An Eternal Passerby
by R. Lee Ubicwedas
He found himself within a hurried, hurtling, whirling World,
as did all of the living people on the planet Earth,
especially ensconced in cities, like the Metroplex,
where overhead were major interchanging cloverleafs,
with criss-crossed highways, pissed-off drivers, byways all around,
abounding, pounding, and astounding bounders outward bound.
Whichever way one could, wherever one might go, one had
to figure out how best to function from one’s launching pad;
and with so much each person must so suddenly absorb,
here on this spinning, astronomical life-bearing orb,
there’s hardly time to catch one’s breath, before it passes by…
each one diurnally just an eternal passerby.
R. Lee Ubicwedas is a poet of eternal notes.
~~~
Haiku
by “Clear Dew” Ibuse
On the kitchen floor,
the wolf spider steps on it
beside the trash bin.
Haiku
by “Wired Clues” Abe
Hello, cloudy sky.
Hello, overhanging trees.
Hello, drops of rain.
“Wired Clues” Abe is a rad trad haiku writer.
~~~
An Alien from Outer Space
by I. E. Sbace Weruld
He was an alien from outer space made out of sand,
like as a phantom, seventy and one-half inches tall.
What was his name? It wasn’t Dick. He wasn’t grand at all.
In fact, to those who saw him just invisible and bland.
In the observatory on the rugged mountain peak,
he fell from high atop its dome. He was not keen to speak.
Was he the saddest space invader ever to arrive
on planet Earth, this man of human girth, who took a dive?
He was no Muscle Beach type from some flying saucer’s land;
but was he radioactive, without strength or command?
He had been seen but momentarily in darkest night,
prac-tic-al-ly the only being in-sight, of pure light.
I. E. Sbace Weruld is a poet of outer space.
~~~
Sometimes
Educable Wires
“Sometimes I cry when I’m lonely…”
—Gene Thomasson
Sometimes he felt like as an alien from outer space,
surprised to find himself here in this time and place.
What was he doing with a modest dark tie round his neck?
with black socks on his feet and whiskered beard upon his cheeks?
At times he felt like as a ruminating quadruped,
a flailing tetrapod directed by embodied head.
He could be found there going round in circles, standing still,
or even turning up-side-down, or out and in at will.
And then there were the times he felt like a physique machine,
a washer or a dryer, going round to heat or clean.[The Lilliputians tried to make out what that giant was,
that massive gullible Lemuel Gulliver, because…]
Educable Wires is a poet of rock. Gene Thomasson (1938-2012) was a PostModernist songwriter.
~~~
Meditating Prep
by Sri Wele Cebuda
He got into the lotus pose, extending knees and neck.
In search of the divine, he stretched his spine, mind and pec deck,
His gaze was forward-looking, while his crown reached to the sky,
his shoulder blades drawn back and out, his chin and abs tucked tight.
His chest was lifting up and forth, his spine was long and straight,
his active core drawn up, and, reaching for the stars, his pate;
tense biceps and dense triceps, were relaxed and feeling great.
By harnessing life energy, like Buddha in his seat,
he longed, if not for universal love, at least sweet beats.
His breaths were deeper, stronger, fuller; his heart on a roll.
He strove to be completely free and likewise in control.
Sri Wele Cebuda is a poet of meditation.
~~~
Translations of Laforgue
by Claude I. S. Weber
He wanted to thank him for translations of Laforgue;
but he had died, and had become marginalized, of course.
Lord Pierrot was complaining of a woman’s feelings, when
he told her of the sun of angles were Euclidean.
O, how I love you, she would say. He said, all ‘s relative.
Thanks, Louis Simpson, for your word strands. Is that how to live?
What if one evening he should of tuberculosis die;
and she would follow him? Then was it serious? a lie?
Where was he going, and what was he doing at that time,
the late Elizabethans syncing in his sinking mind?
Claude I. S. Weber is a poet of French literature. Jules Laforgue (1860-1887) was a Franco-Uruguayan Impressionist poet. Louis Simpson (1923-2012) was a PostModernist American poet.
~~~
Just Another Day
by Beadle Crew USI
“It’s just another day.”
—Paul McCartney
O, it was just another day that he was thankful for.
He had a hankering for coffee, so he got a pour.
The Sun was shining on the City’s lightly traveled streets.
There was so little traffic for Memorial Day week.
He drove off to a nearby store to get a butter cube,
a requisite for coffee bread, a European beaut.
The garbage was postponed a day; it was a day of rest.
How many thousands from the work-week schedule would be blessed?
He was content because he could sh*t, shower, shave and brush,
and do so very leisurely. Yes, he could be unrushed.
He even took a moment to clean off the stall-glass door.
O, it was just another day that he was thankful for.
Beadle Crew USI is a group of characters. Paul McCartney is a British PostModernist songwriter and singer.
~~~
Her Daisies
by Brac Lei Uweeds
“I love my little garden.”
—Janet Cormier
Her daisies getting ready to bloom beautiful and tall,
she thought back to last year upon what was hard to recall,
someone had come into her yard and stole her flowers, ah…
She hoped it would not happen this year, for she loved them all.
Brac Lei Uweeds is a poet of flowers. Janet Cormier is a contemporary poet.
~~~
Th’ Idea of Autophagy in the Town Down the River
by Carb Deliseuwe
He loved th’ idea of autophagy—it made him dance,
like as a vagrant on the town involved in a romance.
He did not dream of Camelot, of Amalek, or Thebes;
but as for mighty mitochondria that pleased his bees.
He loved to find more nourishment within his body bare;
he loved removing his debris and cellular repair.
He did not dream of warriors, no, but ketones on the go
filled him with intermittent fasts, above, below, and slow.
He loved self-eating muscles, adipose, and pancreas,
as well as cleaning up his liver, lowering glucose.
O, reservoirs of glucagon would cause his brain to reel,
and took another drink of bergamot tea happily.
Carb Deliseuwe is a poet of diet. Edwin Arlington Robinson (1869-1935) was a Modernist American poet.
~~~
The Very Vision
by Éclair Dub W. See
“…human kind cannot bear very much reality.”
—T. S. Eliot
He saw the Sun-Disk rising over the rose-garden plants,
that plot of ground, so rich and brown, of beetles, bugs and ants.
The beautiful pink blooms took to the bushes ardently,
beneath the pale yellow Overseer Gardener.
The man observed there were green oaks that took to the white skies,
their leaves a-qui-ver in the wind, their branching limbed new highs.
Besides green grassy downy lawn, and other trees around,
the Dawn revealed many things, from houses, cars and down.
But he had to avert his eyes each time they passed the Sun.
How odd he thought, if he looked close, his eyes would be undone.
How odd he thought the very vision that he saw was harsh.
Reality was blinding, though the lines were clear and sharp.
Éclair Dub W. See is a poet of visions and revisions.
~~~
A Messenger
by Seer Ablicudew
He saw a standing, pale ghost, but quite substantial, pure,
a faint, white, glowing spirit, yet dense, stout and muscular.
Where had this seeming, hairless being, with an oval face,
come from and entered into this extr’ordinary space?
Was he a messenger, an angel slightly panting, fair,
a full-blown, breathing personage, who seemed as light as air?
He seemed like a mirage, an image rising from the Earth,
a full-grown man, so far away from anywhere and birth.
Still here he was there where he saw him beside the bright gray lane.
What was he saying? Why was he here, vividly and sane?
Seer Ablicudew is a poet of the Spirit World.
~~~
From the Unwalled City
by Urbawel Cidese
He hardly ever wore suits since he donned the casual,
which then became his base line—that became his usual.
Although he didn’t mind a fancy suit and snappy tie,
he tended to be ordinary in his dress—that guy.
He didn’t want to stop in for a co*cktail at a bar,
discovering that he was a first person singular.
He didn’t want to write I-novels; that was not his gig;
nor be a total stranger to himself—that was no gift.
He liked to wear tee-shirts, but didn’t want to peddle them,
nor to present new puzzles without any stratagem.
Enigmas were a fact of life; they weren’t that int’resting,
unless they were more mystical than merely mysteries.
Urbawel Cidese is a poet of urban life.
