Haiku
          by “Clear Dew” Ibuse

He brings his prey in.
The proud cat caught a gecko.—
Take it outside now.

 

Haiku
          by U “Bird Claw” Eese

It overruns yards—
bird claws dancing on the dirt—
the Bernuda grass.

 

Haiku
          by “Wired Clues” Abe

People avert their eyes.
Laws of the land are broken.
The blinding Sun reigns.

“Clear Dew” Ibuse, U “Bird Claw” Eese, and “Wired Clues” Abe are haiku poets.

~~~

Coronavirus Plague, June 2020
          by Dr. Weslie Ubeca

Fears of a new resurgence of coronavirus plague
appeared this week with pundits saying it has a new leg.
With more than 7,000,000 cases in the World today,
there are more than 400,000 deaths along the way.
America is in the lead—2,000,000 cases known—
more than 100,000 deaths in the US alone.
Some thought with opening up businesses the stats would mount;
and protests heightened fears the plague would ratchet up its count,
while some believed just let ‘er rip with full impunity,
so COVID-19 would drop down with herd immunity.

Dr. Weslie Ubeca is a poet (not a medical doctor) of things medical. Approximate data, from around June 10, 2020: Top Ten States Cases: 1. New York, 380,000+, 2. New Jersey, 165,000+, 3. California, 140,000+, Illinois, 130,000+, 5. Massachusetts, 104,000+, 6. Pennsylvania, 81,000+, 7. Texas, 80,000+, 8. Florida, 67,000+, 9. Michigan 65,000+, 10. Maryland, 60,000+. Top Ten Staets Deaths: 1. New York, 30,000+, 2. New Jersey, 12,000+, 3. Massachusetts, 7,000+, 4. Illinois, 6,000+, 5. Pennsylvanis, 6,000+, 6. Michigan, 5,900+, 7. California, 4,800+, 8.Connecticut, 4,100+, 9. Louisiana, 2,900+, 10. Maryland, 2,800+.

~~~

A Minor Incident
          by Badri Suwecele

The Black Lives Matter rioters in Washington DC
defaced Mahatma Gandhi’s statue by the embassy.
The US Government apologized to India.
DC Police said that they would look deeply into it.
The killing of George Floyd in Minneapolis unleashed
protests across the nation, violence unchecked and piqued.
The statue of the man of peace was desecrated by
the angry vandals of the wild social justice tribe.
The crass profanities spray-painted have been covered up
along with the reporting of this minor incident.

Badri Suwecele is a poet of things relating to India. Mahatma Ganhi (1869-1948), known for his nonviolent resistence, was deeply involved in the India independence movement. He was one of Modernism’s iconic figures of peace.

~~~

A Violin Concerto in D
          by Waldi Berceuse

Prokofiev’s Violin Concerto in D
of 1917 starts with a birdlike tune,
and is of Rimsky-Korsakov and Stravinsky
reminiscent, iridescent, a moon-lit croon,
a luminescent, shimmering Andantino
followed by the flight of time through the month of June,
followed by sudden Scherzo Vivacissimo.
The way is long, and yet one must keep on flapping,
though the time be brief before the Moderato.
Despite surrounding nightmares, one can be happy;
one can soar up to the clouds or sit in a tree
and watch time’s watery waves, lucid and lapping.

Waldi Berceuse is a poet and critic of Russian, and other Slavic, music. Sergei Prokofiev (1891-1953) was a noted Russian Modernist composer and and Nicolay Rimsky-Korsakov (1844-1908) was a noted Russian Realist composer.

~~~

How Odd It Is To See
          by Ercules Edibwa

What place is this? What land is this? What quarter of the Globe?
What have I come to at the last? What open stage and Bowl?
My son, my daughter, are they here? Where is my loving wife?
My father and my mother, are they gone? What is this life?
What is this death repeated over and again I find?
What is the madness come to me, dissolving in my mind?
What is this strange peace come to me? What is this grace I feel?
My sight is leaving. I am grieving. All of this is real.
My day breaks with the sighting of each rosy-fingered Dawn,
like blinding rubies, gold and diamonds. What have I come on?

This is not Hell or Heaven. Is it Purgatory’s realm?
Why have I come to pass across the Highway of the Elm?
From what strange nightmare have I come to drean of what may be?
Why is so little I understand, and even less I see?
What is this Fountain gurgling above this green-lined pond,
with honey locust and mesquite, the sweetness all but gone?
What is this cyclone fence that keeps me from Its waters here,
to be so far from It and them, and yet still be so near?
I see the seconds passing by, proceeding on my way.
Perhaps I shall see Hercules some night, some time, some day.

Ercules Edibwa is a poet intrigued by Homer.

~~~

The Blue Danube
          by Bieder C. Weslau

The blue Danube, enroute from Germany to the Black Sea,
proceeds past Austria, Slovakia and Hungary,
Croatia, Serbia, Romania, Bulgaria,
on to Moldava and Ukraine. Great is its area.
It flows more than one-thousand-and-some-seven-hundred miles.
and meets more nations on its way, except for lengthy Nile.
Green, clear, brown, gray along its way, so many love i flow,
and up and down its constant roll continually go,
including lynx and otters, mace and salmon, beavers too,
bee-eaters and pond turtles, all along the blue Danube.

Bieder C. Weslau is a poet of Central Europe, an admirer of Biedermeier furniture for its conventionally restrained utility.

~~~

The Dead Are Not
          by War di Belecuse

Though poppies grow between the crosses, row on row on row,
the dead are not…are not asleep…are not asleep below.
The torch fell from their failing hands, but few now care of that.
The dead are not returning to this plot of land, this plat.
Though larks may fly above, the world will little note or care.
The dead are not remembered much. The dead are not aware.
A cenotaph that honors them was recently defaced;
the dead are not within that empty tomb, by Whitehall placed;
but since they cannot speak and cannot tell us what they think,
the dead are not about…to…no, as into time they sink.

 

The Old Soldier
          by War di Belecuse

In the cornoavirus lockdown, he avoided suits.
His dog tags hung around his neck; he wore his army boots.
He walked about as if he were at war, but he was not,
and yet he felt the battlefield was here upon his lot.
He felt it was his lot in life to fight the virus off
He had to keep the enemy at bay, to keep aloft.
Like as a scout, he looked about; he was alert and tense.
He scanned the lay of land; he had to keep up his defense.
He gazed intently straight ahead, and then he looked behind.
He felt he needed so to keep a clear and focused mind.

War di Belecuse is a poet of war related topics.

~~~

One Week of Peaceful Protests
          by Caud Sewer Bile

They looted, shot and killed, across America this week.
They burned, destroyed and wrecked their cities, masses mad and piqued.
Chicago and St. Louis, Minneapolis, New York;
their businesses were boarded up, those people out of work.
There were no shoppers on the walks; downtowns were emptied of
their people and their goods, their busy crowds, their joy and love.
It was as if they’d been attacked by terrorists and mobs.
Elsehere, across the nation was an uptick in new jobs.
Free enterprise had been attacked; there was a perfect storm:
Chicago and St. Louis, Minneapolis, New York.

Caud Sewer Bile is a poet of urban angst.

~~~

Chicago, May 31, 2020
          by “Bad” Weslie Ecru
          “I have seen the gunmen kill, and go free to kill again”
              —Carl Sandburg, “Chicago”

It was the end of May,
the vision 2020,
when Chicago fell
deep into hell,
and Chaos reigned again.

Into a dark abyss the City plunged.
The violence increased.
The senseless slaughter—
eighteen souls expunged—
the silence dense.

It happened while the rioting occurred
upon its streets,
the bloodiest of days in sixty years,
the scenes, the screams.

Where are their elegies—
these eighteen souls
who lost their lives?
What of their hopes and dreams,
what of their innocense survives?

The worst are filled
with passionate intensity and hate,
Vile, evil lives within.
When will iniquity abate?

“Bad” Weslie Ecru is a poet of Chicago. His wife’s grandfather’s sister was killed in Chicago, when she was only eighteen years of age.

~~~

In Such a Place
          by Brad Lee Suciew

Not in his wildest nightmare did he think he’d ever go;
for Minneapolis had been his firm’s home for so long;
but 7-Sigma’s owner said his business won’t be back.
“They didn’t care about my business,” said Kris Wyrobek.

The fire engine sat there, while they torched his group’s concern.
They didn’t care about his people. They were on their own.
His business made components and assemblies at that place,
for over thirty years, for industry and aerospace.

On Monday he was sifting through the remnants of the burn
to calculate how to get up and running once again;
but where and when he did not know, he only knew one thing,
he would not stay in such a place. No, he would not return.

Brad Lee Suciew is a poet of business and economics, wary of the G-MAFIA.

~~~

I Caught a Glimpse
          by Cal Wes Ubideer

I didn’t see him—Jeffers on his tower—like a ghost,
in overly dramatic prance, a grand Whit-manic boast,
with as much spirit as the father of Prince Hamlet’s brain,
collapsing on the California coast, a dodgy Dane,
nor White Cliffs hovering above Matt Arnold’s Dover Beach;
this pause on the Pacific out of Sophoclean reach,
or Aeschylus upon the escalator coming down
to see the continental shelf come crashing underground;
I saw another bloated figure, windier than Troy,
come riding on the foamy waves along with Sigmund Freud.

Cal Wes Ubideer is a poet of Californian dreams and nightmares. Robinson Jeffers (1887-1962) was a Modernist American poet, Matt(hew) Arnold was a Victorian British poet and critic, Sophocles (c. 497 BC – c. 406 BC) and Aeschylus (c. 523 BC – c. 456 BC) were Greek tragic poets, and Sigmund Freud (1856-1939) was a Modernist Austrian Psychoanalyst.

~~~

The Acrobat
          by Sirc de Wee Balu

I saw him balanced on a ball, contorted to its form.
The acrobat was having fun, despite the perfect storm.
It was as if he were upon a merry-go-round’s spin,
without a pole to hold on to, or saddle to sit in.
O, up and down and round he went, his back was slightly bent;
regardless of the hardness of his moves he seemed content;
for I could see sheer ecstasy arising from his soul,
as if what he had to contend with made him happy, whole;
and one could tell likewise his audience enjoyed his act,
one stern guy leaned back in his chair, and then his smile cracked.

Sirc de Wee Balu is a poet of the circus and other entertainments.