Orion
by I. E. Sbace Weruld
He saw Orion in the night sky, near to Pegasus:
with its two super giants, Rigel [foot] and Betelgeuse.
The seven brightest stars looked like a sandy hourglass,
the asterism of its belt, where particles do pass.
Around the hunter’s head, there are a shield, club and sword;
as such, what is the constellation that it’s facing toward?
Sixty Minutes Left To Kill
by I. E. Sbace Weruld
When all is said and done, there’s still the sense
that something happened even if we sleep
almost forever—life—in this immense
messiness of a universe. We keep
it on the burner, waiting for coffee
or tea, next to the nuclear sunshine,
and pay the offertory in lofty
hymns we sing to God, and then we dine.
This restaurant never has what we want;
but what we need; we feed upon time’s bounds.
Inside, the light of this forgotten haunt
contrasts against the darkness that surrounds.
Outside, we notice, when we’re filled with swill,
that we have sixty minutes left to kill.
Mr. I. E. Sbace Weruld is a poet of outer space.
~~~
Newsreel:
Fifteen are dead, at Sydney’s Bondi Beach, on Hannakah,
as antisemitism rears its ugly head again.
Bondi Beach, Australia, has a population of around 10,000.
~~~
Katauta
by “Wired Clues” Abe
At the tire store,
a flying insect is squished,
flicked off his coat, and stepped on.
“Wired Clues” Abe is a NewMillennial haikuist.
~~~
Newsreel:
Thai-owned Saab Gripen jets have bombed Cambodian scam sites,
as well as Thai-owned F-16s attacking these armed blights.
~~~
Ultimate Uttánsaná
by Sri Wele Cebuda
He longed to do uttánsaná—to loosen up hamstrings—
so he began with downward dog, to move both legs and wings.
He stretched his toes, although he was in his athletic shoes.
He stretched his hands and arms, while he was stretching spine and glutes.
He did all this while he was looking forward down the hall;
for first support to keep his balance he could use the wall.
He saw the Sun arising up above the rounded hills,
which in the olden days, for sledding, offered many thrills.
He saw some quadrupeds there grazing, lazing happily.
His trunks were brown, they pulled around his body snappily.
And then he held this strong position for a minute’s time;
and slowly lifted up his torso into the sublime.
Sri Wele Cebuda is a poet of yoga sensibilities.
~~~
The Notion of an Abstract Machine
by AI Welder Cubes
Turing introduced the notion of an abstract
machine that would prove all its propositions in
a mechanical way. Basic’lly it would act
a digital-computing-composition kin;
logic was numerical and purely normal.
For him the mind was an electrical engine.
Gödel-like he showed there could not be a formal
procedure for deciding whether imput could
be derivable from mathematical ore
or not. There was a class of problems thus unsolved.
That, howe’er, did not stop him. He kept in contact
with Ace, Mark I, AI, until by death dissolved.
AI Welder Cubes is a poet of abstract machines.
~~~
Boyer’s Math
by Euclidrew Base
A History of Mathematics by
Carl Benjamin Boyer has been for me
one of my favorite books of all time.
Why? Because it is filled with verity
and clarity. Within its pages, I’m
in realms of fascinating purity.
Euclidrew Base is a poet of mathematics history. Carl Benjamin Boyer (1906-1976) was a PostModernist American historian of mathematics.
~~~
The Snow That Falls and Falls
by Lars U. Ice Bedew
“,,,ihn Eis und Schnee.”
–Heinrich Heine, “Ein Fictenbaum”
I hate the snow that falls and falls
day after day. I pray for stalls;
but it pours on, and it pours on.
The quiet snow that swirls and squalls.
If flops at night; it drops at dawn.
It messes driveways and the lawn.
There isn’t anything it spares,
not roadways, trees, or hungry fawn.
It fills some with concerns and cares.
The bears scrunch back into their lairs.
The road crew fights familiar tracks
while walkers watch out for the stairs.
A countless number strain their backs
and shovel to near heart attacks.
Jacques from As You Like It bawls
along with countless other Jacks.
Lars U. Ice Bedew is a poet of ice and snow. Heinrich Heine (1797-1856) was a Romantic German poet. William Shakespeare (1564-1616) was an Elizabethan English poet and proset.
~~~
A Christmas Tale
by Beau Ecs Wilder
In olden days, when there was neither film
nor television, entertainment came
in books, like the imaginary realm
found in the books of Dickens, Charles, by name.
A Christmas Carol, for example, is
one of his tales, wherein in leisure, we
met Marley, spirits of the Christmas Past,
Present and Future. Such things one did see.
But then those days of heartfelt moral thought
were tossed away along with other things
Victoriana. Hardness took their spot,
and shoved out sentiment and angels’ wings.
And we were left with movies and TV,
the sweet exchanged for new technology.
Beau Ecs Wilder is a poet of 19th century British literature. Charles Dickens (1812-1870) was a British Victorian proset.
~~~
A Mouth
by B. S. Eliud Acrewe
It was the dead of winter, grassy yards were tan and straw.
The air was bitter cold filled with the hawks and black crow’s caw.
A group of vultures at the hilltop dined on fresh road kill.
Beside the traffic flow, they ate without good will, or ill.
They were true carnivores without amoral niceties.
Their manners were the tearing off of heads, sufficed at these.
They ate within the realms of push and shove cam’raderie.
This was not time for sipping on a lemon…spiced ice tea.
Life flows on, goes on, in its way, east, north, west, forth, and south;
and what remains, survives, a way of happening, a mouth.
B. S. Eliud Acrewe is a poet of British viewpoints. W. H. Auden (1907-1973) was a British PostModernist poet. Ted Hughes (1930-1998) was a British PostModernist poet.
~~~
Newsreel:
Three decades after Pinochet, Chileans Kast their votes,
to shift away from communism, moving on in droves.
~~~
A Father’s Bedtime Story
by Usa W. Celebride
In 1780, the merchants won control
of Massachusetts, and proceeded to
dispense with paper money, tax land and payroll,
and pay state debt, which they’d accrued.
Perhaps a third of farmer income went
to pay those taxes; but the farmers lacked
much money, and soon faced imprisonment.
They lost their freedom, land and farms, in fact.
In 1787, Shays led
a band against the Springfield arsenal.
They scattered when fired on; and four were dead.
Though some were captured, tried and sentenced, all
were pardoned afterwards. Agrarians
then won elections later in that year.
But this loss rallied the Rotarians
to form the U. S. Constitution, Dear.
Usa W. Celebride is a poet of American letters. Daniel Shays (1747-1825) was a Massachusetts soldier and farmer.
~~~
The Ordinary Is Enough
by Irbee C. Swaudel
The regular concerns of life include:
Will I be treated nicely or like crap?
What will the weather do? Will it be good?
or will it threaten us with some cold snap?
Will everyone around me all keep safe?
Will elder members of my family
remain in health, or will some illness strafe?
Also, what will the entertainment be?
What will we have to eat? Will we say grace?
Will I continue long to keep my job?
What new dilemmas will I have to face?
Will I be disciplined or just a slob?
So, with concerns appearing such as these,
the ordinary is enough, oh, please.
Irbee C. Swaudel is a poet of the ordinary.
~~~
For Pictures
by Rudi E. Welec, “Abs”
They had to stand for pictures for the annual of the school.
The track team had been all assembled. Who thought they were cool?
He was just one of many in the shot the cam’ra clicked,
and then the picture would be chosen—the one someone picked.
He spread his shoulders for the pic, arms bent at each side.,
his hands behind his back, his head up tall, his abs were tight.
He didn’t smile—no one did—the picture simply was
a record of the moment and a point of reference,
that he would come back to, whenever he was on a run,
or in the race of life, since aft the starter had begun.
That picture came to him again, so many times, like now,
when he was shaving in the morning, “not behind a plow”.
Isham Jones (1894-1956), Tell Taylor (1876-1937), and Ole Olson (1892-1963) were American Modernist music composers and lyricists.
~~~
Wrestling With His Exercise
by Rudi E. Welec, “Abs”
He got up for his exercises, though it still was dark.
He focused on a cup of coffee, brown, so thick, but stark.
It activated him from sitting on his lower bunk,
where his room-mate had left behind a jumble of his junk
He stood up tall beside the hall, He stretched his muscles out.
He did some squats—o, there were lots—and ate no brussels sprouts.
As a fresh carnivore, he dreamed of varied kinds of meat.
some eggs and bacon maybe, but it wasn’t time to eat.
And now he thought about a lot of scallops, shrimp and squid.
while wriggling on, through strength and strong, through length and long—he did.
What are you doing, asked the fisherman who walked on by?
He’s simply resting from his wrestling with his exercise.
Rudi E. Welec, “Abs”, is a poet of exercise.
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