His Phrases Drift
by Walibee Scrude
He left Australia, oh, so, very many years ago,
it hardly seems he ever was Australian, even though
there’s something in Clive James that makes him seem Australian yet,
his self-dramatic attitude and striving after wit.
And now I hear he has retreated from the World because
of emphysema and leukemia. O, what once was—
the fires in his mind—have burnt away. His phrases drift.
This is the dead calm, his watch-band, no longer on his wrist.
Tonight he leaves his audience content. He was the ghost
they wanted at the banquet, Banquo. Macbeth was the host.
It is September 2025. He’s not alive.
The only thing that’s left is words. I’m glad they still survive.
Walibee Scrude is a poet of Australia. Clive James (1939-2019) was a PostModernist Australian poet.
~~~
Haiku
by “Wired Clues” Abe
Shining, on cement,
a quiet, sunlit guest sits.
A cicada sets.
Haiku
by “Wired Clues” Abe
At th’ arid catchment,
with little water, th’ egrets
do not have regrets.
Haiku
by “Wired Clues” Abe
On the brick mailbox,
the broad-wing, tail-striped hawk looks
out, seeking rabbits.
“Wired Clues” Abe is a NewMillennial haikuist.
~~~
Newsreel:
In dark brown smoggy fog, the Jianzha Yellow River Bridge
collapsed into sheer horror—as th’ arch section snapped abyss.
The double-track continuous steel truss thus left a hole;
a steel cable failure caused the deaths of sixteen souls.
~~~
The Slogans of Qi Hong
In Chongqing, China, August 29th, on high-rise walls,
a bold display of anticommunist ideas sprawled.
With two sets of projectors and surveillance cameras,
Qi Hong sent out into the city these large messages:
“It’s only with no communists that China can be new;
And freedom is no gift; to have it one must take it too;
Rise up you who refuse to be a slave; reclaim your rights;
Down with red fascists; overthrow dictating parasites.”
For fifty minutes, these four slogans cycled through and fourth,
until security discovered where they had come from.
Qi Hong had smartly gone to UK, or he’d have been killed
for demonstrating his free will and engineering skills.
~~~
Newsreel:
In Kunar and Nangarhar provinces, Afghanistan,
more than one-thousand died; a major earthquake rocked the land.
~~~
These Rocks
by Rauc E. Sedilube
Stone images are raised. This is dead land, the cactus land.
Here they receive the supplication of a dead man’s hand.
Beneath the twinkle of a fading star—Is it like this?
alone, and waking at the hour when lips that would kiss…
stone…Joshua in Jericho went seven times around.
Priests blew their trumpets, people shouted, and the walls came down.
Was it from Scopus to Moriah, Hagar sought a well?
o, any water she could find, so hard to reach that Tell.
The rocky realm erodes. The plastered walls were chipped back then.
Its names have all been lost, destroyed by quakes and zealous men.
The local people of the Bedul tribe sell pieces of
brown, white and gray stones to the tourists come to Petra from…
the pebbles tossed at pillars, gathered into a tar mold.
Will all sins be forgiven when we’ve done what we’ve been told?
The sunlight on a broken column, an εἴδωλον tree
so distant and so solemn, like this our eternity.
Rauc E. Sedilube is a poet of rocks.
~~~
The Gripen
by Air Weelbed Suc
Though Gripen has a higher thrust to weighted ratio,
its drag is lower than an F-16’s, its wing load low;
The Gripen, too, thanks to low drag can nearly match the climb
rate of the US flyer as it rises in sky time.
On dry thrust with full armor, it hits supersonic speeds,
four AMRAAMs, two Sidewinders, and its extra fuel tank needs.
E-series Gripen has improved its range performance too.
Its engine is more powerful, its AESA ‘s new.
Its comms and electronic warfare systems are enhanced.
Its InfraRed Search and Track System is highly advanced.
And though it has a lower RCS than those who boast,
its gallium-nitride based suite can make it seem a ghost.
Air Welbed Suc is a poet of aircraft. Stefan Englund is a retired PostModern Swedish Air Force Flight Engineer.
~~~
A Visionary Spectre
by Bic Uwel, “Erased”
He felt like as a ghostly figure, even in his house.
a flitting, mirrored spirit hardly making any sound,
a phantom at the windows looking out upon the sky,
a skeleton of moving bones, led by an open eye,
an animated being opening and closing doors,
a footed form of flesh and being wandering his floors,
a dirty daemon dusting, cleaning, and positioning,
an angel in the furniture and air conditioning.
a genie in the living room, an essence at the edge,
no more than but a visionary spectre in a sketch.
Bic Uwel, “Erased”, is a poet of phantasms.
~~~
Th’ Alert Observer
by Cawb Edius Reel
He sat upright upon the sofa’s edge observing close
the content in the documentary before his o’s.
He stretched his arms and spread his legs. He sat stiff as a stiff.
But he was very much alive, like one upon a cliff.
His baseball cap had been adjusted so he could see well.
How much would he be able to discern? He could not tell.
O, no, it would be, o, so hard to comprehend it all—
the knowledge there dispensed he shared en-thu-si-as-tic-al.
He had come to some brand new views, but how would they translate?
Though it was but a video, o, how could he relate?
So patiently he stayed the course and watched it till the end;
and then when it was over, he decided to ascend.
Cawb Edius Reel is a poet of film.
~~~
Per-using
by Wilee Read Bucs
He sat on the upholstered chair not comfortably set,
and yet in that library setting, he was quite content.
He saw the engineering books, and biomedical,
electrical, computer science, cyber technical.
He saw construction management and information tech,
materials, mechanical, and geographic texts.
If not excited, he was still delighted nonetheless,
for he could scan programming languages—Which was the best?
and read of concepts and concerns from actuality,
applied AI, advanced health care, and manufacturing.
And so he sat perusing books, so many on the shelves.
How many are the topics into which the bold mind delves?
Wilee Read Bucs is a poet of reading.
~~~
Brodies in the Neighbourhood
by Bruc “Diesel” Awe
He held on to the ski rack, as he rode along the road.
His chums loved to do brodies in the gravel by the wood.
They loved to swirl around in circles; it was so much fun;
to feel the wheeling, squealing whirl, a ride of brawn and bun.
He loved the sunshine, radiating rays upon his skin.
They loved the freedom of the laughternoon and merry din.
O, how they loved the curving swerves, their nerves were quite on edge.
Above they saw fly overhead the shining silver jets.
He thought those moments were the best; they made him feel so good.
But were they better than those times back in the neighbourhood?
Bruc “Diesel” Awe is a poet of driving.
~~~
At His Office Desk
Des Wercebauli
He sat up at his office desk, before the glaring screen.
He lifted up his head and neck, and everything between.
He longed to have alignment propped, an upright, curving spine,
a proper ergonomic pose, mundane, if not divine.
O, yes, he had to do some typing, sitting on his chair.
He certainly was not like as a brown bear in his lair.
O, no, he had his varied tasks, and harried chores to do.
He stretched his chest; he should not rest; he had to force the screw.
He twisted the screwdriver; he was no great carpenter,
more like bartender, or a crurotarsan archosaur.
Des Wercebauli is a poet of work.
~~~
Time and Time Again
by Erisbawdle Cue
It is so hard to be a human being in the World.
One tries one’s best, but all about one’s buffeted and hurled.
One tries to do what’s good and right, but falls flat all the time.
One flounders in life’s messes while one’s seeking the sublime.
It isn’t easy facing hardship every single day,
and coming up short, oh, there’s got to be a better way.
How does one falter time and time again and still go on?
How does one face with joy and energy each brand new dawn?
And yet somehow, despite it all, life manages to press
on through existence with persistence, and some happiness.
Erisbawdle Cue is a poet of philosophy.
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