The Oscars
          by Cawb Edius Reel
          “All that glisters is not gold.”
          —William Shakespeare, The Merchant of Venice

The Oscars were a lovely show of glittering renown,
a tapestry of scintillating tuxes, gems, and gowns.
The brilliant figures crossed the stage, like dancers in a ball,
and only now and then could one perceive a trip or fall,
as when they had some difficulty with their envelopes,
and la la land hit quicksand in the land of moonlit hopes.
Such brilliant minds were lecturing on dogpile politics,
illuminating all who hung upon their glossy lips.
In short, it was spectacular, the talent palpable.
Such brave, awarding souls, oh, what could be more valuable?

Cawb Edius Reel likes relentless, gut-wrenching, truth-based reality flicks, like Michael Bay’s “13 Hours,” about six ununiformed, American contract guards, who put their lives on the line.


The Graphic Polisher
          by Red Was Iceblue

A member of the Pentagram design consultancy,
she cracks her creativity with taxi-cab-istry.
Her brain is like a slot machine, she shoots specific briefs
into, around, they hit and bounce, a fodder of beliefs.
Her fav’rite object is her Le Corbusier chaise lounge;
which, though, “too stupid,” still she loves it, is a joy and jounce.
Her fonts, her maps, her prints, her CAPS, typography with heart,
she sits upon the line between pop culture and fine art.
New York is her environment, its signs are everywhere,
they’re BOLD and loud, and polished proud, like shaper Paula Scher.

Red Was Iceblue is a poet fond of 20th century art, including Postmodernist Abstract Expressionism, Pop Art, Art Brut, New Realism, Neo-Dada, Photorealism, Geometric Abstraction, Op Art, Hard-Edge, Color Field, Minimal Art, and Neo-Expressionism.


The Portrait of Adele Bloch-Bauer
          by Red Was Iceblue

The portrait of Adele Bloch-Bauer done by Gustave Klimt,
done in the Jugenstil, golden-silver oil glint,
the final representative of his grand, golden phase,
the faintest face and pale shoulders, beauty borne of grace.
She gazes out from opulence upon the canvas back,
in slender, clinging dress, her cheeks are pink, her hair is black.
Her cape of circles, squares, triangles, and symbolic eyes,
surrounds her with a grandeur which displays a soft surprise.
So quietly she sits there, grayish fingers intertwined,
as if we could, almost, look in to her observant mind.

Red Was Iceblue was a poet who was likewise impressed with early 20th century Modernist painting, including Viennese painters, like Gustave Klimt.


We Can: a Wiccan Spell
          by Drew U. A. Eclibse
          “…usual pastimes and drugs, and features of the press…”
          —T. S. Eliot, “Four Quartets, Dry Salvages”

Occultists, witches, exorcists, on Friday had been found,
attempting to bind Donald Trump. That madman must be bound.
The rite required candle stub and tarot tower card.
Bring matches and some feathers. Hang him on his own petard.
At every waning crescent moon, let’s try to persecute
that moneyed man and all his followers. Give them the boot.
Mass rituals of magic cults are ready for attack,
and we can get the media complicit in this act.
So at the stroke of midnight, cast a spell on him and those
abetting such a one. Put yellow stars upon their clothes.

Drew U. A. Eclibse is a poet of lunar ruminations and is frequently seen staring off into space. He thinks it would be grand if Elon Musk and SpaceX manage to send private citizens on trips around the moon.