Newsreel:
About those UFOs—the US government released
its first batch of declassified files on its UAP.
According to Beau Lecsi Werd, UAP are Unidentified Anomalous Phenomena.
~~~
Tanka
by “Wired Clues” Abe
Remain, o, remain,
my grief of sayonara
in the water sound.
What a parade of frock coats
and thousands of umbrellas.
Haiku
by “Wired Clues” Abe
Which way to Heaven?
Is it this one or that one?
What a web of Streets.
“Wired Clues” Abe is a poet of the NewMillennium. Both of the above poems are involuted with Yone Noguchi (1875-1947), a Modernist Japanese poet and proset.
~~~
Newsreel:
What of the private meeting(s) that will be held in Beijing?
and will his daughter Xi Mingze translate for Xi Jinping?
~~~
Mother’s Day, May 10, 2026
Usa W. Celebride
There is a slant of light that shines and seems to come from God.
It pours on down in radiating beams, and leaves one awed.
Those certain lines of holiness spread out across the sky,
fall down to Earth from Heaven’s girth through cloudy shrouds on high.
Their message seems to let one know that there is more to life,
than what one sees, believes, or knows, in the Eternal File.
This Sunday morning one can see it here on Mother’s Day,
so beautiful and dutiful, its heart upon display,
so many flowers purchased, in store after store redeemed.
What utter ache when it is taken from one’s living dream.
Usa W. Celebride is a poet of America.
~~~
Haiku
by “Wired Clues” Abe
Ever watchful for
mosquitoes being launched
are ships in Hormuz.
“Wired Clues” Abe is a NewMillennial poet.
~~~
That Rough Beast
by Secwer El Dubai
“what rough beast, its hour come round at last,
Slouches towards Bethlehem to be born?”
—William Butler Yeats
It has the head of a man,
the body of a lion.
It is the color of sand—
tan. It is slowly dyin’,
but lying in wait. It wants
to attack all who come near
it. It hates, it hangs, it haunts
about those with spirit. Hear!
Oh, you who are unaware,
its men hold spears to your heart,
who’d just as soon breathe the air,
as watch you slowly depart.
They want nothing more to see
than you in eternity.
Secwer El Dubai is a poet of the Middle East. William Butler Years (1865-1939) was a Modernist Irish poet. Not only has the US and Israel attacked Iran, but also Saudi Arabia and the UAE.
~~~
No Moor Than That
by Eswer El Cubadi
He sat up at the wooden desk. It was not Marrakesh.
It was no makeshift station for a lovely arabesque.
Clad in black socks and shoes, he wore a bold and beige caftan;
but he was not a Taliban, nor in Afghanistan.
He was at his computer monitor, like many more,
and yet, he was no Moor than that, who’d not been to Lahore.
or Dhaka, Delhi, Beijing—those polluted prostitutes—
that ruined air and water, food, in city institutes.
He sat erect upon the swivel chair, his shoulders back,
and took off—not a rocket—in a yellow taxi cab.
Eswer El Cubadi is a poet of Northwest Africa. Population approximations are Marrakesh, Morocco, (1,000,000), Lahore, Pakistan (13,000,000), Dhaka, Bangladesh (10,000,000), Delhi, India (16,000,000), and Beijing, China (20,000,000).
~~~
Flashback:
In early March, the Russian military comms, collapsed.
Starlink wreaked havoc on their comms, as they shut off chat apps.
~~~
On Excellence
by Esiad L. Werecub
True excellence in competition is the best.
It has the greatest glory, greater than great wealth,
which can keep company with both the worthiest
and worst. Wealth tends to swell, so subtle is its stealth;
but he who will do well can gain a cheerful heart,
attain glorious hope, and if he’s granted health
and goods enough, he rivals the most fortunate.
There’s joy in life that lacks disease and neediness.
In the same way the rich desire a large part,
so too poor individuals desire less;
but it’s not sweet for souls to have it easiest;
for they will seek what flees from them. True happiness
comes not to spirits who prefer an easy test;
such honor only lives as long as life is blessed;
while excellence, although it never yields rest,
bestows on mortals character and inner bliss.
Esiad L. Werecub is a poet of Ancient Greece. Bacchylides (c. 518 BC – c. 451 BC) was a noted Ancient Greek poet.
~~~
Time’s Thick and Steady Neck
by Wic E. Ruse Blade
He held his head up high and stomach in.
His smile spread out so wide it cracked each cheek.
He stretched each leg, heel, toe, thigh and shin.
He raised his head and turned to take a peek.
A gentle breeze’s ease swept through the grass.
He gave his self up to the open sky.
He entered through the portal great gods pass,
and followed forth, discerning with his eye.
He rested on a giant puffy shroud,
and held on to time’s thick and steady neck.
He felt detached, as if he were a cloud,
and rode across the pampas rein in check.
He latched onto heart, liver, head or lung,
though it be slippery as voice or tongue.
Wic E. Ruse Blade is a poet of magical adventure.
~~~
Davy Jones’s Locker
by Wric Abel Suede
“Yo, ho ho, at the bottom of such scum.”
— Wic E. Ruse Blade
The treasure found in Davy Jones closed locker was
so large, enormous; o, but even more than that,
it was fantastic. How do I know this? because
I saw it at a certain longitude and lat.
Its gorgeous jewels, shimmering beneath the blue,
were beauteous beyond belief. From where I sat,
the coins were newly-minted, golden, gleaming, true,
or my name isn’t Billy Bones. A mermaid curled
around that chest, like lovely seaweed in a slough.
Who would not love to have such glimmering unfurled?
I longed to seize those riches, like a pirate does,
when he sees something that he wants out in the world.
Wric Abel Suede is a poet of piracy, a NewMillennial pandemic.
~~~
One Who Was Shot
by “Wild” E. S. Bucaree
Despite the fact that he had been gunned down,
he held his head up high, and faced the sky.
Though he was lying stretched out on the ground,
he never bowed, though bound by back and thigh,
He thirsted. Could somebody fill his cup?
Though he was near the end, and very still,
with bated breath he kept his spirit up.
His will remained indominatable.
I know because I saw him at the end.
I longed to haul him up from that morass.
I held him tight. He wanted to ascend;
but time continued marching on, alas.
He passed away from me, and I from him.
He had to go. I couldn’t yet come in.
“Wild” E. S. Bucaree is a poet of the Wild West. According to Beau Lecsi Werd, indominatble is an extended neologism.