Haiku
by “Wired Clues” Abe
Mowing at twilight,
he smells the newly cut grass—
thick nauseous breaths.
“Wired Clues” Abe is a poet of Japanese haiku in a postShiki world. His kigo, or season word, is a word or phrase associated with the particular seasons—Modernum, PostModernum or NewMillennium.
~~~
Haiku
by “Clear Dew” Ibuse
The pedestrians
walked down the neighbourhood past
kempt and unkempt lawns
“Clear Dew” Ibuse is a poet of traditional haiku.
~~~
Newsreel:
The border of Cambodia and Thailand has again
flared up from ownership of temples, like Prasat ta Moan;
but refugees from deadly strikes would rather leave behind
destructive pride and bickering for just some peace of mind.
~~~
The Inter-Inner-Particle-Wave Force
by “Dweeb” Ira Scule
The particle-waves that comprise us can exist—here’s why:
they are not free but are bound in and held together by
the inter-inner-particle-wave force, and would fly
out otherwise in lines if not for being in a bind.
Yet they are definitely moving, these wave-particles,
for they indeed are genuine, true—re-al articles.
They’ve found a way of orbiting around each other that
makes it appear that you are still a crazed Jehosaphat.
O, woe is me, o, glory be, when they go off their course
and fly off to another mass-accelerated force.
“Dweeb” Ira Scule is a poet of particles. Jehosaphat (c. 908 BC – c. 848 BC) was a king of Ancient Judea.
~~~
That Hard and Narrow Path
by Crise de Abu Wel
He stood up high—that sandaled guy—in the heat of the day.
just leather soles protecting feet there, as he made his way.
He loved the shadows for a place to rest his weary soul,
as he climbed over hard cement, asphalt, and jagged stones.
He wasn’t sure that he could make it in that brutal Sun.
He wondered did he have enough strength—that tough dude of dun.
Proceeding on, he pressed along that path, that crucible.
He must be strong. The trip was long to reach Jerusalem.
He braced his shoulders, back and forth he went, each step he took.
He tensed his feet and legs upon those dregs. He felt forsook.
Crise de Abu Wel is a poet of the hardness of Israel.
~~~
Newsreel:
The Russian airline Aeroflot has cancelled flights galore,
due to an IT failure caused by hackers—Silent Crow.
~~~
Without Renown
by Aedile Cwerbus
I have not made a monument more durable than bronze,
or higher than the pyramids, or lovelier than swans.
I have no great memorial as powerful as rain,
as strong as wind, as lasting as time’s ever-destined reign.
And I shall wholly die, no part of me escape death’s bite;
like vestal virgin and high priest, I shall succumb to night.
Without renown, I’ll dwell where Alf the sacred river ran,
in twilight’s desert kingdoms, poorer than the poorest man.
I did not bring Greek rhythms to our tongue, Melpomene,
so likewise toss those dry-leafed laurels you have offered me.
Aedile Cwerbus is a poet of Ancient Rome. Horace (65 BC – 8 BC) was an Ancient Roman poet.
~~~
The Army Clerk
by Ed “Bear” C. U. Lewis
When he was in the army, he was one hard-working clerk.
He wore his olive drab, but he was not a bucking jerk.
With gusto, he would do his best, and did what was required.
He was no slacker when it came to do the tasks enmired.
O, he was fired up; he did his chores efficiently.
He filled out forms—for there were swarms—in that bureaucracy.
It was amazing to see how hard he would do his jobs.
To tell the truth, he had so many—o, yes, there were gobs:
from soldier, cleaner, watchman, guard, to secretarial.
At times, he had to drive trucks, and go gung-ho aerial.
But he loved to take long breaks too, far from officialdom,
and just hang out on chair or couch, in furnished living room.
Ed “Bear” C. U. Lewis is a poet of military things.
~~~
Bullet Train Bulletin
by Bieder C. Weslau
He took a nice, warm cup of coffee in the dining niche,
but news reports he read, he thought, were really quite a bitch.
Where was the beauty he was looking for? It was not had
upon his table during breakfast. What would make him glad?
It pained him to see all the trouble in the World each day.
He sipped. Why was he focusing upon it anyway?
A passenger train had derailed in Baden Wurttemberg:
a rain-caused mudslide, there at Biberach, near an ess curve,
had dozens injured, four souls dead, in the smashed-up express.
The German chancellor expressed heartfelt condolences.
Bieder C. Weslau is a poet of Germany. Biberach, Germany, is a city of around 30,000.
~~~
Hamlet
by Wilude Scabere
Prince Hamlet stood beneath the onus of three thousand years,
dressed all in black from shirt to shoes in epochal arrears.
He had to rise up to his era fully armed and cast,
although his breast plate and his shield were hidden for the task.
He rose attempting on the morn to right the wrongs therein.
He had to bear his chalice high in equilibrium.
He had to bear outrageous fortune’s slings and arrows shot,
and toss them off as if they were not anything but naught.
He had to stretch his limits past where he thought he could go,
yet had to end up standing through the rolling imbroglio.
Wilude Scabere is a poet of Baroque sensibilities.
~~~
That Crude and Cruel Dude
by “Crude” Abe Lewis
He was a crude and cruel dude, uptight and overwrought.
I half-expected him to beat me—yes, that’s what I thought.
But he did not. He treated me with sweet civility,
as long as I was open to his jagg’d hostility.
He half-expected me to flee; but when I stayed behind,
he’d treat me with gentility, when not out of his mind.
I cannot say I grew fond of his energy and strength,
especi’lly when his tirades were of an enormous length;
but I could get used to his hard, abrasive attitude,
although remaining chary of that crude and cruel dude.
“Crude” Abe Lewis is a poet of crude dudes.
~~~
Our Flight
by Air Weelbed Suc
Sit back. Enjoy the ride. Our flight is taking off right now.
Be sure to put your seat upright. Pull seat belt snug, tight, ow!
I am your captain and it looks like smooth skies up ahead.
There is no smoking in the cabin. Ho, the sign is red.
We will ascend to seven miles high up past the birds.
There engines operate efficiently. Stoke up the turbs.
We will soar in that cooler zone, so we don’t get too hot.
Indeed, our cruising speed will be about 500 knots.
There may be agitation in the upper atmosphere,
but when we’re done and we touch down, we will be happy here.
Air Weelbed Suc is a poet of flight.
~~~
“Hurl that spheroid down the field, and
Fight, fight, fight. Fight fiercely, Harvard…”
—Tom Lehrer
Newsreel:
Assorted legal battles with the Trump Admin go on;
investigating Harvard, funding cuts, and lawsuit spawn.
Tom Lehrer (1928-2025) was a PostModernist lyricist. “Philosophy 4, A Story of Harvard University”, was a humourous novella by Owen Wister (1860-1938) a Modernist proset, noted for his noted biography of Ulyesses S. Grant and “The Virginian”, a landmark novel in the Western genre, paving the way for works by Zane Grey (1872-1939), Max Brand (1892-1944) and Louis L’Amour (1908-1988).
~~~
Who Suffer Us
by Wilbur Dee Case
He is a charming fellow, with good manners and some wit.
He is the maker of more than six-thousand poems writ.
His verses written out in full fill more books than his years.
He pays less for his words; his works are rarely in arrears.
He does not put his words on parchment scraps, or on new scrolls;
he does not smooth his words with pumice; those are not his goals.
He may seem like a goatherd, since he grew up on a farm.
To look at him again, you might say he has been transformed.
How to account for this? When he was younger he was in
intelligence, in Russia, and the US college scene.
There is so much, much worse in life, than souls who suffer us;
each person has his own delusions; be not covetous.
Wilbur Dee Case is a poet and literary critic of Middle America.
~~~
A Deck Hand on a Twin-Hulled Catamaran
by Des Wercebauli
He sat up at his desk, no arabesque or lounging man,
nor was he a deck hand on a twin-hulled catamaran.
He simply typed on his computer, going through his tasks;
he wasn’t basking in the Sun, nor having fun—o, scads.
Occasionally he would stand and stretch his body parts;
by lifting up his sacroiliac, and hence his heart.
There was a lot to do. He had no time for daylight dreams;
he had to get on with his chores and not partake in screams.
He had to keep his nerves, and hope Minerva heard his words;
he wasn’t flying in the air; for that would be absurd.
He lifted up his shoulders; he was focused on the screen.
He wasn’t going anywhere that he had ever been.
Des Wercebauli is a poetic workaholic.
~~~
He Stopped at Love’s
Bruc “Diesel” Awe
He had been driving truck so long, he longed to take a break.
He braked his semi in the shade; he didn’t want to bake.
He stopped at Love’s, for he was traveling a lengthy way.
It felt so good to pause, and hang out. This was a good day.
He saw the giant clock upon the wall. It was ten-ten.
He didn’t know when he would go again—eleven-then?
Was that “The Twelfth of Never” he heard playing in his ears?
He hadn’t heard that for forever…reeling in the years.
He was glad he could take a break. Could he get coffee too?
Without the lines and traffic, he could focus on the view.
Bruc “Diesel” Awe is a poet of trucking.
~~~
Could He Do Any More
by Rudi E. Welec, “Abs”
Back at it once again, time for his exercises, yes.
from squat to trot, o, panting, pushup, uplift, press to steps.
He needed working on his muscles, bottom up to chest,
from calves to thighs, from abs to glutes, from back to arms and pecs.
He touched his toes, and then he rose—from side to side—around.
There never was an end to this—up-down, up-down, up-down.
He paused to catch his breath, and rest his whole, en-ti-re breadth.
He sucked in stomach, air, and fortitude in seeking strength.
But what would be this session’s length—would it be minutes, or
an hour long—Was he that strong? Could he do any more?
Rudi E. Welec, “Abs”, is a poet of physical exercise?
~~~
An Interview with Rudi E.Welec, “Abs”
by Lew Icarus Bede
LIB: We’re here today with Rudi Welec, “Abs,”
to talk about his work. So, Rudi, tell
us what you like in poetry.
REW: Thick slabs
of piping hot meat, lots of fat, done well.
LIB: That sounds more like a dinner, Rudi.
REW: Yep.
LIB: Could you elucidate?
REW: I love a rich
poetic line, with muscles, spunk and pep,
that is buff like a tough son of a bitch.
I’m not excited by the hang-dog look.
I do prefer verse by a stand-up guy.
LIB: That sounds like going to the gym.
REW: Let’s book.
LIB: Not yet. What writer do you like?
REW: Well, I
admire Plato quite a bit. His work
has lasted. Broadly speaking, it is good.
He’s not some power junkie, hunky jerk.
He had ideals. He was one real bud.
LIB: How do you see him, Rudi, in your mind?
REW: I know this may not be a perfect pick;
but I see him in a white chiton’s bind,
surrounded by a gleaming, white salt lick,
with silver streaming, falling all around…
LIB: That seems more like an angel or a god.
REW: …and yet his body’s golden, pink and browned.
LIB: Okay. But you seem to be rather awed.
REW: I am, for his philosophy strove with
the gods. He saw the beauty of the world.
He sought the real and the true—not myth—
and longed to have the good in life unhurled.
No wonder Aristotle, searching for
the best, became enamoured of his thought.
LIB: That is amazing, Rudi.
REW: And what’s more,
as Whitehead said, if I have not forgot,
“the safest characterization of
all European philosophical
thought, is basic’lly it’s a series of
footnotes to Plato,” the real article.
I long to drink the nectar of his prose,
to play his lyre’s wires in my life,
to emulate the power of his pose.
LIB: You act like he’s an antidote to strife.
REW: He is. The rich veins of his lines are gold.
The fine poetic figures that he draws
are gorgeously memorable and bold.
He forged a vision lasting eras, laws.
I can embrace his work whole-heartedly.
LIB: I see that. But he must have had flaws too.
I’m sure you don’t think all he wrote perfect.
REW: Of course, he had his flaws. All of us do.
He knew that. But there’s little I reject.
I do not like to focus on the blots.
LIB: Why not?
REW: You miss the forest for the trees.
But I admit that I’m tied up in knots
attempting to retrieve his subtleties.
LIB: What else do you admire?
REW: His dialogues.
Though not as artful as, say, Aeschylus,
or Sophocles, his are prose analogues.
They’re muscular, fantastic, fabulous.
LIB: Whoa, Rudi Welec. There you go again.
REW: It happens when I think about his lines.
Although I know they only come from men,
something about their movement is divine.
LIB: Hey, yo! You’re some kind of a nut, you are.
When you get waxing on Plato, you fly.
Slow down now, Rudi. he was not a star.
REW: O, yes, he was.
LIB: How can you say that? Why?
REW: Because, although he never may have been
in any play or film, still he was quite
an actor in the cosmos. He had skin,
a stud whose words displayed enormous might
and insight. He believed ideas real,
and since then, nothing’s been the same. He made,
you may say, an impression, how we feel
about the universe, how it’s arrayed.
LIB: Let’s leave that dude. Let’s now go back to you.
REW: Whoa, it’s not all about me.
LIB: I know that’s so,
but, after all, this is an interview
with you. Where did you get your nickname, bro.
REW: Do you mean “Abs”? {Lew Icarus Bede nods.}
This dude named Adam. One day on the track,
I ran off from a bunch of teen seed pods,
and ever since, he said I had a six pack,
which isn’t really true. But there it is.
It stuck. I wasn’t gonna go around
in underwear to prove him wrong, nor strip.
I feel vulnerable when I’m unbound.
LIB: I hear that “Crude” Abe Lewis has called you
the poet of the gym. Do you agree?
Perhaps a poet of the gym. It’s true
I like to write about athletic deeds,
which is one reason I admire Pindar;
though I’m not near as fine as Pindar was.
Now he was something else. He went so far.
I’m only writing “briefs.” He spanned eras,
like Esiad L. Werecub, whose Thesiad,
was an epyllion out of Plutarch.
By the way, Master B. S. Eliud
Acrewe said that my verse and stance was stark.
LIB: Well, we can’t all write little epics.
REW: True.
LIB: What do you think about his The Space Spanned?
Just what was B. S. Eliud Acrewe
up to?
REW: He tried to clean up The Wasteland,
I think.
LIB: That’s an impossibility.
REW: No, duh.
LIB: No one is that pretentious.
REW: Oh?
Well, anyway. let us get back to me!
LIB: Who are you anyway?
REW: A solo soul
whose trying hard to be…a real man.
LIB: You mean like Collodi’s Pinocchio,
or Shakespeare’s Hamlet?
REW: Though it’s hard to span,
that is exactly what I’d like to show
time and again, though I’m no Hercules.
LIB: No kidding, man. I think you’d have about
as much chance as a snowball in Hades.
REW: Thanks for the vote of confidence.
LIB: Don’t pout.
[Rudi E. Welec takes off.] Hey, come back.
I have a lot more questions to ask you.
[He’s shouting from afar.] You maniac.
You silly-ass Achilles, Rudi Rude!
Lew Icrasus Bede is a NewMillennial poet and literary critic.
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