At Last
by I. E. Sbace Weruld
He kneels down to lift the globe up in his hands—
Atlas. His arms are strong. His reach is long. He pulls.
The earthy ball obeys his physical commands.
He seems to have the strength of half a dozen bulls,
or more. The planet orbits round. It does not quit.
Alas, he cannot hold all the intangibles.
He rolls it down the bowling alley with true grit.
He hurls it into the air and lets it go,
although he really doesn’t want to e’er lose it.
But it has got to move along, to travel, oh.
It has a destiny to meet—those swirling lands,
that puissant orb—that passes through this night’s black hole.
Mr. I. E. Sbace Weruld is a poet of space.
~~~
Haiku
by “Clear Dew” Ibuse
In winter’s harsh cold,
the birds ran rapidly through
birdseed and suet.
“Clear Dew” Ibuse is a NewMillennial haikuist.
~~~
Haiku
by “Wired Clues” Abe
Up and down the lane,
strings of Christmas light designs
adorned the house.
Haiku
by “Wired Clues” Abe
Upon a lamp post,
carefully viewing around
sat the large vulture.
Haiku
by “Wired Clues” Abe
Between the flambeau
and the door falls the Shadow—
Walter Brown Gibsen.
“Wired” Clues Abe is a poet of NewMillennial construction. Walter Brown Gibsen (1897-1985) was a Modernist American proset, the author of millions of words and his character the Shadow.
~~~
Life
by Erisbawdle Cue
The images of life flash by unclear, unclean,
uncut, like credits in a movie’s startling start,
exploding on the screen, unfolding as they’re seen,
then quickly vanishing. Life is a kind of art.
Existence is surprising, never how one thinks
it’s going to be; hence, it takes a lot of heart.
No sooner are you used to its rise when it sinks;
nor later going up when you were sure it sank.
So crazy is the ride, some turn to drugs or drinks;
there are so many ways to end up in the tank
that’s roaring over desert sands, caught in between
the hands of time outstretching, pitiless and blank.
Erisbawdle Cue is a poet of philosophy.
~~~
Newsreel:
Apparently with no surprise the Chinese PLA
has loaded up ICBMs near to Mongolia.
~~~
The Death of the Jet-Pilot Winner
by War di Belecuse
He fell into the Chinese State— jet pilot Chang Dingqiu—
and hunched, within its belly, rose up higher, where he flew
into the bright blue sky, until he banked off fifty-eight.
In windy tension, suddenly, he left the Chinese State.
War di Belecuse is a poet of warriors.
~~~
The Juncos and the Thunderbirds
by Air Weelbed Suc
The juncos flit amidst the golden-yellow-orange leaves.
The ornamental pear tree quivered in the foraging.
The birds cheeped in the shine and shadows of the limbs and twigs.
The ground was covered in a carpet of dry, leafy crisps,
red violet and scarlet ovals, beautiful to see,
the teensy, chirping, cheerful birds, as happy as can be.
O’erhead the silver thunderbirds were boarded with their crews.
They roared as they began each heavy, hard, descending cruise.
They were so loud there g/rum-bl-ing with blasting, booming soars,
they drowned the liquid-silver chirping with their motor roars.
Yet one was grateful for their greatness, when it came to wars;
they were the power that one wanted when one needed force.
Air Weelbed Suc is a poet of flight.
~~~
The Child
by Crise de Abu Wel
And the child grew and became strong, filled with wisdom;
and the favor of the Lord God was upon him.
Now his parents went on up to Jerusalem
each year at Passover, according to custom.
When he was twelve, and the feast was over, Jesus
remained. Returning, they thought their son was with them
in the company, but he was not. “Is he not with us?”
After three-day’s time, they found him in the temple
sitting among the teachers, listening to them,
and asking questions. All those who heard him speak were
astonished at his understanding and his answers.
Then his mother asked, “Why have you treated us so?
Behold, your father and I have been seeking you.”
And he said to them, “How is it you sought for me?
Did you not know I must be in my Father’s house?”
But they did not understand what he spoke to them.
Crise de Abu Wel is a poet of the Good Father. Luke (fl. 1st century AD) was an ancient Greek proset.
~~~
The Old, Old Codger
by Acwiles Berude
There was a fat, old bearded man of many years ago,
whose voice I still remember, inarticulate and low.
Although I’m sure that he is dead, I still can’t let it go;
it was so rich and resonant, it stirred my fibers so.
Why would some geezer’s gruff goat song still reach into my soul?
It was because it was sincere, so genuine and, oh,
so full it filled me with its brea(d)th and whirling vertigo.
It carried me to distant shores I never thought I’d know.
Though, now, that man no longer lives upon this spinning globe,
that guy who had a big, square head, who wore a dingy robe,
that dirty, hairy, bungling brute, coarse, guttural and slow,
a grunting weight upon this earth, a dumb and vulgar show,
I cannot think about his growl in time’s eternal flow
without a touch of rue, as down this current course I row.
Acwiles Berude is a poet of Ancient Greece.
~~~
This Gentleman
by El Cid E. W. Rubesa
Within a village whose name I prefer not to invoke,
there lived, not long ago, a member of the noble folk,
who had a lance, and there below his rack, an ancient shield.
He also had a rustic bike that he kept in the field.
This gentleman was over sixty with a rough physique.
Although he was thin as a rake, he’d fat hips and was weak.
His head, rectangular, was gaunt, his nose was aquiline.
He liked to wake up early and immediately dine.
Some said his surname was Cwesadi, some said Eberlu.
There was some disagreement on which one of them was true.
But for the purpose of this piece, such wrangling’s uncouth.
The main thing is that what I say should not veer from the truth.
The fact is that this gentleman spent too much time in books.
He’d frolic through their pages while he sat around in nooks.
He’d read and dream of chivalry, the deeds of noble men,
and leave off the performance of his daily regimen.
This fixed obsession left him unprepared for daily life,
and he was oft embroiled in some fierce financial strife.
The superhighway Internet was quite a boon for him,
for he could read the poetry of thousands at a whim.
He sought to read and write a style that was fine and clean,
but also packed a walloping, by saying what he’d mean.
He loved th’ unreasoned reasoning of Ul Ser Bawdiece most.
It made Cwesadi Eberlu’s brain run like buttered toast.
Why even Erisbawdle Cue could not make sense of it;
for, though he was a pensive man, his pen use was unfit.
El Cid E. W. Rubesa is a poet of chivalric dreams.
~~~
The Canvas of Reality
by Red Was Iceblue
It was a world that still is here, but vanished too. It’s gone.
It is the rewind of a life that one was once up on.
The highways one was riding down, the alleys that one walked,
black coat, dark tee shirt, and dark pants, the steps one took, one stalked.
What was he doing there? Where was he going? Who was he?
The city lights at night—kaleidoscope cacophony.
What did it mean—the traffic, sirens, brakes, the many souls?
Why were they thus in this strange pattern? Who were all these folks?
It was a blur of blue and red, of yellow, green and white,
vibrating atoms in a rush and crush of signs and light.
Red Was Iceblue is a poet of “a blur of blue and red.”
~~~
The Lookout
by Cadwel E. Bruise
“…brilliance of cloudless days, with broad bellying sails…”
—William Carlos Williams
The sky was blue with but the smallest puffs of faint, white clouds.
Aboard the boat, the lookout stood below the giant shrouds.
His left hand held a ladder’s rope, his right hand at his head,
his left leg crossed his right for balance, leaning to his left.
Diagonal he stood, that stud upon the deck; his hips
secure, his head turned right, he sought the sight of passing ships.
He kept on looking, vigilant, amidst the lines and cords.
A telescope would come in handy. He would point it tow’rds
whatever he was on the lookout for—that sturdy dude—
to make sure that the trip he took would be successful, good.
Cadwel E. Bruise is a poet of New England. William Carlos Williams (1883-1963) was a Modernist American poet.
~~~
Newsreel:
It was the craziest two-point conversion ever made,
right at the end of that Seattle-LA football game.
The Hawks down 28 to 30 up against the Rams,
attempted a two-point conversion with a pass of Sam’s.
The Darnold pass was tipped by Verse and bounced to the endzone,
and nearly everyone who saw it thought the game was done;
but that pass was a backward one picked up by Charbonnet,
so nonchalantly, hardly thinking it was still in play.
From that amazing play, now overtime, the game went on;
one touchdown each, but, with one more two-point, Seattle won.
~~~
The Pool Player
by Wes Cueball Reid
He held the cue stick in his right hand, aiming at the ball.
Bent over at his waist, he stretched his left hand out in sprawl.
Extending his left arm, he made it straight all of the way,
to guide the cue stick to the ball upon the table’s lay.
His form was awesome, every body part was firmly placed.
He’d knock those balls into the pockets, like a firing ace.
He didn’t seem to have an ounce of fat. He wore light clothes.
His concentrated pose showed that he was one of the pros.
to be in competition with a soul who so excelled.
Wes Cuebal Reid is a poet of billiards.
~~~
About a Bout
by Rudi E. Welec, “Abs
“Under the terrible burden of destiny laughing…”
—Carl Sandburg
He stood erect up at the gym, although he was no stud;
he worked upon his triceps, biceps, pecs, and abs—his bust.
He also bust his ass upon his hips, his quads and calves.
He stretched his spine up tall and lined, with panting, sweat and laughs.
No, it was not enough to be just buff, the World was rough.
The World was no easy place; one needed to be tough.
If only he could be relaxed, not taxed day in, day out;
but that was not to be; life was a battle, yes, a bout.
And so, although, he only wanted to be on his bed,
he stood erect up at the gym, with square and lifted head.
Rudi E. Welec, “Abs” is a poet of exercise.
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