by B. S. Eliud Acrewe
Time present and time past are not the same, though they may seem
so in some eyes. Will they be in the future—as a dream—
as has the future been within these passing present times?
Who dares disturb the moment with his agonies, his crimes,
his angst, his rhymes, his schemes, his lines? Who dares disturb these years
with fears, with tears. All disappears upon this fallen Sphere,
if not immediately. Hitomaro, then it may
tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow go away.
And time, if unredeemable, as it has been, must be
an echo in the poechore of possibility.
The roses open in the garden by the plastic bench;
buds harden, then they flower, and the petals drop. O, Mensch!
A droning plane, the moaning train, the highway traffic stir,
an orchestra of birds: these sounds occur and then disburse.
Green leaves unfurl in spring’s fresh world, in the vibrant air;
but yesterday, today, we are are not going anywhere.
It’s our response to the unseen coronavirus blues
that whirl round our lives, like azure sky’s refracted hues.
Humanity cannot bear very much reality;
for this, and for so much, we long for ideality.
The lightning, thunder, rain, and trilling wire in the blood:
the bright and white new sidewalks partly covered by the mud,
the wide and empty paved street with no cars or people on ‘t,
the grand e-lec-tric sub-sta-tion, an isolated haunt,
its huge electric towers, rising upward, gray and high,
like as the graves of giants, silver crosses in the sky,
declaring desolation on the taxes of the time,
the thrilling danger of the passersby to the sublime.
One hears the tweeting tenants of the houses and the trees;
the people and the birds are tapping out their varied screes.
It is so still, it’s like the setting of a sci-fi scene,
dystopian, apocalyptic, filled with static cling.
The hands of time have stopped, so too the walking of the feet;
one only sees occasionally someone on the street.
This is the point. One sees the concrete slipping and encased
within the power grid, the turning world’s fate there faced.
I cannot say how long this place, placed in the memory,
will stay, endure eternity—perhaps a century—
not long in the wide scheme of things—perhaps a moment’s tick—
an instant in the infinite, a minute minute’s kick.
Here in the daylight walking all alone in Easter’s Sun.
The desolation goes for miles; there isn’t anyone.
One climbs the rise and turns the corner on to Trinity.
There, seeming far away, it is the Gardens one can see.
To get there one must go down Calvary. One has no choice.
The blazing Sun shines overhead, the soil’s thick and moist.
The streets are brilliant, blinding white, fresh pavement, smooth and flat.
Such emptiness, and vacancy.This is where one is at.
The wind is cold and bitter, plastic flags are fluttering.
The World is twittering away…its time…is glittering.
Descending lower, there beyond the Be-All and the bend,
one comes…to…find the Gardens gated, one can still descend.
The stories grow beyond the skies of Hammurabi’s eyes,
the concrete engineering for the flooding’s raging rise.
Beyond the plague of Locust, one can see the Highway fills
with eighteen-wheelers, trucks and vans, and fast au-to-mo-biles.
Their movements mesmerizing as they go their metaled ways;
they speed along at sixty down the Highway of Ama-e.
One turns around, poised at the future…in the present…past.
One longs for immortality…until the very last.
We leave the Crimson Circle, as we head back to the House.
No mockingbird is singing here; we cannot hear a sound.
No bell is ringing rich deep tones accentuating Day.
Verbena of the Prairie, purple Moradillas sway.
We touch the Spring bouquet, not clutch or cling, we cannot stay.
We only stray a moment from the trail, then go away.
The Word inscribes the World, here upon this open Stage,
so vast and grand, this Promised Land, that stretches through the Age.
Though silent, it describes Reality within the Mind.
It is the miracle Humanity can seek and find.
The form, the pattern, the idea in the Universe,
allowing us to grasp the Be-All and Eternal Curse.
In the beginning was no knowledge of the End or Start.
We only walked and walked due to the pumping of the heart.
Before the end there was no time we did not know we were;
that is the burden of existence, as we know the Word.
We move along, unmoved, unloved, desiring only change,
forever for awhile attempting ever greater range.
But to what purpose, caught within the limits of our lives,
what is the reason anything we formulate survives?
We breathe it in, the bitter wind, again, again. again,
the azure heavens, argon, oxygen and nitrogen,
and all the other elements that make our atmosphere.
The timeless essence of Eternity is also here.
It stretches far before and after us. How could it end?
And so we have come here to note a thing or two, and then…
B. S. Elud Acrewe is a poet and literary critic influenced by T. S. Eliot. Hercules was the Roman name of the powerful Greek Heracles, whose life is lost in the mists of time and myth, mentioned by Homer in the Odyssey, and whom Pindar referred to as—heros theos. Kakinomoto no Hitomaro (c. 654 – c. 708) was a Japanese tanka and choka poet; Hammurabi (c. 1810 BC – c. 1750 BC) was a Babylonian king.
A Meditation in C-Minor
by Sri Wele Cebuda
He got into the lotus pose, o, there upon the floor.
His inner eye was opening, as if it were a door.
Adoring, but abhorring too, where he found that he was;
because he was uneasy, touched with mental fuzziness.
Although exhausted, he continued gazing upward, o.
A rocket shot across the cosmos—moving forward, ho.
From orange shirt down to the socks and shoes upon his feet,
he stretched his legs and bent his knees; he didn’t miss a beat.
Unhappy, yes, but still content, he meditated on
the beauty of his situation, still alive and strong.
Sri Wele Cebuda is a poet of meditation.
And the Deaths Go On
by Claude I. S. Weber
More than 2,000,000 people are reported to have been
infected by coronavirus, as the World spins.
And globally, more than 130,000 dead;
perhaps the worst recession in some time forecasters said.
France has reached 15,000 deaths, like Spain, and Italy,
and the United States, reporting much more candidly,
than China which is hiding data from the Global stats.
Who knows what they are up to with their bio lab and bats?.
And the French government has summoned China’s envoy for
remarks that Western nations have not handled this plague well.
Claude I. S. Weber is a poet of France.
by Sid Cee Uberawl
He had come to an impasse that he could not get around.
The way to get past where he was, in truth, could not be found;
yet he got down on hands and knees in search for subtle clues;
he did not want to simply flop, collapse, give up, and lose.
He felt like Sherlock Holmes attempting to resolve a case,
but stuck within this corner, limited by time and space.
Whichever way he went the walls and floors were brilliant white;
he could not help but being overwhelmed by blinding light.
The only place to pause was on a cushioned rocking chair,
but as for that, it went nowhere, though fair, so spare, o, bare.
Upon a Great Mount’s Top
by Sid Cee Uberawl
I stand upon a great mount’s top, a cliff before me falls.
I feel my soul ascending past a juggling of balls.
I see the waves engulf the beach beneath me where I stand.
I am a whirling sea who’s disconnected from the sand.
How can I be in this grand place, when right now I am near
a shiny river shoal in quartz that flows beside me here?
The present is a glimpse in time of all eternity.
Why is it now I fe-el like I am a burning tree?
I sit upon this cliff, this scene, so beautiful to see,
I ever want to be at, o, but never can, o, be.
Sid Cee Uberawl is a poet of adventure, intrigued by travel to exotic places and extraordinary landscapes, who enjoys following some of the journeys of Australian poet David Redpath.
by Rudi E. Welec, “Abs”
Though baseball season may be cancelled, they still wanted to
keep practicing; they didn’t want to lose…their skills. It’s true.
One guy in red was pitching out balls to one guy in blue,
whose catcher’s cleats were placed securely, limber, lithe and sure.
Another guy in black called out the pitches as they’d come,
the balls or strikes, so carefully examining each one.
Occasionally that ump grabbed a bat to smack some balls,
which he enjoyed much more, instead of only making calls.
They truly loved the sport—those three—and so they kept it up.
Though games be panned, O, plague be damned! This ain’t no epitaph.
Rudi E. Welec, “Abs” is a poet of sport. SARS CoVa, the Chinese coronavirus, has wreaked havoc on sporting events across the globe.
He Came to Join the Party
by Cu Ebide Aswirl
He came to join the party; it was many years ago;
the living room in summer weather, stuffy, torrid, o.
He’d been invited by the cooler dudes for drinks and more,
a game of poker, there amidst the cluttered, quaint decor.
Each wore a vest or tank top; it was very warm inside.
They played and drank and sank into the night, that motley pride.
One cool dude was elated; he won first, and big as well;
he was the dude who wore a vest; his head began to swell.
Another dude, somewhat vindictive, also won some hands;
he was content with victories, for winning was his plan.
But the uncool dude never cracked a smile; he only lost.
He wondered why he’d even come to pay this heavy cost.
And so he left a sadder and a wiser man—alas.
They didn’t give a damn about him, only what he had.
Cu Ebide Aswerl is a poet of leisure.
The Lady at the Doorway
by Weird Ace Blues
I saw her standing in the doorway
in between two rooms.
She stood right at the kitchen’s edge.
Did she possess a broom?
I placed my palm upon her back
and pressed her next to me,
and said I’ll love you for forever,
I kissed her lips,
the mother of my daughter off to bed
(with teddy-bear hung up-side-down
and arms below the head).
Across her lovely upright back,
my hand began to spread.
I pressed her close.
I loved her smile
in the electric night.
She was so lovely standing there
beneath the subdued light,
like as a lovely maiden
from a bed-time fairy-tale,
when I awoke to find her,
o, so shimmering and hale.
“Weird” Ace Blues is a poet of jazzy ramblings.