by “Leeward Cub” Ise
They cover the grounds,
crinkly leaves of amber brown
the beige, green-grass lawn.
by “Leeward Cub” Ise
The leaves are falling
filling driveways lawn and streets,
then wind swept anew.
“Leeward Cub” Ise is a poet of nature who is fond of Japanes poetic forms.
White Birds in Blue Water
by E. “Birdcaws” Eule
To her—on he swoops.
No egret regrets his act.
Life is in the balance.
If you are not sure, ask him.
So sin. Go in, O, spin. Flow.
E “Birdcaws” Eule is a poet fond of birds and Japanese poetic forms. Kim Sosin is a contemporary poet and photographer.
by “Clear Dew” Ibuse
Still, in Shisendo
one can read and write in peace,
with Chinese classics,
far from the maddening crowd.
O, ceaseless loud cicadas!
Near Arima Hot Springs
by “Clear Dew” Ibuse
Beyond the village lies the citadel of Avichi,
where, when the sun sets, lumbermen fear fern and shadowed tree,
when clouds rise in the atmosphere and angry thunder growls,
disturbing wolves and bears beneath the eyes of watchful owls;
O, even mountain spirits, tearful in the gloomy rain.
cringe at the cries of monkeys, howling at the moon’s disdain.
In this deserted, lonely valley, one could not rejoice;
For your soul would be frightened even at the cuckpp’s voice
No longer Buddhist, even Ishikawa Jozan felt
that, at Arima, he was near the level eight of hell
“Clear Dew” Ibuse is a poet fond of Japan. Shidendo is a villa in the hills of eastern Kyoto created by poet and calligrapher Jozan Ishikawa (1583-1672) as a place where he could read and write classical Chinese poetry.
The Master of Calligraphy
by Li ‘Sacred Bee” Wu
He is a naster of calligraphy and poetry.
His paintings capture flowers, grass, hard ground, bare bush or tree.
His writing is remarkable. His pen is noted for
the beauty of his pictures, as they cross the page, and soar.
The scr-images that he produces cover and reveal;
He loves to take his subjects from the narural and real.
His compositions are a combination he concocts
of settings filled with energy, if only trunks and rocks. rocks
He organizes sallies to the known and the unknown,
and gives his subjects due attention whether stream or stone.
Li “Sacred Bee” Wu is a poet of classical Chinese literature.
The All-Unseeing Eyeball
by Waldeci Erebus
“Soros is one of the most corrupt people in the World.”
—an Hungarian Prime Minister
The All-Unseeing Eyeball glinting from beh8nd the shrouds,
tbs blind and mindless Orb that shines through day’s stark, dark-gray clouds.
The street lights have come on, although it’s only just past three.
here on the light-gray streets of Trinity and Calvary.
There are some people who are being censored in this land.
One sees that segregation rears its ugly head again.
The rhetoric is violent: “They don’t deserve to live,
if they dare call themselves religious or conservative.”
He is the Necromancer ruling over Middle-Earth,
the Gray Tyranno-Soros, Sauron’s own aborted birth.
Waldeci Erebus is a poet of darkness.
On a Sonata of Brahms
by Ewald E. Eisbruc
for Julian D. Woodruff
They play together— violinist and the pianist,
a spraying fountain shooting, splaying airward in a mist,
so peacefully displaying pools and puddles rip-pl-ing,
as birds there tipple dewy drops, aslant on supple wing.
They preen themselves there at the gray edge of the plashing rain,
and quake and quiver friskily again, again, again;
they shake and shiver in the splashing, washing thoughtfully,
a simple, dimpled act, a pause from searching constantly.
And then enough—it’s time to fly—to go off—fluttering,
dismounting the sonata, songless, soft, and scattering.
Ewald E. Eisbruc is a poet and critic of German music. The German composer Johannes Brahms (1833-1897) was one of the greatest composers of 19th century Romantic art music.
<strong>Down a Rabbit Hole
by Bud “Weasel” Rice
He grabbed that rabbit by its bacj and pulled it from the grass.
He shook that gangly creatyre and its wild, hairy mass.
He didn’t want some rabbit hole upon his property.
He snatched that fellow from his thatch, but did so properly.
He carefully proceeded to remove him from the spot,
And moved him to another where he would not wreck his plot.
He took his pole to make sure there was nothing in that pit,
and then he filled it up with heaving heaps of dirty grit.
He caught it just in time to make sure that it didn’t spawn.
He was content to wrench that wretched creature from his lawn.
Shine, Cherished, Grand Republic
by Usa W. Celebride
As this America descends into vulgarity,
and protest, now a molten mass, pours in to anarchy,
I gladly do recall sweet individu’l liberty,
those things that made the nation good, in this home of the free,
like wisdom, justice, moderation and tenacity,
joy, purity, and permanence, faith, hope and charity,
those many values that add worth to personality,
those virtues of humanity assaulted constantly.
Corruption never has been vital or compulsory
for scarlet hearts amidst white stars in blue eternity.
Usa W. Celebride is a celebrator of America. This poem draws from Robinson Jeffers (1887-1962), who tried to bring classical literature to free verse.
The Great Relocation, or the Housing Boom
by Urbawel Cidese
Although we’re in the middle of the Wuhan flu and fears,
it’s the worst public health pandemic in one hundred years;
and unrest ravages the largest cities of the land,
where Democratic tsars refuse to take a stronger stand;
and since the Great Depression, the worst economic news
with millions locked down, out of work—sub-ter-ran-i-an blues
This is an odd time to be having a big housing boom;
but that’s exactly what is happening—the numbers zoom.
The reason’s easy to explain: Americans desire
to flee such cities, relocate away from hate and fire.
Urbawel Cisese is a poet of urban spaces. As an example relating to the above poem, in 2020, already 300,000 have permanently left New York City.
The Snows Came Early to Nevada
by Cawb Delius Ree
“Oakhurst knew that Uncle Billy stole the mules.”
—Wilbur Dee Case, “Lecture on ‘The Outcasts of Poker Flat’”
The snows came early to Nevada. It did not feel right.
It bordered on the mis’rable, that cold and windy night.
Clark County ballot counters had been working overtime.
They did the very best they could, while keeping out of sight.
Above the valley, no snow-covered mountains of delight
were glistening like diamonds, shining glittery and bright.
Beyond the valley meadows and the city streets of light,
some might have seen the mountain tallies rising dark, off-white;
but they weren’t visible among the people at that height,
in front of phones and monitors, drinks clinking, chilled with ice.
Cawb Delius Ree is a poet of Nevada. John Oakhurst and Uncle Billy are two characters from Bret Harte’s short story “The Outcasts of Poker Flatt”. Bret Harte (1838-1902) was an American Realist short story writer.
Five O’Clock Morning Ritual
by Brad Lee Suciew
“Up every morning just to keep a job…”
—Vogies, “Five O’Clock World”
The early morning comes. I have to get up. It is five.
I’d rather stay asleep in bed, but I have got to drive.
I’m thankful that I have a job, but I don’t work from home;
so I must get up now and go; though in low gear, slo mo.
A restroom zip, a coffee trip, a shower and a shave.
I has to keep this ball in motion, yes, day after day.
I dress, arrange the bed, and grab a bite to eat, then brush.
This ritual is zombie-like; I move, but do not rush.
I grab my keys and other varied necessary things,
and drive off in red weather facing green with purple rings.
Brad Lee Suciew is a poet of work.
At the Dance Floor
by Cu Ebide Aswerl
He stood in awe there at the edge, enjoying what he saw.
He’d love to join that shaking crowd that bounced about so raw.
He got out on the dance floor; there were many people there;
so many dancing to the music-permeating air.
But he was tense. It made no sense. Why was he doing this?
Although it was so beautiful, he didn’t feel bliss.
He felt as if he’d come upon an underworld cave.
He didn’t know who knocked about these shadows, knight or knave.
And so he took a lovely beauty for a whirling spin,
then quickly left the premises the way he had come in.
Cu Ebide Aswerl is a poet of dance. In his youth he would dancewildly to the songs he heard on the radio.
Upon a Bo-Flex Max-Three-Trainer
by Rudi E. Welec, “Abs”
He got upon a bo-flex max-three-trainer with dispatch.
He’d snatch a patch of sweet eternity, get off his ass,
He worked on thighs and calves, on arms and lats, and other parts.
The purpose was to raise the beating of his heaving heart.
Knees up and down, arms in and out, but this was not a race.
From head to foot, dog tags to boots, he jounced and bounced in place.
He sucked his gut in, stuck out his chin, he kept on working out.
He felt as if he were some mountain’s fountain jerking spout.
But still he pressed on, never resting till he reached the endo
of one more session, a digression, near the rainbow’s bend.
Rudi E. Welec, “Abs”, is a poet of exercise.
Out Like a Light
by War di Belecuse
Hw had been working all the day—that US Army guy.
He plopped down on his bed to rest for just a little while.
He kept his olive-green socks on, and his black boots too.
Too ti-red to remove then, he did not care who’d approve.
His dog tags had a tinny tinkle, when he moved about;
his bed springs chirped, like as a metal bird upon a bough.
He stirred from left to right, his face flat to the mattress pad.
Some other dude across the room was fiercely-cursing mad.
But he did not care one iota. He was glad, in fact;
for he could fall asleep to it. and did in deed in act.
He fell into a sleep so deep, he didn’t give a damn
that two were brawling close nearby. He barely heard a slam.
War di Belecuse is a poet of the military.
The Oak Climber
by Bard Eucewelis
He climbed up in the oak. His shoes were resting at its crotch.
Once there, he longed to take it up another, higher notch.
He felt so free. The breeze was free. The sunshine warmed his skin.
He wished that he could open up the day and walk on in.
The trunk was sturdy where he stood, the branches there secure,
here rising up before his eyes, attracting like a lure.
He lifted up a limber leg, to take another step.
O. he was filled with energy, excitement, knowledge, pep,
like as an ancient druid coming to a sacred grove,
appeasing woodland gods with pleasing prayers borne of love.