Sensation
by I. E. Sbace Weruld
Amidst the flaming of the flying saucer’s landing gear,
like as the Sunshine glazing it, in gold-white-yellow sheer,
the meadow edge is filled with crabgrass seedheads by the trail,
the bright, cement-gray road is lit by brilliant blazing rays.
The shadow of the alien is ten-foot long, and more.
The pale Moon is faint and silver, like a lode of ore.
Where is he going, that strange being, unattached and lone,
there walking down the walkway in a black cap with a phone?
Who could he call? Who would he call? Who should he call at once?
What is the nation in the zation he’s a member of?
Mr. I. E. Sbace Weruld is a poet of salient aliens. According to Beau Lecsi Word “zation” is an overt trunc.
~~~
Tanka
by “Lice Brews” Ueda
A tiny spider
evaded the towel wipe,
but not the left hand
of the man with the right arm,
upon which it quickly crawled.
“Lice Brews” Ueda is a poet of the small. His inspiration is the haiku of Kobayashi Issa (1763-1828).
~~~
Haiku
by “Wired Clues” Abe
He heard teams cheering—
little league baseball players,
intermittently.
Hiroshima, 80 Years Ago
by “Wired Clues” Abe
Three planes flew overhead—perhaps upon reconnaissance—
the place was cool and pleasant, morning still. Then all at once…
came a tremendous flash of light that cut across the sky.
It seemed a sheet of sun. A man stepped…one-two-three-four-five…
and dived between two big rocks in the garden, belly up
against one of the rocks, and felt a sudden pressure’s punch.
Then tile fragments, splinters and board pieces fell on him.
He heard no roar, nor did he see what happened. All was dim.
However, in a distant sampan on the Inland Sea,
a fisherman near Tsuzu heard the sky shriek—suddenly.
“Wired Clues” Abe is a NewMillennial writer fond of Japan.
~~~
Two Sailors
by W. S. “Eel” Bericuda
I saw them standing at the dock, two sailors, side by side,
in round, flat visorless whitecaps of bubbles, flush and wide.
It looked like they were balancing each other’s body up,
inebriated buzz-cut heads, each with a dixie cup.
Oblivious to all around, they stood there gazing off,
in shiny blue, sleek uniforms, at beautiful blue froth.
They did not see each other for the sea’s translucency,
nor there beneath their feet, the wrinkled sands, unloosened, free.
But I could see them falling through eternity’s deep cracks,
the bouncing sun, a bright gold globe, above two unbound jacks.
W. S. “Eel” Bericuda is a poet of naval moems.
~~~
A Strained Wyrd Cult
by “Cruel” Wa-di Se-eb
It is a strange, weird cult on Earth—no land, no man, no book—
and yet its followers are crazed, amazingly forsook.
What is the drugless soma that its followers imbibe,
somnambulists who sleepwalk as eternity goes by?
Like laundry on a clothes-line its adherents flap in th’ wind.
Like white sheets they are pure as snow, though nothing’s there within.
Like automatic manic bots, they rush around the World,
like nothing seen or heard of with their curving swords unfurled.
It is a strained, Wyrd cult on Earth—that makes up everything
that it believes, by changing constantly what it believes.
“Cruel” Wa-di Se-eb is a poet of adherents. Wyrd was the Anglo-Saxon god of Fate.
~~~
Among the Greeks
Ercules Edibwa
Air is best, water second best, and gold,
like a blazing fire in the night, stands out supreme
of all lordly wealth,
sing of contests,
stars warmer than the sun
shining by day through the lonely sky
no contests greater than Olympia
song enfolds the wisdom of poets
the son of Cronus
the hearth of Hieron
who wields the sceptre of law in Sicily
of many flocks,
reaping every excellence at its peak,
glorified by the choicest music,
we men play around his table
Come take the Dorian lyre from its peg
beside the ford of Alpheus
not needing to spurred on in the race
the settlement of fine men
founded by Pelops
whom Poseidon fell in love with
Clotho took him out of the cauldron
spinning the thread of human life
with a gleaming ivory shoulder
there are many marvels
the speech of mortal can be deceptive
embroidered lies
the days to come are the wisest witnesses
speak well of the gods
Tantalus father of Pelops standing in a pool of water
beneath a fruit tree, the fruit eluding,
the water receding
Tantalus invited the gods
to a well-ordered banquet at Sipylos
then the god of the splendid trident
seized away on his team of golden horses
to Olympus,
which Ganymede came also to Zeus
water boiling over the fire
a mighty stone hung over him
wanders far from the joy of festivity
stole nectar and ambrosia from the gods
none escapes the gods
the immortals sent the sone of Tantalus
back to the race of men
when he blossomed with the stature of fair youth
he drew near to the gray sea
and called aloud on the deep-roaring god
skilled with the trident
Pelops said to the god
Poseidon, restrain the bronze spear of Oenomaus
and speed me in the swiftest chariot ot Elis
bring me to victory
great danger does not take hold of a coward
an inglorious old age in darkness
a golden chariot
horses with untiring wings
the fame of Pelops shines from afar in races
of the Olympic festivals
horse-song in the Aeolian strain
to the sunny hill of Cronus
Hieron
mightiest shaft of courage
some great in one thing
others in another
none higher than kings
may it be yours to walk on high
throughout your life
to associate with victors
and live distinguished among Greeks.
Ercules Edibwa is a poet of Ancient Greece.
~~~
The Ancients and their Words
by Esiad L. Werecub
Though the world that spawned them has long ago vanished,
relics remain reflective of their existence;
epic tales in dactylics about the banished
and varied metered lyrics are but two instances.
There really was a world in which these were real things,
despite differences, despite the distances.
These truly were the analogs of their feelings,
despite the changing times, despite the atmosphere.
Like us they had their trials and their hard dealings.
Like us they had to face challenges far and near.
And this is what they did; this is how they managed;
and their messages can tell us much if we hear…them.
Esiad L. Werecub is a poet of the Ancients. Th’ above structure of the bilding [sic] is broken at the last word. A bilding is a “block” poetic structure plays fast and easily with meter, but stays focused on syllables. It is a Bild, a quick picture, that the artist created when he was in Germany, a 12 x 12 photo-graph written in English, etc.
~~~
The Horrid Night Was Young
by War di Belecuse
He longed to sleep upon the narrow cot within the room,
but he was called to wake up, to attention—midnight moon.
O, he could sleep so heavily, but reveille was called.
He perched upon the edge, an eagle, visceral and bald.
Before he could get dressed he had already been hit hard;
The IED exploded; he was shaken; he was jarred.
Biv’uacked, bushwhacked, he got up on all fours prepared to fight.
His weapon loaded, cocked—outside the moon was bright, midnight.
He did his duty, hardly beautiful; he shot his gun;
and then kicked back prepared for more; the horrid night was young.
War di Belecuse is a poet of conflict.
~~~
His Tempest and His Play
by Wilude Scabere
What is the missing tale Shakespeare used
to conjure up his tempest and his play?
By what strange magic are we yet abused
by what he has—hath fashioned in his way?
His fishy Caliban yet haunts our world,
and spritely Ariel set free is still
a spirit, wild and spi-ral-ing unfurled,
remembered for his fine and subtle will.
Prospero leaves off all his powers gained;
while Italy remains, he vanishes;
although he rarely was, or is disdained:
How strange ‘t is what life holds and banishes.
So, at least for a spell, there was this place,
where once upon a dawn, he doffed some grace.
Wilude Scabere is a poet deeply influenced by the Baroque playwright William Shakespeare (1564-1616).
~~~
Newsreel:
While celebrating Día de los Muertos, he was killed,
the mayor, Carlos Manzo of Uruapan, was stilled
forever by two narco-terrorists, their hit fulfilled.
Was there no place for Carlo Manzo in this cosmic field?
Uruapan is a city in in Michoacán of around 300,000.
~~~
Illusionment of Six O’Clock
by Walice du Beers
The houses are not haunted, even though it’s Halloween.
One man’s not wearing anything…that’s yellow with blue rings.
His black socks use merino wool, New Zealand sourced, but made
in Georgia or North Carolina, hence the USA.
He doesn’t dream of purple periwinkles nor baboons,
nor butterflies, or moths, before they leave their formed cocoons.
He doesn’t dream of mighty planets with moons orbiting,
though often he feels like some primitive beast foraging,
if not a tiger, nor a lion, or a dinosaur,
perhaps a fairly orderly, but hungry connoisseur,
a carnivore who likes big juicy steaks upon his plate,
those thick and nutrient-dense foods that feed a peckish pate.
Walice du Beers is a poet of illusionments.
~~~
Git Back to the Desk
by Des Wercebauli
He kicked back at his desk. There were some things he had to do.
He had been told he should attempt to have less stress—it’s true.
He hung his black shoes and his black socks over the desk edge.
He felt like as he was a window cleaner on a ledge.
He saw the city down below the floor where he was at.
He looked across at the tall buildings where he gladly sat.
He knew he needed to git going back to work at once,
but if he could, he gladly would, relax beside the Sun.
But he sat up, erect, abrupt; the time was flying past.
He needed to git on it now, to face the latest task.
He felt like he was in a race, his pulse was beating fast.
And though he wasn’t speeding, he was panting to the last.
Des Wercebauli is a poet of work.
~~~
Pest Controller Number One
by Urbawel Cidese
Upon the wall a silverfish appeared behind her back,
when pest controller number one appeared for his attack.
She shrieked that she had never seen a thing like that before,
as there she stood in front of it right at the open door.
She had to leave an afternoon, off to a roadside park;
and while she lunched near concrete slabs, the pesticides did work.
Urbawel Cidese is a poet of urban settings.
~~~
Life Isn’t Easy
by Erisbawdle Cue
Life isn’t easy for anyone anywhere.
It is hard, hard, hard. The point is to face it well.
Whatever trial comes your way just grin and bear
it with a stiff upper lip or a stiff drink. Hell
is not easily conquered, nor is happiness,
which one should not pursue, so much as produce.
Erisbawdle Cue is a poet of philosophy.
~~~
The Word
by Beau Lecsi Werd
The Word within the World that articulates itself
does not exist in sunlight or in leaves upon a shelf,
upon computer monitors, or on stones on a path;
the Word speaks only dialects of purest being’s math,
the human kiss somehow divine within the Mind of Man,
where it’s transformed into reality, the space we’ve spanned.
The Word of Wyrd that rises from the silence of the tongue
does not appear on shoulder gripped or arching neck unsung,
upon the bending of the knees, or hands upon the skin;
the Word prates of our whereabouts, this cosmos we are in,
mute syllables in silica upon Time’s falling sands,
that tell us what we’re doing in the lines of Fate’s commands.
Beau Lecsi Werd is a poet of “words, words, words.”
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