An Old Man at War
by W. Sidereal Cube
His mind had been transplanted. He had just become a clone.
His newer body had been engineered. His skin is green.
With yellow cat-like eyes and nanobot blood to the bone,
along with BrainPal, he possessed a great dexterity.
His was the story sequence of a man who was retired;
at seventy-five he signed up to fight for CDF.
John Perry went from a recruit to captain. He was hired
to deal with competing species of the Universe.
Among the species faced are Covandu and Whaidian,
as well as Consu and the Rraey; they are enemies.
The faster-than-light skip-drives utilize spacetime within,
while empee-35s use bullets and explosive beams.
W. Sidereal Cube is a poet of outer space. John Scalzi is a contemporary sci fi scribe.
~~~
Haiku
by “Clear Dew” Ibuse
On the backyard fence,
a squirrel hurries along,
pausing for a leaf.
Haiku
by “Clear Dew” Ibuse
The three-year-old boy
is lost under the open
umbrella he holds.
“Clear Dew” Ibuse is a NewMillennial haiku writer.
~~~
Haiku
by “Wired Clues” Abe
On the grey cement,
the youngster discovers some
animal paw prints.
Haiku
by “Wired Clues” Abe
A painted jet plane,
coming in for a landing,
lands on a lined lane.
“Wired Clues” Abe is a haiku poet of the New Millennium.
~~~
The Numbers Game
by Wu “Sacred Bee” Li
“And Kung said…If a man have not order within him
He cannot spread order about him…”
—Ezra Pound, “Canto 13”
se7en, ei8ht, nin9,
the moose drank wine,
the goose sank into the brine
The forces of General John Sullivan
and others fell back from
Brandywine Creek,
September E11even, Se7enteen Se7enty Se7en.
Only those of George Washington
and Nathaniel Greene held firm.
But the battle ended in darkness,
and even they left for Germantown,
leaving Philadelphia undefended.
dig and delve
the mole is twe12e
This is Friday the th13teenth.
Th-th-th-this is a break-
ing story fall-
ing down four14een stories:
Andy Warhol, in his f15teen minutes of fame,
reminding us we are eating soup.
But is the picture up-side-down
or is the picture right-side-up?
There is no way to tell which way is…
(If there is not order within,
there cannot be order) without.
Pound! Pound! Pound! goes the hammer
all around the carpenter’s bench.
Wu “Sacred Bee” Li is a poet of Ancient Wisdom. John Sullivan (1740-1795), George Washington (1732-1799), and Nathaniel Greene (1742-1786) were NeoClassical American Revolutionaries. Confucius (c. 551 BC – c. 479 BC) was a Chinese philosopher and teacher.
~~~
Newsedge:
Will Wang Yang be the person who replaces Xi Jinping?
Will he rise to the thoughtful-action-deeds of Wang Yangming?
Wang Yangming (1472-1529) was a NeoConfucian philosopher and statesman.
~~~
Before the Camera
by Esiad L. Werecub
“…acute and focused, but neat…”
—Cawb Edius Reel
Again someone was taking his pic. Just what was it for?
Who wanted it? He had to rearrange himself once more.
He had to straighten up his tie. A crooked one won’t do.
O, what would happen if it had been slightly off—askew.
He had to fidget with his hat. Was the brim in the way?
One had to stand up straight and tall, or one might go astray!
And what about his cheeks and beard? Did that dude need a shave?
Why in the hell was this required? Pray tell what must be saved?
His soul…was not content. He was upset. Must this be done?
If only he were somewhere else, and he was having fun.
But he was here before the camera—a chimera—
a monstrous, fire-breathing hybrid come from Lykia.
Esiad L. Werecub is a poet of Ancient Greece. Hesiod (c. 700 BC) was an epic, didactic Ancient Greek poet.
~~~
Thick
by Acwiles Berude
He was nobody, like Odysseus in Cyclop’s cave.
How could he save himself in that huge box of stone walls paved?
It was a concrete jungle in which he had to adapt and thrive.
To be resilient he required tough, thick skin. O, my.
One needed muscles to survive, to be alive in that.
At times, it seemed, it didn’t hurt to be a little fat.
One had to face the future, as one had to face the past;
and if one was to live one had to make the present last.
But, yes, it didn’t hurt to have ideal breadth and strength.
to deal with life’s ugliness, extending beauty’s length.
And momentary happiness could help to press on forth
through thick and thin, with thrusting vim, dressed in a crown of thorns.
Acwiles Berude is a poet of Ancient turmoil.
~~~
Heraclitean Mindmove
by Erisbawdle Cue
The modern World comes with a vengeance. Sweet, peaceful interludes are not only false, but they also don’t make any sense; for although one may feel more lonely, one must have a fiercer intelligence to avoid anything weak or phony.
Erisbawdle Cue is a poet of philosophy. Heraclitus (c. 540 BC – 480 BC) was an Ancient Greek philosopher. According to Beau Lecsi Werd, “mindmove” is a neologism contrasting with “mindset.”
~~~
Walk in the Walls
by Esecwiel Barud
They are coming to get you. Don’t panic. Don’t run.
You’ll be rounded up, put into a small ghetto,
crowded like sardines in a tin cannikin,
on hard land, walled up, starved, beaten all together!
Now this is better than it will be! It’s glorious
compared to what is coming. Pray for a fetter;
many are in the gutter, bleeding, gory, dead.
You are still alive. You can still walk in the walls.
They haven’t taken you to the notorious
camps yet. Majdanek, Auschwitz, Treblinka, Belzek,
Chelmno, Sobibor, Stutthof are a Vatican Vacation
compared to what is coming: this world’s hell-sick halls.
Esecwiel Barud is a poet of hell-sick halls.
~~~
Young Lives
by Slade U. W. Bierce
Young lives are full of hope and energy.
They make bold, pronounced, passionate statements.
The world’s evil has not yet clipped their wings.
From their rush of life there is no abatement.
But things show up to impinge on their lives,
things which are out of their control, like war
and other varied human cruelties.
To the edge of the water a crane dives,
and fortune falls, like a brave, new soldier,
to the ground, dropped by someone’s good shooting.
Slade U. W. Bierce is a poet of American Realism (1850-1900).
~~~
Jowned Jolted
by Edwar Lee Subic
It was another day, and back to work he had to go.
He went back to his work-site for another labour show.
He wished he was reclining on a patio or beach.
He thought that would be so much fun, but that was out of reach.
He sat upon his office chair, alert, erect, and jowned.
He wished he was reclaiming back upon a cushioned lounge.
Instead of pressed in messaging, with fingers and his hands.
he’d love to cup his nape and head, fulfilling no demands.
But he had much to do, and had to do it right away;
so back to work he had to go. It was another day.
Mary Westmacott
by Edwar Lee Subic
A. Mary Clarissa Miller was born
in Torquay, Devon, in 1890,
American father, English mother,
with sister and brother, Madge and Monty,
each a decade older. When her dad died,
she was encouraged to be a writer
by her mom. At twenty-five, she married
Colonel Archibald C., aviator.
In World War I, she worked at hospital
in pharmacy, educated in death
and disease (at least, it is plausible),
witness to many an end or hard breath.
In 1926, she disappeared
briefly. Her car was found in a chalk pit
in Newlands Corner. Many people feared
foul play. At Swan Hydro in Harrogate,
her mother having died and her husband
asking for divorce, she claimed amnesia,
a nervous breakdown, and claimed she was the
other woman, Nancy Neele. This seizure
some thought was just a publicity stunt!
Certainly she had theatrical flair,
caught as she was there, like a snared rodent,
1926 just too much to bear.
But she went on. In 1930, she
wed Max Mallowan, archaeologist;
she laughed, he’d like her more as she aged! He
didn’t; but he remained. Acknowledge this.
For all you love you have to pay a price.
She worked in a dispensary during
World War II. The world’s neither new nor nice.
Evil’s not superhuman; it’s something
less than human. Meticulous and neat,
she went on. Though life had a slight flavour
of absurdity, it didn’t defeat
her. She went on living to eighty-five.
It had been an odd whirl for the old girl.
She made the extraordinary seem
regular, usual, and natural
in this flow–life’s variegated stream,
and found herself at the end of a road
millions upon millions rode over, trod
on, sharing that considerable load
with her, learning that they easily could.
Edwar Lee Subic is a poet of English Modernism. Agatha Christie (1890-1976) was an English proset. “Jowned”: “Damn it, so am I,” Thomas Hardy (1840-1928), a British poet and proset.
~~~
Letters from a Ghost
by B. S. Eliud Acrewe
He left his flat that night, but never would return to it.
Since then, a month had passed. He’d stayed in four cheap hotels, mute.
And, as far as he knew, no one had noticed. But, about
three weeks ago, someone was killed in a car accident.
Was it somewhere in New York City? What had been the route?
When that occurred, he knew he never could go back. Since then,
he felt such ruth, the truth remained unknown, a mystery,
like London streets, according to the likes of Mister E.
It seems, too, strangers were suspicious of his furtiveness.
Was he supposed to be content someone was reading this—
a group of letters from a ghost named B. S. Eliud?
If that’s the case, it may mean that he was already dead,
B. S. Eliud Acrewe is a poet of English letters. Robert Harris is a contemporary British proset.
~~~
Sonnets of Jorge Borges
by Ibewa del Sucre
What is it that draws me to his sonnets–
those of Jorge Luis Borges? They hold
clarity; in them, fineness is unrolled
and an asperity gleams like onyx.
The tone too is just right for each topic.
His vision soars over all history:
as vast as the Atlantic Ocean’s sweep,
yet human, at the same time myopic.
Ibewa del Sucre is a poet of Argentina. Borges (1899-1986) was a Modernist poet and proset.
~~~
A Few Red Roses
by Brac Lei Uweeds
A few red roses in the pink rose bushes flush with pink
remind one of one dedicated rose in Borge’s ink,
that last rose he called forth for John-Miltonic poesy,
a posy white/vermilion/yellow, yet invisible.
Brac Lei Uweeds is a poet of flowers. John Milton (1608-1674) was a NeoClassical English poet, whose poetry influenced Jorge Borges (1899-1986), a Modernist Argentinian poet.
~~~
Newsreel:
The Midas Morning ship from China bound for Mexico,
on fire, and abandoned, off Alaska, still aglow,
is filled with toxic chemicals—embroiling dynamo—
electric cars with EV batteries provide the show.
~~~
At the Top of a Twelve Story Building
by Arcideb Usewel
He exists up there in a square room at the top
of a twelve-story building. His four selves are split
into various positions—the rise, the drop,
the reclining and the slanting of the stiff sit.
He is translucent in the windows of the night.
He is afraid he is too real to stop it.
He is plagued by insight, by great power and fright.
Things are not quite right, but that doesn’t mean defeat.
By adopting genuine nonchalance, the height
is nothing. He can display disdain if he meet
the courteous criminal or the cruel cop.
What matters is how well he can manage the heat.
Arcideb Usewel is a poet of architexture.
~~~
The Wizard of Oz
by Cawb Edius Reel
The perennial movie The Wizard of Oz
shows how far America had been lulled
into the dreamy sleep and flimsy gauze
of surrealism by Hollywood, pulled
and culled from Lieman Frank Baum’s fantasy
of Dorothy, and her dog Toto too
(blown by a cyclone out of Kansas), e-
voked deep sympathy in more than a few.
Her companions, the Scarecrow (the stuffed man),
the Cowardly Lion (I’ll show you fear in
a handful of dust), and the Tin Woodsman
(the hollow man), are terse lessons in in-
dividuality’s childish breakdown,
a fleeing from dull, gray realities
into a rainbow of color, where brown
is outlawed, black and white are ill-at-ease.
Strange little people and flying monkeys
that appeal to a child’s distorted world,
with good witches, bad witches, and flunkies
are all together haphazardly hurled.
But though all see through the wizard’s disguise
of smoke and mirrors, Hollywood’s goes on,
sentimental scenes and celluloid skies,
and, at this moment, it still is not gone.
Millions continue to journey down that
yellow brick road to Emerald City,
though it is not a place they can stay at
permanently, although it is pretty.
Cawb Edius Reel is a poet of film.
~~~
Supersonic Boom
by Ed “Bear” C. U. Lewis
On October 14, 1947, Chuck Yaeger, in the Bell Aircraft X-1 jet plane, smote rudely and hard the mighty chords of heaven, and rendered back to Earth a supersonic bang—artful thunder! when he broke the sound barrier, and, thereby, extended humanity’s campaign to the airy territories; and every ear near enough to hear, history in the making in the shape of an incredible carrier capable of forsaking accident and taking fate to task, accomplishing this less than eleven years after the jet engine designed by Frank Whittle was tested.
Ed “Bear” C. U. Lewis is a poet of techno-equipment. In the above prosem, a single sentence mentions both Frank Whittle (1907-1996), an English inventor and engineer, and Chuck Yaeger (1923-2020), an American record-setting and flying-ace test-pilot.
~~~
The Helicopter Landing
by Air Weelbed Suc
The rough and gruff huff-huff of the helicopter drown out momentarily the voices of the people below it. The mechanical lobster hovers over them, as they stand by the covered body on the stretcher. It is obviously there for the pick-up. These faces have no other thoughts on their minds. The body seems to be asleep. Whether alive or not, it holds the center stage. The helicopter’s motor drones on endlessly. Only the pilot, watching each glass-encased gage, has a placid face, and as he lands the chopper, the crowd of people rush to his motorized cage.
Air Weelbed Suc is a poet of flight.
~~~
The Udice Incident
by Al S. Weber
He thought it prob’bly was a hoax, one of their secret jokes,
a single gunman in the trees, forewarned by service folks.
But who was he—that guy. He did not wear a green beret.
He knew, because he read it in the book by Weber, A.
The book was out the next day, loaded up to Amazon,
who quickly took it down, but not before it had been found.
It had been written by a custom-made-designed AI.
A cat was on the cover, looking up into the sky.
The golf course was generic, no locations and no names.
Was he a patsy framed? Six times they missed five feet away.
The gun was wrong. He didn’t shoot it. But was that the plan?
And what about the trial in the book. Who was that man?
Was Benjy fetching golf balls from the rough? It seemed grotesque.
Was he arraigned and smiling with his lawyer—Kafkaesque?
Defense and prosecution strategies had been detailed;
and yet the trial hadn’t happened. What truth was unveiled?
Al S. Weber is not an AI poet in the above hexadeca. Benji was a character from “The Sound and the Fury” by American Modernist proset William Faulkner (1897-1962).
~~~
Newsreel:
Two-thousand Californian National Guard members were
sent to Los Angeles due to protests and trouble there.
The Feds in riot gear deployed tear gas and pepper spray,
while demonstrators tossed cement chunks and hard-rock grenades.
~~~
The Shiny World of Pinball Machines
by Reid Wes Cuebal
That bright, shiny world of pinball machines
has vanished forever with the advent
of computer games and slick, newer things;
but I still remember, before they went,
those tasteless, wasteful hours that I once spent
watching the gleaming, silver sphere bouncing
off of this bumper and that bumper, sent
down with lightning speed through the opening,
where the game would come to a halt: the springs,
the clunking sounds, the tally. What it meant
was I was hooked on leisure’s mindless wings,
flapping the flippers this way and that, bent
on eschewing life. Plug in more quarters,
and what was there that I couldn’t forget?
Reid Wes Cuebal is a poet of mechanical games.
~~~
A Mechanic Who Was Proud
by Bruc “Diesel” Awe
Truck maintenance—he found himself again at the garage.
There was a lot to check. He had to check the full barrage.
He needed engine and internal services, like as
the cooling system, fluids, hoses, belt, as well as gas.
He needed brake evaluation, steering and his tires,
suspension, battery, and lights. Were there loose nuts or wires?
He needed HVAC, luggage, dashboard—anything of note—
that helped his driving and arriving—kept his boat afloat.
He needed a mechanic who was proud of what he did,
who heeded all the trouble spots, and fixed all that he could.
He was content to pay a price, but not too low, or high,
to reach that golden mean that would uplift, and satisfy.
The Armoured Car
by Bruc “Diesel” Awe
An armoured BMW X7 VIP,
while cloaking its attempt at luxury and privacy,
drove down the road in midnight darkness at the end of day.
Where were they going to—that driver and those passengers?
Could they be secret messengers upon an ego trip,
or government, clandestine workers on a stealthy trek?
Why did they need all-wheel drive and a 300 horse,
an automatic trans, with custom drive—all of that force?
What was the purpose of their fortified suspension pack?
Why did they need their cabin windows tinted in the back?
Did they appreciate the leather seating seen throughout
and the upgraded A/C system, on this covert route?
Bruc “Diesel” Awe is a poet of vehicles, an admirer of writers, like Barthelme and Bishop.
~~~
Hurled
by Basic Weeldure
He kept on climbing up the alder tree. He was let loose…
beside the elderberry tree. This gander was no goose.
He rode on the caboose. The train was going down the track.
He wondered if he ever would get forward or get back.
What had he done to get to here, to this, this mistery?
He missed the rusting water heater by a flopping knee.
Was life a series of good lucks and opportunities?
Why did Fate tease us with all of these possibilities?
He rode the whirlwind in this swirling and unfurling World?
To where would he be cast away? To where would he be hurled?
Basic Weeldure is a poet of enduring memories. According to Beau Lecsi Werd, “mistery” [sic] is a homonym relating to mist.
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