Still…Calling
by Cladu Beresi We
Still…calling occupants of interplanetary craft…
in 2026—Is anybody out there? He laughed.
The ship was simply going through the Cosmo-verse.
All systems go…go…GO. But just where is he…going, Sir?
He heard the strangest sounds amidst the stark and starry dark.
He tweaked the headphones on his ears…the year that he embarked.
He looked like he was a space alien, in a space suit;
but, then, all creatures of the Cosmo-verse are quite strange too.
He wanted to make contact with the beings of this place
no matter how unusual in body, shape or face.
Cladu Beresi We is a poet of alien life. Klaatu was a Canadian Postmodernist musical group.
~~~
The Eagles
by E. Birdcaws Eule
Distant, always distant—they fly above: the eagles,
as far from the near star as both you and I are,
yet, far from us also, as well as the seagulls.
Theirs is another realm, though the same isobar
marks where they and we dwell. Theirs is another fate,
vertebral, and, though avian, the avatar
is neither a care nor a concern they carnate.
They fly. We do not; that is, at least not without
mechanical contrivances. We lucubrate.
They do not; that is, they do not reason about
aerial dynamics or read traffic signals.
But when the thunder connects, they, we, all turn, scout.
E. Birdcaws Eule is a poet of birds. In the above bilding [sic], according to Beau Lecsi Werd, the neologism “carnate” is discoverable through context clues.
~~~
Haiku
by “Clear Dew” Ibuse
On a leafless branch,
a twitching squirrel pauses,
this winter morning.
Haiku
by “Clear Dew” Ibuse
A junco’s singing
on an oriental pear
tree barely budding.
Haiku
by “Clear Dew” Ibuse
Flush mourning-dove wings
brush against the rushing air.
Cold winter sings fair.
“Clear Dew” Ibuse is a NewMillennial haikuist. Matsuo Bashō (1644-1694) and Kobayashi Issa (1763-1828) were noted Japanes haiku writers.
~~~
Haiku
by “Wired Clues” Abe
When the man steps out
on to the til’d p-a-t-i-o,
a small flock scatters.
Haiku
by “Wired Clues” Abe
Up at the tip-top
of the utility pole,
a lone vulture stops.
Haiku
by “Wired Clues” Abe
The surfer buoys,
wob-bl-ing on the ocean:
a one-year-old boy.
“Wired” Clues Abe is a poet of NewMillennial construction.
~~~
A Quatrain
by Li “Web Crease” Du
Meng Haoran has left the west, where towers Yellow-Crane,
for River-Town, when willow-down and lovely flowers reign.
His lessening white sail is lost in boundless azure sky,
where we see but the endless Milky-Way go rolling by.
Li “Web Crease” Du is a poet of Chinese letters. Li Bai (701-762) was a poet of the Tang dynasty. Meng Haoran (c. 690 – 740) was a noted Tang Chinese poet. Xu Yuanchong (1921-2021) was a PostModernist Chinese proset and translator.
~~~
News Blackout:
Within a tunnel on the 7th ring road of Beijing,
a fearsome fi-re broke out burning every single thing:
th’ en-ti-re tunnel—trucks and cars and human carcasses.
What started it—an EV or a truck of chemicals?
How many dozens died will not be known. All news is banned,
The main-stream-Chinese-media does not want to expand.
~~~
Newsreel:
At least three dozen people have been killed within Iran,
protesting th’ economic situation, which is bad:
from high inflation and devaluation of th’ rial.
It takes more than 1.4 million for one dollar’s val.
“Val” is a neologistic trunc of value.
~~~
Christmas Adumbrations
by Crise de Abu Wel
Now Jesus was born in the Bethlehem
of Judea in the time of Herod
the King. And, lo, behold, there came some men
from the East, across the hard and arid
land to the city of Jerusalem,
saying, “Where is the King of the Jews laid?
We have seen his star in the Eastern sky.”
This so troubled King Herod that he called
upon all of the chief priests and the scribes;
and he inquired where the Christ was installed.
They told him what the prophet had descried;
and when he heard all about it, it galled.
When the magi reached the humble manger,
they gave the babe gold, frankincense, and myrrh
to crown him, anoint him, and, oh, stranger
by far, to preserve him, to him inter;
so when the magi left, sensing danger,
Joseph fled to Egypt to escape death.
Crise de Abu Wel is a poet of the Good Father. King Herod (c. 72 BC – c. 4 BC) was the Roman-appointed king of Judea.
~~~
Three Pyramids
by “Scribe” el Uwade
There on the desert are three pyramids,
the tombs of the Pharoah Khufu, his son,
and his son’s son, built on the backs and skids
of thousands, there on the sands at Giza,
in the land of the Nile and mid-day fire.
Aligned to the heavenly stars, they stand,
stone monuments to time, of the desire
for immortality. Colossal, grand,
these records, the echoes of so many,
a testament to their sheer endurance,
still remain in this anno domini
2026, their lasting insurance.
Above, blank, in the sky, the lidless eye
grazes the granite sarcophagi.
“Scribe” el Uwade is a poet of Egypt. Khufu (c. 26th century BC) was an Egyptian pharaoh. Giza is a city in Egypt of around 4,800,000.
~~~
Like As a Russian Prince
by Alecsei Durbew
He stood up tall in the great hall. He was not at the ball.
He was no strong and mighty stud who stood against the wall.
He looked like as a Russian prince straight out of War and Peace,
but was not all that dignified. In fact, he seemed a beast.
A snarling snake, a noble count—what was that nasty man?
Was he a bastard gazing at wall hangings…dastardly?
What was he gazing at with his reptilian mindset?
What was he really looking for that he could not find yet?
He turned a cold eye on the revelers he stood amid,
yet, in that rich brocade, was anyone as dim as him?
He was so dark—was he a spy? or some bum astronaut?
One could not tell—was he in hell? or heaving heaven grot?
Alecsei Durbew is a poet of Russian grace notes and grape shot. Leo Tolstoy (1828-1910) was a noted Russian proset of the Realist period in Russian literature.
~~~
Ulysses
by Brawd Uliseece
He stands upon the sandy strand alone.
He has been dropped off, stranded, left. A crow
caws out above a fleshy bone. Unknown,
this no one in particular, so low
in spirit, walks along Poseidon’s ledge.
He looks on naught. There is no Trojan Horse.
Long suffering, he lingers on the edge.
He has been plagued by many friendless shores.
Though rosy-fingered Dawn has come to him,
right here there is no hospitality
nor generosity. It is too dim,
this morning light, next to the wine-dark sea.
No Danai, Achaian, or Argive
will meet him at this reach of beach and rock;
yet he is free and very much alive.
He may be hungry, but he still can walk.
It’s true, Athena is invisible
to him and has not come to guide him on;
however, he is not miserable;
he still can cheerfully sing out his song.
Though there aren’t any contests, life’s a trial
itself. Though no Demodokos retell
his tale, he still speaks forth words all the while.
It’s nice no Circe dwells upon this isle,
though he’s met souls who act like animals,
like pigs who’d eat the cattle of the Sun,
nor Cyclopes—those one-eyed cannibals,
who, if they could, would eat up anyone.
There are no Lotus-eaters here, though he
has passed some in his voyages, who do
not give a thought for going home; solely
the plant in front of them is in their view.
There is no Scylla or Charybdis here,
nor siren song, though he feels he’s between
a rock and a hard place. How can he veer
when only sky and land and sea are seen?
There are no dead souls talking, but his head
is filled with memories of ten-thousands;
they plague his waking hours and his bed,
like these innumerable island sands.
Would that Telemachus, Penelope,
and faithful dog Argos were here to greet
him, or perhaps just some Peloponnese;
but no one is here, just some old, weak feet.
Brawd Uliseece is a poet of Platonyx.
~~~
The Dark Artist of the Renaissance
by Buceli da Werse
Leonardo da Vinci reveals the dark side
of the Renaissance, its shadows and its battles,
a classical age in painting sitting astride
exaggeration and austerity. It rattles
the mind to see how he strove with Michaelangelo
[a bantering Aristotelian Atlas
against Herculean Art] and Raphael. Oh,
it staggers the mind to think of the company
he kept, working in the shop of Verrucchio,
or with a Sforza, a Borgia, a Medici;
for his was a wild, and yet a vile, lively ride,
which took as its field the world in its entirety.
Buceli da Werse is a poet of the High Renaissance in Italy. Verrucchio (1435-1488), Leonardo da Vinci (1452-1519), Michelangelo (1475-1564), Raphael (1483-1520) were noted painters and sculptors of the Classical period of art, made manifest in Italy.
~~~
Newsreel:
While US Forces ferreted Maduro and his wife
out of Venezuela on drug-trafficking and strife,
four Chinese oil rigs snuck out through the embargo lines.
Was this the plan, or a mere temporary blind unsigned?
And were most of the casualties the Cubans who were there—
some thirty-two protecting terrorists, within their care?
~~~
Inside an Office at Fort Bliss
by War di Belecuse
He sat up at his work computer; Sun beams fell on him.
He lifted up his shoulders, with a lovely bit of vim.
It was not dim—the blinding light—that, through the window, came.
For goodness sake, he would not bake, but just what would he make?
He rubbed the skin behind his ears, as well beside his eyes.
He saw the distant hills arise beneath those azure skies.
He lifted up his neck to stretch his spine up higher yet.
He felt like as a soldier breaking camp with packed-up tent.
Yes, he was typing messages. Was he prepared for this?
He felt like as he worked inside an office at Fort Bliss.
But was he prepped to go in depth, to integrate his self
into the company at large, beside the book-filled shelf?
War di Belecuse is a poet of conflict. Fort Bliss is a US Army post in New Mexico and Texas. William Wallace Smith Bliss (1815-1853) was a United States officer, linguist, and mathematics professor.
~~~
Newsreel:
Small Business has suspended seven thousand borrowers
in Minnesota, finding widespread fraud and pardoners.
~~~
Thunder
by Éclair Dub W. See
There’s thunder in The Bridges of Madison
County; then, there’s thunder in Pacific
County; then it’s on the movie again;
and now, louder than ever, terrific,
it shakes the house, and the cat goes running.
It’s as if God is grumbling. Piano
music on the film is soft; the rumbling
aloft in the sky is not. Even so,
the quotidian continues, goes on
here in Washington woodlands, as it does
in Iowa cornfields. The rosy dawn
comes to both places, whether lined in rows
or wild. Whatever the background, setting,
after lightning comes the rain, the wetting.
Éclair Dub W. See is a poet of lightning and thunder.
~~~
Newsreel:
The second richest person of the World—Larry Page—
the Google scion moves from California to evade
wealth taxes that he doesn’t want to pay. He’ll get away…
to Texas, Florida, Nevada, and some other states.
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