Haiku
by “Wired Clues” Abe
In Space, one observes
the summer triangle’s curves,
three straight lines of verse.
“Wired Clues” Abe is a poet of the Universe.
~~~
Flashback:
The Moon up over the trees in the East
rises, as the Earth passes between it
and the Sun, which is setting in the West;
and it is noteworthy to have seen it.
A brown, foggy, orange colour covers
its usual white shine. Saturn, nearby,
like a bright, shiny star, seems to hover,
however, somewhat smaller, in the sky.
But it is the tinier-seeming stars
that are, in reality, the larger;
for it is our propinquity that bars
truer view from fantasy’s discharger.
Still, the uniqueness of the scene tonight
has made the old thing seen seem a new sight.
*There was a total lunar eclipse on September 27, 1996.
~~~
Haiku
by “Clear Dew” Ibuse
The pedestrian
can hardly avoid hearing
the shrill cicadas.
Haiku
by “Clear Dew” Ibuse
In the windy swirls
around the umbrella whirls
beyond the squirrels.
Haiku
by “Clear Dew” Ibuse
He heard she moved to
today to whenever to
tomorrow, beyond.
“Clear Dew” Ibuse is a poet of traditional haiku. Janet Cormier is a contemporary poet.
~~~
Newsreel:
Near Tianshui, more than two hundred children had been fed,
in coloured foods that had been painted high le-vels of lead.
Tianshui metro has a population of around 1,200,000.
~~~
Aubade at Seven AM
by I Warble Seduce
The years have fled, and time so swiftly flees,
since that brief hour when you and I first met;
but how we loved I still remember yet;
so purely did you live and love and please.
You were a wonder then and still are now,
a form of beauty and of loveliness;
your spirit shines with light and blessedness;
you are a bright and cheerful soul. And how!
When you’re around you do not understand
how happy is my heart and soul and mind.
You make me glad that you are near; yes, and
when I see your infectious joy, I’m blind
to everything else, which seems drab and bland;
and my cold soul is warmed by what I find.
I Warble Seduce is a poet of love.
~~~
Herod Was
by Israel W. Ebecud
Herod was an amalgam of insanity,
hatred, and power, which he used with all the force
of cruel tyranny in Judaea. Though the course
of history would have gone on most probably
the same without him, he figured in the plans
of Julius Caesar, his friend Marc Antony[even though Cleopatra took from him good lands],
Octavian, whom he did not at first support,
and Agrippa. Behind his harsh commands
came the Temple of Jerusalem, the great port
Caesarea Palaestinae, Masada,
and many another embellishment and fort,
as well as varied, unfortunate massacres,
those of Bethlehem’s children and his family.
His reign was a bloody mess filled with mass slaughter.
Israel W. Ebecud is a poet of Judaea. Herod (c. 72 BC – 4 BC) was a Roman appointed king of Judaea. Caesar, Antony, Cleopatra, Octavian, and Agrippa were noted figures of that era.
~~~
Newsreel:
In Syria, tanks near the border, heading for the Druze,
were struck by IDF aircraft and their Israeli crews.
~~~
The Horse
by Acwiles Berude
Thessalian Philonicus brought forth the horse,
Bucephalus, to Philip, offering to sell
that steed for thirteen talents; but when they, perforce,
went to the field, they found him unmanageable,
so vicious. When they tried to mount him, up he reared,
and would not then endure any attendant’s try.
Considered useless and intractable, they steered
Bucephalus away. But Alexander, standing by,
said, “What an excellent horse do they lose for want
of boldness and address to manage such wildness.”
His father Philip took no notice at the taunt;
but when his son repeated his vexatiousness,
his father Philip spoke. “Do you reproach those who
are older than yourself, as if you knew more, and
were better able to man him than they could do?”
“I could do better than the others,” Alexan-
der said. “And if you don’t, what will you forfeit for
such rashness?” Philip asked. “I’ll pay,” his son replied,
“the whole price of the horse.” At this the company
guffawed, and set the bet. Immediately he tried,
ran up to the horse, grabbed his bridle directly,
and turned him to the sun, having, it seems, observed
he was disturbed at his own shadow’s motion’s flow.
Then let him go a little forward, holding reins.
He stroked him gently when the horse started to grow
more fiery and eager. Then, upon no pains,
let fall his upper garment softly down, and with
one leap, securely mounted him. When seated, he
by little drew the bridle in and curbed his writh
by neither striking him, nor spurring him. When he
discovered he was free of all rebellion, and
impatient for the course, he let him go full speed,
inciting him but now and then with a command
or urging him on forth, well-heeled or briskly kneed.
King Philip and his friends looked on in silent awe
and anxiousness for the result, till seeing him
turn at the end of his career, and come back strong,
rejoicing and triumphant in fine, pleasing whim
for what he’d done. All burst in acclamations of
applause, his father shedding heady tears of joy.
He kissed his son, who came down from the horse, in love;
and in his transport said these words unto his boy:
“My son, be on the lookout for a kingdom that
is equal to and worthy of yourself, because I see
that Macedonia is far too small a land
for one who willingly seeks such extremity.”
Acwiles Berude is a poet of Ancient Greece. According to Beau Lecsi Werd, “writh” is a neologism meaning writhing with wrath. Philip of Macedon (386 BC – 332 BC) was a king of Macedonia. Alexander the Great (356 BC – 323 BC) was a noted ruler of Ancient Greece. Plutarch (c. 46 – c. 120) was an Ancient Greek biographer. John Dryden (1631-1700) was a noted NeoClassical British poet and proset.
~~~
Andrea Montegna’s Parnassus
by Buceli da Werse
Andrea Montegna’s Parnassus is
preposterous for many reasons, such
as these: first, graceful, dancing muses (this
belies belief), a rainbow displayed, much
in the manner of Poussin, but before!
second, the great Mount is hardly a hill,
and arching rocks are peopled with figures
which are strangely beautiful and ideal;
and third, the comical distortions are
surprising, whimsical, like Mercury
leaning upon a spotted Pegasus,
the whole delightfully, indulgently,
deliberately bathed in negligence.
How pale and leisurely, so lovely too—
Andrea Montegna’s poetic view!
Buceli da Werse is a pot of Classical Italian painting. Andrea Montegna (1431-1506) was a Renaissance Italian painter.
~~~
Far From Frederick Forsyth
by B. S. Eliud Acrewe
He flew de Havilland’s Vampire for the RAF,
that sleek jet aircraft, 1956 and afterwords.
Then in the 1960s, he indulged in wanderlust,
and served as an assistant diplomatic journalist.
Next, in the 1970s, he was “skint, stony broke”,
so he became a novelist, and thus he wrote and wrote.
His fiction “The Day of the Jackal” brought him capital.
There followed “The Odessa File” and “Fourth Protocol”,
“The Dogs of War”, “The Fist of God”, “Icon”, and “Veteran”…
His thrillers kept continuing upon a hearty run.
The realism of his books, at times, seemed true to life;
in ways, his art was not that far from Frederick Forsyth.
B. S. Eliud Acrewe is a poet of British literature. Frederick Forsyth (1938-2025) was a PostModernist British proset.
~~~
Question For Turing
by Esca Webuilder
Do you think that a computer would take
potassium cyanide—its own “life”—
while conducting electrol—for God’s sake—
ysis experiments—and stab a knife
into the theory that computers could
think exactly like human beings should?
Another Message
by Esca Webuilder
Diurnally the messages rain down on us:
newspapers, magazines, junk mail, road signs, billboards,
emails, phone calls, unwanted Internet pop ups,
books, radio spots, television ads, brochures,
and conversations with each other as we go
about our lives. We are bombarded constantly.
In short, there is too much for us to manage, so
we drown, short circuit. We’re stuffed individuals
with way too much to do and far too much to know.
We have more than enough in our residuals.
Yet here’s one more! The portents are quite ominous:
more will be coming, coming. It’s Niag’ra Falls.
Esca Webuilder is a poet of datadrops. Alan Turing (1912-1954) was a British Modernist computer scientist.
~~~
Modernist Critique
by Wilbur Dee Case
Robert Frost thought that Carl Sandburg’s poems
“can only be improved in translation.”
In general, he judged they were no gems,
but polished would be a new creation.
Wilbur Dee Case is a literary critic. Robert Frost (1874-1963) and Carl Sandburg (1878-1967) were both Modernist American poets.
~~~
Amidst the Lighter Strains of Jazz
by “Weird” Ace Blues
Last night amidst the lighter strains of jazz
and the circles of light from the ceiling
lighting on Us, as soft and as subdued as
paper lanterns—landing as a feeling!
You spoke to Me in dripping words of bows,
bows floating o’er the billowing waves, oars,
dipping into the waters of your flows,
penetrating, entering central cores—
shores ne’er before touched.
I listened as best
as I could, carefully, quietly, close.
O, and I know there was much that I missed,
that I did not understand—That was most!
Still, I tried, to go out of a myriad
host of things, grasp more than a period.
“Weird” Ace Blues is a poet of jazz.
~~~
Do Not Invite a Dragon to a Luau
by Cruse Wadibele
There he goes again, getting overly angry,
exploding like fireworks, burning the ground beneath.
Something is rotten in him, and it’s not gangrene;
it’s anger, that down under the surface does seethe,
like a volcano, ever ready to spew out
its fiery breath. Watch out when it starts to breathe,
because it sends out smoke, heat, and ashes throughout
the atmosphere, mucking up all, clouding the air.
Oh, do not invite a dragon to a luau.
It doesn’t care. It comes out frothing from its lair,
sanguine, vain thing that it is, disrupting shangri-
la with its frayed frustration, hatred and despair.
Cruse Wadibele is a poet of Hawaii.
~~~
The Roofer
by Builder Cee Saw
He has to face the weather every day
when he is working at his job upon
somebody’s house—the roofer. He must pay
in wind or rain or hot rays from the sun.
By nature he’s aloof. He works where few
will go, on steep inclines or heights of dun.
It isn’t for the weak or old; the roofing crew
is made up of the strong and young. They share their space
with flying birds, telephone poles, mildew,
moss. Others want them to pick up the pace;
but they’d prefer the others go away,
and leave them to protect that lofty place.
Builder Cee Saw is a poet of construction. Here the iambic pentameter follows that of a bilding [sic] rhyme scheme.
~~~
Keystrokes
by Des Wercebauli
He was at work behind his desk up at his monitor.
He was no lizard in the desert, no dry sonneteer.
He sat erect at his computer typing sentences.
He was no wizard striving for superb ascendances.
He was correcting, editing, manipulating words.
He had no gizzard, buzzard-like or vulture scavenger.
He moved his fingers over letters, lifting up his spine.
He was no scissor-tail’d flycatcher perching in the pines.
He was observing many things, from furniture to screen;
but he was not enroute upon a road to Abilene.
Des Wercebauli is a poet of tasks. Abilene, Texas, is a city of around 125,000.
~~~
Newsreel:
Ice cream producers in the USA pledged they would cut
out many artificial dyes now found in their pro-dúcts.
~~~
A Heavy, Clunky Manimal
by Rudi E. Welec, “Abs”
He felt so primal, like a dinosaur—Jurassic times—
a creature from a featured flick from some fantastic climes,
a biped found by passing cycads, conifers and pines,
a heavy, clunky manimal, complete with curvy spine,
that traipsed about through evergreens, and wild shrublike forms,
through gingko trees, with fan-shaped leaves, horsetails and huge ferns.
Triceratops in a Tank Top
by Rudi E. Welec, “Abs”
He worked upon his triceps and his biceps at the gym,
Triceratops, in a tank top, was striving to be slim.
He hauled around a great weight and his gut, when he would strut.
His paunch and sides were way too big, as was his big-ass butt.
But he would not give up. He did his best to rectify…
the situation he was in…he tried t’ electrify.
Too horny for his own good, with a giant friggin’ frill;
still that did not stop him from exercising. He had will.
O there were times when it was hard for him to carry on;
but he still did that huge and stocky vegetarian.
The Runner
by Rudi E. Welec, “Abs”
He ran as if his very life depended on
it, running up and down the many concrete steps,
down sidewalks past the stares of con and pawn,
beside the streets where cars and trucks and buses sped.
He ran for all that he was worth, past store-front signs,
past people walking by with closed or open lips.
He ran across the streets as well; he leapt o’er lines,
and still he pressed on vigorously, madly crazed.
he searched incessantly for love, for valentines,
a place where he could pause for peace and not be phased.
He ran day after day, he ran dawn after dawn,
and searched his days for any place he’d not be dazed.
Rudi E. Welec, “Abs”, is a poet of exercise.
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