That World
by I. E. Sbace Weruld
How eerie is that world that was once and still is now,
a crystalline and pristine planet orbiting—kapow—
Where did it come from—outer space? Where does it go as well?
What is this strange arena far from heaven and from hell?
Who enters in to such a space? Why would one ever come?
When will one ever be free from such purity and muck?
The artificial lighting and intelligence surrounds
that eerie world that was once and still is now…somehow.
Mr. I. E. Sbace Weruld is a poet of world spaces.
~~~
Haiku
by “Lice Brews” Ueda
Growing up and out,
rosemary topiary
a shaped Christmas tree.
“Lice Brews” Ueda is a poet of the small. His inspiration is the haiku of Kobayashi Issa (1763-1828).
~~~
Haiku
by “Wired Clues” Abe
Sun up to Sun down,
the kids are playing baseball:
it is the weekend.
“Wired Clues” Abe is a haiku writer.
~~~
A Modern Chinese Fairy Tale
by Du “Web Crease” Li
In modern China there once was a bold and brave young dude,
who was told he must pen a fairy tale, sweet and good.
He walked into the room, a buff and stocky, stalwart man.
“The pen is mightier,” he said, “than any sword in hand.”
He wore his drab-green, camo vest with pride and dignity,
and took the pen, as he sat down amidst malignity.
He swirled words around and let them fly above his head,
as men in shades began to beat him to a pulpy dread.
Incoming missiles knocked him down in pain. Where was delight?
His fairy tale fluttered in the wind like any kite.
So he threw up his hands in hopelessness, and acquiesced,
and found his fairy tale had been tossed into a desk.
Du “Web Crease” Li is a poet of Chinese Interweb Creases.
~~~
Christmas in 2025
by Crise de Abu Wel
When Yeshua was born in Bethlehem, three wise men came.
King Herod was alarmed, and all Jerusalem with him.
He asked the magi, whom he met, what time the star appeared,
that they had followed from the East, this King whom Herod feared,
but told the wise men that he’d love to worship and adore.
They found the Babe and gave him gold, some frankincense and myrrh.
But they did not return. And Joseph, Mary and the boy
left Bethlehem as well, that place without much peace or joy.
So Herod sent to death all males less than two years old;
and still one there finds hate today, like many years ago.
Crise de Abu Wel is a poet of the Good Father. King Herod (c. 37 BC – c. 1 BC) was a Roman Jewish client king.
~~~
Was He Born Free?
by Cur A. Wildebees
He saw the beast that stopped on the savannah in the morn.
Was it a quadruped that paused to eat, or drink, or more?
He lifted up his coffee cup. What was he reading—news?
He saw the four appendages locked in a tightened fuse.
He saw the nearby table. Was it filled with foods galore?
How great it was to be as focused as a carnivore.
He was a hunter-gatherer who most desired meat,
but he was not that hungry now, nor was he on his feet.
Cur A Wildebees is a poet of Africanimals.
~~~
The Puppet of Collodi
by Luwese Becardi
Pinocchio, the puppet of Collodi,
one Carlo Lorenzini, journalist and
official of the public, makes a story
about the wayward soul—what he was destined
to face, if he would never leave behind his
hard, wooden head and lie-driven nostrils.
Despite advice, it takes some time to find this
out, since life’s cruel, violent, and hostile.
And yet, there’s still the gentle guide Gepetto,
who patiently awaits the hoped-for outcome.
“I wish I were a boy,” is the libretto
to th’ opera of those who try to rout him.
All this is what comes from translating Perrault,
a pirouette upon a string—and Pierrot.
Luwese Becardi is a poet of Italian lit. Carlo Collodi (1826-1890) is an Italian author. Charles Perrault (1628-1703) was an author of French fairy tales.
~~~
Roboti
by Aleš Eduw Rebič
He feared the nazi and the communist ascendancy,
and essayed for the free expression of humanity,
Czech Karel Ĉapek, author of the book “War with the Newts”,
more famous for his drama of perennial reboots,
first coined the new word “robot” in his 1920 play,
“RUR”, Rossum’s Universal Robots, here to stay;
there factory-made artificial people, “roboti”,
were forced flesh labourers, who were not just machinery,
like androids, replicants, or zombie-humanoids we find
who reason for themselves, though they embrace the unimind.
Aleš Eduw Rebič is a poet of Central Europe. “He feared the nazi and the communist ascendancy”; the Czechs were tyrannized by the nazis for seven years and the communists for over forty years. Czech Karel Ĉapek (1890-1938) was a Modernist Czech proset, who died before WWII and the Cold War.
~~~
Keats Is Not Here
by Beau Ecs Wilder
Keats is not here on this sunny, early
November day; but I am, and so too
is a red dragonfly, warming nearby
beneath a nearly cloudless sky of blue.
Of course, in time, I, this particular
insect, and the specific scene won’t br
either; but now it is. Vehicular
traffic passes by. Halloween pumpkins
rest on the porch next to the dragonfly
and me, two relaxing bumpkins.
It is so peaceful and nice this morning,
even with the trucks and cars rushing past.
Steamy mists from hedges rise, as warming
from the Sun continues. Shadows are cast,
long and cool over the dewy landscape.
A hunter, with a gun, walks down the road.
A hornet comes to pester, and escape
my swat to stop it. A single frog’s croak
is heard intermittently. And this ode
catches a crow’s caw and a chimney’s smoke.
Winter is near, but you wouldn’t know it
now and here. It is warm in the direct
light of the Sun. But now we leave, poet,
and because the poet leaves, the insect.
Beau Ecs Wilder is a poet of 19th century British culture. John Keats (1795-1821) was a Romantic English poet.
~~~
No Communist
by Caud Bile Sewer
Like as a snake beside a rake, though vertical he stood.
It didn’t seem to me that he was up to any good.
With puffed up chest and pushed out rest, he had quite shifty eyes.
It was hard to admire him, but also to despise.
I saw him rise out of the mire, soldier in a trench.
Here was an urban battlefield, polluted with such stench.
The Mensch, not evil, was no devil, nor nonviolent?
His eyes and back turned up…and down. The hour was violet.
His sneer was wide, his leer was dry, his tone was ominous.
He slithered through eternity. He was no communist.
Caud Bile Sewer is a poet of corruption. Flannery O’Connor (1925-1964) was a PostModernist American proset.
~~~
Newsreel:
The Cloudflare Global Network outage caused high error rates
at X and Amazon, to Google and some AI gates.
~~~
The Loitering Red-Tailed Hawk
by E. “Birdcaws” Eule
He saw the hawk atop the chimney, yawping over roofs,
complaining of his lack of squirrels, rabbits, cats and shrews.
He, too, was untranslatable, a bit untamed and teed,
proclaiming he was hungry for another prey to eat.
He was a carnivore, curved beak and talons, readied for
another haunch of meat so he could launch to lunch some more.
He longs to hold the products of Creation in his claws.
He does not want to pause that long; in light, avoiding stops.
He screeches his coarse, raspy screams, a series of nine shrieks;
Aloud, harsh, throaty sounds that pass by his beak; that’s how he speaks.
His gaze is straight and keen. Between the Sun and Earth, he flies.
He wants to rip the heads off of his prey; life lives on life.
E. “Birdcaws” Eule is a poet of hawks and other birds. Walt Whitman (1819-1892) was an American Realist poet; Ted Hughes (1930-1998) was a PostModernist English poet.
~~~
A Line of Trees
by Dewie Arbuscle
It was late afternoon; the Sun was glaring at his pate.
He walked along a line of trees on thé esplanned estate.
The coiffured lawns were wide and neat; they stretched along the way.
The park-like atmosphere was lovely, covering the day.
The tall shade trees were sprawling, next to next, up at the helm:
white ash, red oaks, and locusts, sugarberry, cedar elm.
There were so many growing out between the housing plots,
so big and grand, they took their stand, like mighty arbor bots.
There were lots—as far as the eye could see—spectacular—
short of miraculous, yet overwhelming in its way.
Dewie Arbustle is a poet of trees. According to Beau Lecsi Werd, “esplanned” is an epenthesis.
~~~
No Hyperventilating
by Rudi E. Welec, “Abs”
He stood up in his black coat and his black, loose-fitting shoes.
He was no stud there in his study, nor sweet ahs or oohs.
There was no woozy, boozing, nor carousing on the floor.
There was no rousing, frowzy doorman opening a door.
He sat up on his leather chair, his feet up in the air,
reclining in a deep-brown study. He was not a bear.
Here was no hibernating; nor bare, animating dare.
There was no hyperventilating; things were calm and spare.
He lay his head upon his folded, molded hands and arms.
Here was no dancing, prancing, or romancing, antsy smarm.
He overlooked the rising Sun, no bacon, eggs or buns.
He wasn’t having coffee either. There were no open trunks.
Rudi E. Welec, “Abs”, is a poet of exercise.
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