Newsreel:
Abandoned SpaceX rocket keyed into the Moon last week,
created a new crater sixty feet by twelve feet deep.
~~~
Cladu Beresi We
by Cawb Edius Reel
He heard thé électronic instruments that were therein,
the weird sounds of electric strings, as well as theremins.
The Romans never heard such strange, deranged, and spacey strains.
He drained a cup of tea upon a silver saucer’s plane.
Cladu Beresi We stared at the stars, as they burned hard.
He was her man, the Queen of Night, as she shed each sheer shard.
A planetary line-up happening this August Twelfth,
included Jupiter, Mars, Mercury, and Moon itself;
but the new Moon will make the sky exceptionally dark.
Cladu Beresi We gazed out across the atmo-arc.
Like radio detection ranging scanners, were his eyes.
He looked at the horizon, at what was a brief surprise.
But nothing more, the news reports were making their reports,
from Washington DC, and other sites around the World.
Cladu Beresi We contacted no new aliens.
As he looked at his phone such thoughts did not seem salient.
O, there were jet planes coming in to tarmac airport lanes,
and trucks were making their deliveries of chairs and frames;
but there was no thing out of thé seen ordinary scene:
Cladu Beresi We had eggs and bacon in between.
The blazing red-or’nge Solar-Disc uprose upon the Earth.
It was another ending, as it was another birth.
The day was getting busier; commutes were on their ways.
The billions, give or take a few, moved through each varied maze.
Cladu Beresi We was ready to descend his car.
It was no UFO. He wasn’t going all that far.
He was dressed in his gray space suit, and was prepared for work.
He wondered what the day would bring, and what things would occur.
With suitcase in his hand, he strolled about the city streets.
Cladu Beresi We was looking for both goods and meats.
Cawb Edius Reel is a poet of film.” The Day the Earth Stood Still”, directed by Robert Wise, was a sci-fi film of 1951. Harry Bates (1900-1981) was a Modernist American proset who wrote the story “Farewell to the Master” in 1940, a dark look at the realm of AI robots.
~~~
Haiku
by “Clear Dew” Ibuse
Nearby a wasp lights,
twitching its pointed stinger
in the summer heat.
Haiku
by “Clear Dew” Ibuse
A gecko climbs up
the agreeable gray wall,
escaping prison.
“Clear Dew” Ibuse is a haiku traditionalist. Masaoka Shiki (1867-1902) is sometimes credited with coining the term “haiku” as a stand-alone poetic form.
~~~
Haiku
by “Wired Clues” Abe
I am awakened
by a neighbour’s idling truck…
and go back to sleep.
Haiku
by “Wired Clues” Abe
It washes dishes
with soap pads and hot water.
“It’s a clean machine.”
“Wired Clues” Abe is a NewMillennial haiku writer. “Penny Lane” was a PostModernist song by the Beatles.
~~~
So Horrible—the Wars
War di Belecuse
When we were growing up, we thought it couldn’t happen anymore.
It was so horrible, so horrible—the wars, the War.
We knew no people would condone such actions as they did.
How could it come…to be acceptable…No, we were diff.
And yet it’s here again. Again. How could we be deceived?
We knew it wouldn’t happen. How would we be so naïve?
I ask myself that every day I wake up to this World,
and find some new example of such heinous thoughts unfurled.
I thought my dad had sacrificed enough—the countless deaths.
He’d been a medic. Ho, what a headache. We need more threads.
War di Belecuse is a poet of scapegoating people and hate. Donald D. Wise (1926-2004) was an American soldier who fought in the Korean War and World War II.
~~~
Newsreel:
For math in varied fields, Wang Hong has received a Fields,
and for work in Kakeya sets in three-dimension Reals.
~~~
Sōichi Kakeya (1886-1947) was a Modernist Japanese mathematician. The Kakeya set conjecture suggests that a subset of Euclidean space that has a line segment in every direction has Hausdorff dimension 1, 2, 3…
~~~
The Sailor
by Ercules Edibwa
He rode those rolling waves, like Neptune on the sea.
He held on for dear life o’er oceanic hills.
He felt like great Odysseus on an odyssey,
a wonderful adventure with exciting thrills.
He grabbed that mast and rode it, active and alert.
He had his fill of swells, avoiding any spills.
He tried to keep his energy up, pumped and pert.
Would he get to that gorgeous shore? and then collapse?
Could he get there? avert a crash? and not get hurt?
Could he stay steady, poised amidst such windy slaps?
such gusty snaps? keep happiness and ecstasy?
a rhapsody proclaiming through such cosmic zaps?
Ercules Edibwa is a poet of strength. Homer (fl. 8th century BC) was a poet of Archaic Greece.
~~~
Giorgione’s Tempest
by Buceli da Werse
It’s quiet for a tempest, that is, Giorgione’s,
the only violence, a bright white, distant flash
of lightning in the clouds, huge, blue and ominous.
All the rest is serene and peaceful, nothing rash,
including, sitting on a gray roof, a white bird,
the woman giving suck, the man with lengthy shaft,
even the green stream, so much so, it is absurd,
and yet, becoming—easy, natural, refined.
In Giorgione’s fine painting, no one says a word,
not woman, man, or babe. His landscape of the mind
is pensive, silent, tranquil, clear (there’s no near haze);
and all the colour is subdued, and, therefore, kind.
Buceli da Werse is a poet of Renaissance art. Giorgione (1478-1510) was an Italian painter of the High Renaissance.
~~~
A London Laze
by B. S. Eliud Acrewe
1.
Beyond, across the river, shine the city lights.
The Tower Bridge reveals its long familiar form;
but here, inside the windowed room and glowing bright,
reclines a man. It is the quiet aft the storm.
He doesn’t move. He has been shot. Is he dead? tired?
Against the shiny dark brown couch, his body, dorm,
lies on th’ upholstered-button sofa, soft flesh mired,
from pillow curve to pillow curve, a lanky length.
The open room has been electrically wired.
Can he go on? one wonders. Does he have the strength?
Upon his elbows, can he lift that heavy night,
his neatly-cut and black-haired head from off that angst?
2.
Stretched out upon a leather sofa, head to toe,
face leaning on one pillow near one poofy arm,
his feet upon a pillow at the other—so.
He wore few clothes, because it must have been quite warm.
Although he was alert, he hardly moved at all,
as if a statue posed, adapted to that form.
His long, lean curving form implied that he was tall.
The only thing he did was close and open eyes.
It did not look like he was having fun, a ball.
The world that he lived in was without surprise.
He looked quite elegant and puissant in that glow.
I wondered what sleuth Sherlock Holmes would glean, surmise.
3.
His dark brown eyes were open wide beneath arched brows.
Below his nose a faint mustache went round thick lips.
He lay so still, one wondered, if he would arouse,
that lean, long, lanky shape with rising slopes and dips.
He looked so serious, intent upon one thing
unseen, one worried for his health, not back, chest, hips,
or legs, beneath the lamp light’s gold glow, languishing.
What was he wishing for? He lay so languidly,
it seemed, he’d no in-tension moving, altering,
upon his elbows, his right knee bent sanguinely.
He wasn’t drinking, didn’t seem to be a souse,
but still he was relaxed despite his angling.
B. S. Eliud Acrewe is a poet of Modernist malaise. Arthur Conan Doyle (1859-1930) was a Late Victorian and Edwardian proset.
~~~
Olavo Bilac
by Luc Ebrewe Dias
Far from the sterile turbulence of the street,
Olavo Bilac, you wrote in the license
of the cloister. With patience and silence,
you laboured and endured, polished, suffered, and sweat.
But the forms you used to disguise the
effort, the living devices made complete;
in such a mode the images seemed bare but mete,
rich and sober, like Greek temples or science.
You tried not to let the foundation reveal
your angst; and naturally you made the grade,
without calling up the frame of the building;
for beauty is truth’s twin, as John Keats once said,
and pure art, the enemy of false feeling,
is power and grace in simplicity laid.
Luc Ebrewe Dias is a poet of Brazil. John Keats was a Romantic English poet (1795-1821). Olavo Bilac (1865-1918) was a Brazilian Parnassian poet.
~~~
Newsreel:
On August 10th, an earthquake hit in west Colombia,
more than 250 dead, 4,000 unaccounted for.
~~~
The Artist
by Red Was Iceblue
He sketches love’s embraces, moments of delight,
in pencil and on paper pieces he destroys,
erasing them, then tearing up, tossed from his sight,
he throws them in the garbage. This he thus enjoys.
For everything is gone. He’s not reminded of
the love he doesn’t have, the love no one employs,
the love that never was and cannot be, the love
so many want, the love so many wish they had.
Yet he returns again to draw, erase and shove
into the garbage can; because it makes him glad,
because it makes him feel good, because it’s right
within his soul, and a vacation from his pad.
Red Was Iceblue is a poet of Modern, PostModern, and NewMillennial art.
~~~
The Hit and Run
by Bruc “Diesel” Awe
It shocked me when I saw him in the rough.
It looked like there had been a struggle of some force.
It jolted me that one so tough, that one so buff,
could be sprawled out like that, a prostrate, fallen corpse.
I slowly moved up close to him to take his pulse.
He startled me again when he opened up his orbs.
His eyes were staring right at me—that hulk, that lump—
and yet he didn’t move. There was no single twitch.
That man seemed an automaton with blinking skull.
Something was very wrong. He stared but didn’t flinch.
Those deep brown eyes glared right through me. That was enough.
I quickly fled the scene, and left him in the ditch.
Bruc “Diesel” Awe is a poet of driving.
~~~
The Runner
by Rudi E. Welec, “Abs”
The runner lifted up his legs, and moved them back
and forth. He tried to lift them, panting, up as high
as he was able, panting, panting, down the track
to the end. If he could, he’d lift them to the skies;
and as his feet stretched out, back and forth, his hands did too.
He followed every movement with his roving eyes.
O, how he wanted to attain that lovely view,
that happy ending. O, that would be ecstasy,
a marvel to behold, a wonder to accrue,
a moment in the sun, in vast eternity,
a moment of delight, in all th cosmic black,
momentous, satisfying, glorious and free.
Rudi E. Welec, “Abs”, is a poet of athletics.
~~~
Be Kind
by Erisbawdle Cue
“Be kind, for everyone you meet is fighting a
hard battle,” Plato said millennia ago;
and that is just as mete today as yesterday;
although it’s harder to do than it is to know.
Erisbawdle Cue is a poet of philosophy. Plato (c. 428 BC – c. 348 BC) was a noted Ancient Greek philosopher. What is ethics that it is so hard to comprehend?
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