Solarity
by Ra Bué Weel Disc
On the horizon, rising up, he saw the golden Sun,
like as an orange-yellow ball—a molten liquid one;
and though the sky was not unclear—it was azure, no haze—
he could not gaze upon its phase, that nuclear-based blaze.
“I’d square my face against it,” he cried, “Odi et amo”.
He loved it, even as he hated it—intensely so—
requiring its fiery-lit heat to live and thrive,
and yet reminding him how hard it is to be alive,
The lightning strikes, the thunder roars, and zots—bolt after bolt—
a fierce reminder of a cosmos ever in revolt.
Ra Bué Weel Disc is a poet of Solarity.
~~~
Haiku
by “Clear Dew” Ibuse
On Wednesday last, hum,
astronomical autumn
occurred, and then passed.
“Clear Dew” Ibuse is a haikuist fond of Japan.
~~~
Haiku
by “Wired Clues” Abe
Without gravity,
the air particles we breathe
would fade into space.
Haiku
by “Wired Clues” Abe
Watching the Sun set,
the evening cooled ten degrees:
the start of autumn.
“Wired Clues” Abe is a NewMillennial writer.
~~~
Flashback: 6 November 1988
In the western sky,
this sunny Sunday afternoon,
a giant dark blue cloud
passes overhead.
It looks exactly like
the Horse Head Nebula,
until it dissipates
with the descent of the Sun.
~~~
The Target
by “Scribe” El Uwade
Tah-mel was in the courtyard sitting by a table stand.
It was time for his afternoon tea, which came on command.
A visitor dropped by to leave some flour, oil and herbs.
The arid mid-October heat had chased away the birds.
The visitor placed down a list, a vial in his hand,
was poured into a white ceramic cup upon the stand.
The poison was to make it seem a cardiac arrest,
and leave no residue in one who could be thought was stressed.
Tahmel lived on for several days, feeling slightly ill;
and then he was found in his bed—absolutely still.
The funeral was to occur just se-ver-al days on
at ten o’clock, enough time for some prepping after dawn.
“Scribe” El Uwade is a poet of the Mideast.
~~~
Speaking of Guy de Maupassant
by Claude I. S. Weber
People are ever dying before some major thing occurs that might have changed how they reacted to things in life. Maupassant’s tales would not need to be so crisp now. his reactions to hard dichotomies were too pronounced. If he could have been more accepting, he would know lobotomies were not answers to what he did abhor. After two world wars, which France lost and won, he would have found syphilis could be cured. One did not have to throw one’s self upon the tracks of madness. More could be endured. But such was his life, precise to a point, when cut in relief, naught could be enjoyed.
Claude I. S. Weber is a poet of French literature. Guy de Maupassant (1850-1893), mentioned in the above prosem, was a French Realist short story writer. Syphilis is an infection caused by the bacterium Treponema. Syphilis can be cured with the antibiotic penicillin G.
~~~
Mallios Was His Friend
by SubCIA Weedler
He had a mentor at the CIA. His name was Gust.
Gust Avrakotos—Charlie Wilson’s War—he was a stud—
He was a father figure. Books were written on his life;
but he was very controversial, inside and outsite.
He killed a lot of Russians. Medals and promotions came,
but he just couldn’t get along with anyone—untame.
Gust hated everyone and everybody hated him;
except perhaps the torturer in the Greek junta—M.
Once working with Gust on a task force, he offhandedly
said Mallios, chief o’ th’ Hellenic National Police,
had tortured people. At once, Gust grabbed his each lapel end,
slammed him against the wall and said, Millios was his friend.
He said Gust better get his damn hands off him—old man, whoa—
or he was goin’ to make Gust very sorry. Gust let go.
He asked him what was wrong with him, and said quite candidly,
he was sorry Mallios was his friend and shot in th’ head.
SubCIA Weedler is a poet of clandestine operations. Evangelos Mallios (1929-1976) was murdered by 17N. “Outsite” is a neologism. Gust Avrakotos (1938-2005) was an American PostModern case officer at the CIA.
~~~
19th Century New England Moments
by Cadwel E. Bruise
“At the entrance of a second person,
hypocrisy begins,” Emerson wrote.
That’s not true. Honesty doesn’t worsen
then, but when one’s unwilling to smote
the lying, fire-breathing dragons of hell.
We don’t have to be totally honest
with ourselves only. We can also tell
the truth to others, friend or con artist.
Nor do we, as Dickinson suggested,
have to tell the truth slant. We can state it
plainly, squarely, even undigested.
Telling the truth need not be abated.
So self-absorbed was the New England mind,
in that folk, truth really was hard to find
without a Puritan spine.
Mr. Sonderan
by Cadwel E. Bruise
Mr. Sonderan is correct—
there’s too much chaos…and…
there’s too much sand (in the gears).
We write such poems, because
otherWise the per-versions of reality
might go unnoticed.
There’s too much of what we know
that consists of caricatures of
what’s really going on?
Jason Wright
by Cadwel E. Bruise
He wanted to get back to when he was a kid again,
when he could skid along in life, just like his father did,
when he was free to be more than he is—this deep abyss—
a mister with no mistress, in a World that’s amiss.
When young he found the beautiful in every scene he saw;
but now the ugliness persists—each war—his nerves are raw.
He wonders why he thinks like that. There’s no place for his self.
And yet the power of his words refuse space on a shelf.
He’s zeroed out and wishes he could do more than he’s done;
but isn’t he a bit like you and me and…everyone.
Back in September 24 in 2023—
Since then, I wonder why his words now mean so much to me.
Chad Parenteau
by Cadwel E. Bruise
His thoughts flow out, like as a river flowing rapidly;
both prose and poetry, like as a forceful gravity.
He edits zines, and credits beings all about the place.
Where does he get the time to do all that within his space?
He is a crEditor of people everywhere he goes.
How much he slogs along within his long-time blog—Who knows?
How many owe him for his dedication—There’s no count.
I wonder if there is another who could climb that ‘Mount?
Cadwel E. Bruise is a poet of New-Englanders.
~~~
Wyoming
by Raise Club Weed
He loved Wyoming, the wide-open space,
the mountains, the basins, and the great plain.
It is a breathtaking, mythmaking place:
from herding cattle to riding the range,
from Yellowstone, with hot springs and geysers,
to the capital of the state, Cheyenne,
from oil production sellers and buyers
to fun-loving freedom, firm and defiant,
from Devil’s Tower, that tall volcanic
rock, to Rock Springs and the Red Desert land,
from wild-horse rider to truck mechanic,
from hard winter weather to living grand.
Raise Club Weed is a poet of Wyoming. Cheyenne is a city of around 65,000.
~~~
A True Blue North American
by Ubs Reese Idwal
Roethke’s my kin,
a true blue North American—
and I will let him in
under my skin
every now and then.
Ubs Reece Idwal is a poet of North America. Theodore Roethke (1907-1963) was a Modernist American poet.
~~~
Individuals Swirling All About
by Bruc “Diesel” Awe
As he looked out from his hotel window, he saw a steady stream of vehicles driving on to, off of, and down the road, in a constant flow, a real miracle. Hundreds and hundreds are passing by fast.
One sees dozens in an instant, and then, all those cars, vans, trucks, and people are passed, and one sees dozens more, machines and men. It is a spectacular sight worthy of a Walt Whitman or a Carl Sandburg: thousands of individuals swirling all about, off to pleasure, chores, and work. It is amazing how obedient people are when it is expedient.
Bruc “Diesel” Awe is a poet of transportation. As of this week, the average price of diesel in California was $6.20 per gallon, with some counties as high as $7.11. In the above prosem, Walt Whitman (1819-1892) was an American Realist poet, and Carl Sandburg (1878-1967) was an American Modernist poet.
~~~
Atmospheric Resonances
by Ira “Dweeb” Scule
The Schumann resonances are a set of spectrum peaks
in Earth’s EMF in th’ extremely lower frequencies,
excited by discharges, lightning-generated jolts;
Earth’s atmosphere’s potential is 200,000 volts.
At any time there are about two-thousand lightning storms—
some fifty flashes ev’ry second—this then is the norm.
The fundamental, u-s-u-a-l-l-y, strongest frequency
is 7.83 hertz, the base resonance we sense.
Each cell that’s found within the nervous system, brain, and heart,
is highly tuned and sensitive to what these spikes impart.
Ira “Dweeb” Scule is a poet of the World. Winfried Otto Schumann (1888-1974) was a German Modernist physicist and engineer.
~~~
A Trichotomy
by Erisbawdle Cue
A trichotomy known to Scholasticism
is one we could use in the NewMillennium;
used by th’ angelic doctor Thomas Aquinas:
life, the force of self-motion, and adaptation
can be catalogued into three parts relative:
the plant, the animal, the intellectual,
which corresponds to the vegetative,
the sensitive, and the rational soul.
Life is the triumph of activity.
Erisbawdle Cue is a poet of philosophy. Thomas Aquinas (1225-1274) was an Italian Late Scholastic philosopher.
~~~
That Distant Future Voice
by Cladu Beresi We
A distant voice calls through the web of years
from the future and ideal World
to the present reality. and nears
with a vengeance. Though it is unfurled
in an exquisite and delicate form,
as the time approaches, it pours forth, roars,
and strikes out like the wildest of storms,
or, even worse yet, like the worst of wars.
That voice from the future is enormous
and will not mind drowning generations
at the flip of a top. And as for Us,
or for any of our creations,
fate gives no fig. It is an illusion
to think life’s anything but confusion.
Cladu Beresi We is a poet of future realms.
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