by S. S. Eliud Acrewe
The gods are angry, rum-bl-ing across the open skies.
The dark clouds hover over us, but there is no surprise.
And when the lightning and the thunder vanish as they must;
it is as if the gods are gone again. Who can we trust?
Fierce rains start Cooper Creek beside the High Way and the Hill.
Without them it’s naught but the adumbration of a rill,
that grows until the water that it carries has an edge.,
a problem that confronts the builders when they build a bridge.
O pioneers, who cleared the way, constructing routes to go,
o worshipers of the machine who helped us cross its flow.
Beside the first bridge one can see a rabbit leaps its banks,
so narrow and so still it hardly seems more than a thanks.
Beyond, it goes to Trinity, past so much past to bear.
The river goes without us to the sea, its constant lair.
Bestride the second bridge, one spots a little larger marsh,
its charm is more the lushness of the plants within its charge.
Beyond the crickets, one can hear the traffic on the road,
each vehicle in its own way there carrying its load,
the road a bridge itself though hardly visible at all,
unlike the arched bridge with wood planks above the water’s crawl.
Where is the end, the soundless waiting, silent withering?
calamitous annunciation, winding slithering?
the consequence of further days, the rotting of the log?
the slimy vegetation of the cricket and the toad?
Here at the green and wooden-slatted bridge that arched the flood,
spring’s brisk winds are unfurled, hardly noticed by the World.
There is an end; for Time and Nature spare no one or thing,
including all the questioning and answering in spring.
The creek meanders through the banks past plant and shallow pant;
the shadows of the morning cast their great lengths at a slant.
As one gets older, one should be exploring pioneer,
especi’lly when the future is inevitably near.
One sees a man and woman with a baby and a dog
atop the cement engineering over reed and bog,
one sees the walkers, runners, bikers, o, so many souls,
each passing one, and you as well, part of the cosmos whole.
And yet so small, each like an ant upon a rugged rock,
in gorgeous morning sunlight clear or near fog-covered frog.
It was a tone, almost a moan, both deep and serious,
which steadied, whether weather halcyon or furious.
The future is no faded song, no Royal Rose perfumed.
It too, in time, once oped and closed, will also be exhumed.
As the coronavirus spreads, from there to far and near;
time is no healer, when the patient is no longer here.
Bulrushes, reeds, cattails and sedge, pink evening primrose stalks,
greet those, who pass in dawn’s light dance, on rides, in runs or walks.
This is a place of Evers, there a church and here a school.
A large, brown, wood cross stands…for more than just the golden rule.
Forever’s not a long time; it can never be the same.
It is like as the future, come what will and come what may.
The past is over and the future is beyond the news;
but here upon the bench that’s only one of many views,
you pause to catch your breath; it is too hard to take all in—
the many passing images. The head begins to spin.
Each time of peace is but the rest between this and the next.
All’s so complex, and then there is the editing of text.
How can one make sense of the grasses and the passing creek?
Each time you cross its flowing water is itself unique.
As Krishna told Arjuna to buck up and face it—all—
the voyager must fare well as he journeys spacetime’s fall.
O, all along its length, they go about their business—birds—
without the everchanging rearranging, gauging words.
Upon the bright green railings of the arching bridge, they perch,
or down beside the marshy route, they make their driving search.
Across the catchment battlements, the killdeer scurry fast;
at this good spot, they want all travelers to hurry past.
Above the first bridge flying round about in swirling sweeps,
barn swallows seek out insects in the scented air so sweet.
Atop the lamppost singing in the early morning light,
o, mimic, many-tongued, the mockingbird sings out and bright.
Eventu’lly one comes to find there are new routes to take,
another way, another day, another heart to brake.
Observe disease in signatures, evoke biography
from wrinkles of the open palm, from fingers, tragedy.
The tea leaves of this morning’s drink alert one to the press
of time upon each individual and each distress,
o whether one is on the shores of Asia or this path
in North America beyond Achilles and his wrath.
The trail ends before the dead end of Longfellow Lane,
here where a lone white egret cautiously surveys terrain,
and then flies high into a circle on enlightened wing,
above the squirrels round the oaks and creekbed widening.
Here the impossible connects the future to the past,
the movement of the open freedom of the present, vast.
Here one returns back to the place where one begins again
past empty church and empty playing field devoid of men,
past wakened morning doves that take a sprinkler’s shaking bath:
your word a lamp unto my feet, a light unto my path.
B. S. Eliud Acrewe is a poet and literary critic influenced by the poetry of T. S. Eliot.
A Meditative Fuse
by Sri Wele Cebuda
He got into the lotus pose while seated on his bed.
He stretched bent legs out to each side and lifted up his head.
He felt so peaceful there, despite coronavirus blues.
Here was a moment to ignite a meditative fuse.
O, lovely rosebud, soft and pink, its petals opening,
no thorny stems to touch, be pricked, no tricky gardening.
He hummed his OMG before the gates of heaven’s host;
he felt the full embrace of father, son and holy ghost.
He loved to open up to cosmic power, strong and sure.
O, he was ready to embrace the future, true and pure.
Sri Wele Cebuda is a poet of prayer and meditation.
The Grand Canal in Venice at the Rialto
by Buceli da Werse
The Grand Canal in Venice at the Rialto,
recorded, as with camera obscura, by
Giovanni Antonio Canaletto,
contains enormous, brilliant, white clouds in the sky.
The middle strand of bridge and buildings, lit by sun
light, pans from left to right, while looking north. The eye
records the intricate details on th’ horizon,
as well as windows, steps, and ornamental notes.
Below, the little glittering wavelets rise on
reflections, as busy gondoliers steer boats
o’er them and past the uncle of Bellotto,
who, like the city’s scenes seen, seems, as if he floats.
Buceli da Werse is a poet of Italian painting. Giovanni Antonio Canaletto (1697-1768} was a painter of city vedute, like those of London, Rome and Venice. Venice is a city of about 260,000. This poem is a bilding.
A Yellow-Crowned Night Heron
by Birdee Euclaws
Along North Locust near the Gardens and the Highway Loop,
a yellow-crowned night heron, in the drainage ditch’s pool,
was startled when I paused to stare, and take a picture too,
so off, in early morning’s brilliant light, the big bird flew.
Before it left, there standing on bright orange-yellow legs,
the stocky gray bird with its thick, short neck and blocky head,
distinctive bold face, black with white cheeks, turned to stare at me,
its creamy yellow crown with head plumes balanced filagree,
immediately straightened up from forward-leaning scrunch,
and leapt on broad, wide, rounded wings upon its frightened hunch.
Birdee Euclaws is a poet of birds.
A Washington State Stay
by Ubs Reece Idwal
How beautiful the Cascades are up from Seattle grime,
the seedy city’s gritty side, an emerald of slime,
where each young sultan rides his harem with tech savvy form,
where some make billions on a whim and take the world by storm.
How high these mountains rise! to pause up at a pass is bliss!
The longed for scenic ride is wonderful, a joyous kiss.
Beyond them lie the valleys, Ellensburg, the windy town,
where one can get to in the nighttime driving down, o, down;
and find a motel in the dark to park at for the night,
where one can sleep, proundly deep, and rise up in the light.
And look back at the Cascades, rising high and gleaming white,
the magic of a moment shining beautiful and bright.
Ubs Reece Idwal is a poet of the Pacific Northwest. The Seattle metro has approximately 4,000,000 inhabitants, Ellensburg is a town of about 20,000. The Cascade Mountains include Mount Ranier, 14,411 feet (4,392 meters) high.
by Rudi E. Welec, “Abs”
In black boots, black gloves, and his brown belt holding in his gut,
he used to do his exercises at the near gym, but
coronavirus sent him from his favourite machines.
He had to work out in his home. O, social distancing.
He still would do his varied exercises as he could,
and though he wasn’t very happy, he knew that he should.
His look was fierce, his eyes were piercing. He inspired dread,
so like a fighter with a beard and mohawk on his head.
He seemed prepared for anything and anyone who came
who dared to interrupt his workout. He was on his game.
Rudi E. Welec, “Abs”, is a poet of exercise.