850) was a Romantic British poet. Flannery O’Connor was a PostModernist American proset.
~~~
To Quell
by Rudi E. Welec, “Abs”
He wanted to improve poor pelvic posture—will to lift—
that is, to work against anterior poor pelvic tilt.
and work upon transversus-o’-th’-abdominis techniques,
as well as on the inner and the outer realm obliques.
He thought to ban the causes of his bloating and his gas,
avoiding dairy in his diet, letting gluten pass,
and dropping carbonated bev’rages—another hack—
and then relax both hips and hamstrings, with his lower back.
by doing exercises of mobility as well,
allowing stress to decompress, and get deep sleep to quell.
Rudi E. Welec, “Abs”, is a poet of exercise.
~~~
Alarms Keep Going Off
by Erisbawdle Cue
Alarms keep going off, disturbing peace and poise
although one ever wants to be prepared and vigilant.
One wants to be composed, not overwhelmed by tax and noise,
although it is hard to predict each new predicament.
There’s Always More
by Erisbawdle Cue
There’s always more to hear, to smell, to see,
to taste, to feel, to read, to write, to do.
We must go on, go on, go quietly.
Humanity can only bear so much…
reality can only bear its heart.
There’s always more to reach, to seek, to touch.
We are the stuff of stars. This is our start.
Erisbawdle Cue is a poet of philosophy.
~~~
“He’s standing on the rock of sages,
there along with kings and pages,
godly souls, and wealthy mages,
who have been around for ages…”
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