Comprising Us
by I. E. Sbace Weruld
The particle-waves that comprise us can exist—here’s why:
they are not free but are bound in and held together by
the inter-inner-particle-wave force, and would fly
out otherwise in lines, if not for being in a bind.
Yet they are definitely moving, these wave-particles,
for they indeed are genuine, the real articles.
They’ve found a way of orbiting around each other that
makes it appear that you are still a crazed Jehosephat!
O, woe is me, o, glory be, when they go off their course
and fly off to another mass-accelerated force.
Mr. I. E. Sbace Weruld is a poet of space. Jehosephat (c. 946 BC – c. 890 BC) was an early Judean king.
~~~
Haiku
by “Clear Dew” Ibuse
An old man looks up
at a thin smile in the sky—
it is a new Moon.
“Clear Dew” Ibuse is a haiku writer of Japanese vignettes.
~~~
Tanka
by “Wired Clues” Abe
Like early spring fields,
all cleared away, green and grand,
or broad, wide, blue skies,
the Emperor Meiji
wished that his heart could be so.
“Wired Clues” Abe is a NewMillennial haikuist. Emperor Meiji (1852-1912) helped transform his nation from a semi-feudal society into an industrialized global power.
~~~
The Secret Agent Man
by Edu Cable Wires
“Odds are he won’t live to see tomorrow.”
—P. F. Sloan & Steve Barri
I saw him one time, from a distant window view.
It was at night. He was upon a sofa/bed.
I saw him watching a faint glowing screen—gray-blue.
How could I know—I couldn’t get into his head?
o, but I knew; for every single thing he did
he tracked. He definitely dreaded being dead,
and did not want to be defeated, even in
the way he’d sit. Though I was young, and it was late,
it was much later for him. That he would be yet
alive tomorrow, he could not anticipate;
although he had to live as if that would be true;
because each move he made determined this—his fate.
Edu Cable Wires is a poet of rock and roll. P. F. Sloan (1945-2015) & Steve Barri were noted PostModernist songwriters and producers.
~~~
Beneath a Winter Sun
by Delir Ecwabeus
It was in 2010, Tehran, Iran,
at 7:40 in the morning of
a typical rush hour, when a man
in a Peugeot—Majid Shahriari,
the head of the Irani nuclear
program—was killed in an explosion that
a motorcyclist had placed on his car
on Artesh Boulevard. The small bomb’s splat
killed only him, though further, just westward,
another man was wounded—Fereydoun
Abbasi, fissile isotope expert—
in an identical attack. Way down
in some unknown and hidden place, someone
had planned these acts beneath the winter sun.
Delir Equabeus is a poet of Iran.
~~~
Rembrandt’s Samson Putting Forth his Riddle at the Wedding Feast: 1638
by Cees Walerd Bui
In Rembrandt’s Samson Putting Forth his Riddle at
the Wedding Feast, his bride-to-be, a Philistine,
is seated on a dais, in a gold glow that
lights the surrounding darkness. Timeless, still, she’s seen
face fore; a group of ladies fidget at her right.
Conversing at her left is Samson; he’s speaking,
face turned left, to a group of men, his dress gold-bright:
“Out of the eater came forth meat; out of the strong
came something sweet.” If they can bring th’ answer to light
in seven days, he’ll give them garments; but if not
they will repay in kind. Here is a bold Rembrandt,
the warmer tones of red and yellow coming on.
Cees Walerd Bui is a poet of Dutch painting. Rembrandt (1606-1669) was a painter of the Dutch Golden Age.
~~~
The Dresden Zeus
by Esiad L. Werecub
The Dresden Zeus is a free-standing statue that
has been restored from copies. Over life-size height,
draped in himation; the stance is clean and pat—
no fat.It shows his awesome presence and his might.
He leans upon his left leg’s strength; his left arm’s bent;
his left fist rests upon left thigh, herm shaft in right.
The style is high classical, attributed
to the workshop of Pheidias. Th’ original’s
been lost. Depicted is a bearded, heaven-sent,
composed man-god of th’ Ancient World—not digital
or analog—who seems to know where he is at.
His hair is parted and his face is vigilant.
Esiad L Werecubis a poet of Ancient Greece.
~~~
Lines After a Pessimistic Person from Portugal
by Luis de Cawebre
He wrote, “To write is to forget…It is the most
agreeable way to ignore our lives—retreat…
It [lit’rature] turns life into slumber…[sleeping’s ghost…]
A poem is th’ expression of ideas—sweet…
a language no one uses, since none talk in verse…”
It is a lovely wonder and a curse, or worse.
Luis de Cawebre is a poet of Portugal.
~~~
This Man
by El Cid E. W. Rubesa
It didn’t take too long before the man began
to lose it, by confusing his reality
with great enthusiasm, ardor and élan.
He had gall to believe in ideality,
when all around him said it couldn’t be the truth.
In goodness, sakes, there could be no validity,
no matter what he’d learned in old age or in youth.
He had gone o’er the edge, like Cristobol Colon,
into a draught of Atlantis and vermouth.
The sad thing was he had to do it all alone;
for he was no-one in particular, this man,
who hung upon his very words, a cross of bone.
El Cid E. W. Rubesa is a poet of Spanish sensibilities. Cristobol Colon (1451-1506) was a Spanish adventurer.
~~~
Prince Hamlet
by Willude Scabere
Prince Amleth stood beneath the onus of eight hundred years,
dressed all in black from shirt to shoes in epochal arrears.
He had to rise up to his era fully armed and cast,
although his breast plate and his shield were hidden for the task.
He rose attempting on the morn to right the wrongs therein.
He had to bear his chalice high in equilibrium.
He had to bear outrageous fortune’s slings and arrows shot,
and toss them off as if they were not anything but naught.
He had to stretch his limits past where he thought he could go,
yet had to end up standing through the rolling imbroglio.
Wilude Scabere is a poet of Shakespeare.
~~~
Flashback:
A Nation Mourns: October 22, 2014
by Wes Caribu Deal
Canadian reservist Corporal Cirillo was
killed this day at the War Memorial in Ottawa,
while standing in his ceremonial and Scottish dress,
Glengarry bonnet, kilt, red garter flashes, and the rest.
He was a barrel-chested bouncer at the Club Absinthe,
an ordinary guy assassinated at the plinth,
by some crazed, recent muslim convert who was killed himself
by Sergeant-at-Arms Kevin Vickers at Parliament Hill.
At home his two dogs waited anxiously for his return.
He never came. One bright, red maple leaf falls down to earth.
Wes Caribu Deal is a poet of Canada.
~~~
O, Love
by I. Warble Seduce
“A car radio bleats, ‘Love, o careless love…'”
—Robert Lowell, Skunk Hour
O, love, it is a blessing, sensitive and sweet;
it drives one to impassioned heights and depths of soul.
It makes one feel whole, o, one is so complete.
One doesn’t mind to drop and roll within its hold.
It takes one on a journey to new lands, bright sands.
It’s everywhere between the North Pole and South Pole.
It freely flows beyond the touch of hard commands.
It skips along when going strong, like jumping rope.
It is the most remarkable of bonding bands.
It soars, it pours, it roars, when one is on a lope,
and keeps one hopping quickly, slickly off one’s feet,
but ever looking forward, never without hope.
Mr. I Warble Seduce is a poet of love. Robert Lowell (1917-1977) was a PostModernist American poet.
~~~
Pittsburg, Pennsylvania
by Urbawel Cidese
And then, of all the places that I could have gone,
I ended up in Pittsburg, Pennsylvania,
which I remember learning young that it was on
Monongahela and the Allegheny—the
beginning of the Ohio River—and once known for steel.
I now know it’s on th’ 80th meridian,
which passes through its downtown, boxy skyline ciel—
a hardened ending. Yet, despite it all, I made
it, managing somehow to survive the long ordeal
with thousands, cash and people. But I never stayed.
I’d, like Professor Pickleman, O Henry’s con,
move on along, lest for my art I’d be weigh lade.
Urbawel Cidese is a poet of urbania. Pittsburg, Pennsylvania, is a city of around 300,000. O. Henry (1862-1910) was a Realist American short story writer of surprising endings.
~~~
The Memory of a Gray and Cloudy Day
by Bruce Dale Wise
The horrors of the modern world are all around,
and yet, despite them all, and where we all are at—
in cosmic cataclysm—still, good can be found.
That matters. It is what we have to make us glad
we are alive. And yet, how strange this life can be.
One moment you are in a gray day, feeling flat;
three decades later you are happy, yes, and free.
It doesn’t make a bit of sense. You turn to look,
and you’ve experienced another mystery.
How did it happen that on that one day it took—
the memory of sadness—then it left. O, how’d
that happen—misery occurring, and then booked?
Remembering My Mom and Dad
by Bruce Dale Wise
How often do I, even now, play over in my mind
short clips of life I have redeemed from hard, almighty time.
There are so many things I wish that I cold say to them;
but time’s fierce, onward rush has cut me ever from their stem.
Yet, all the same, despite that cut, I fondly do recall
those snippets from eternity, so brief, so faint, so small.
Bruce Dale Wise is a poet of remembrance.
~~~
At the Hawaiian Swimming Pool
by Cruse Wadibele
I saw him standing by a gorgeous swimming pool.
His shirt clung to his skin, light aqua-green-marine.
He had just gotten out. I saw the water drool
from his blue floral shorts, that hung down low and clean.
What most surprised me was his gentle, peaceful look
that seemed naive, yet blunt, that was strong, but not mean.
He seemed to be a man of action, one who took
life as it came, and was prepared to take it on.
His stance was solid, as gray-statued Captain Cook
at Waimea, Kaua’i; but his skin was bronze.
He was a guy who seemed to be both warm and cool,
a rarety upon the Earth. Then he was gone.
Cruse Wadibele is a poet of Hawaii. Captain James Cook(1728-1779) was a British explorer. Waimea, Kaua’I, has a population of around 2,000.
~~~
Newsreel:
More than 100,000 residents lacked power in
Hawaii’s Islands from harsh rains from Lala Hurricane.
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