by “Clear Dew” Ibuse
Red-orange leaves on
a large flowering pear tree
slowly fall to earth.
“Clear Dew” Ibuse is a haiku poet.
By “Wired Clues Abe”
Board by board it comes.
The old fence is taken down.
The new fence goes up.
“Wired Clues” Abe is a haiku writer of English, Japanese forms, and New Millennial technology.
The Chinese Dragon sinks its Fangs in unsuspecting souls,
like Swalwell, who will swallow its indoctrination whole,
while sitting on intel committees in the US House.
The CCP has lots of cheese for any micky mouse.
In American Modernist novelist John Dos Passos (1896-1970), used “Newsreel” clips, which are not poems, but simply fragmentary bits, snippets. Micky, in Ireland, is vulgar slang, for penis.
by Lu “Reed ABCs” Wei
A virus rising, a red dragon, crosses over Earth;
with breaths of fire; its desire is to murder mirth.
Though many claim this dragon came from China in Wuhan,
and even from a bio lab made purposef’lly by man;
some others argue it appeared in other places too,
this plague infecting, interjecting itself into view.
Upon its hoard, it tries to gorge on unsuspecting souls.
It has nefarious and various aggressive goals.
It stalks the planet spouting out its deadly flames of hate,
defiling healthy hosts, so to rob, replicate, replace.
Lu “Reed ABCs” Wei is a poet of China.
The survival rates, as per cdc.gov
0-19 years of age: 99.997%;
20-49 years of age: 99.98%;
50-69 years of age: 99.95%; and
70+ years of age: 94.6%.
This week Big Pharma started vaccinating individuals.
Upon the Dark Brown Couch
by Sri Wele Cebuda
He got into the lotus pose upon the dark brown couch.
He spread his legs out to each side below his flattened pouch.
He felt like as a cosmic launch pad prepped and propped to wait,
for some great force to shoot a rocker out to outer space.
The blinds were white and closed and close; the walls were light and gray.
He meditated on his fate; it was a lovely day.
He loved to contemplate his situation hard and long.
By doing so it made him feel very good and strong.
He pushed his tush upon the cushion. O, what might he find,
as inner eye and open mind, dynamic’lly unwind?
Up From Sleep
by Sri Wele Cebuda
He got into the lotus pose. He lifted up his head.
He had just gotten up from sleep, and he was still in bed.
He stretched his legs, a morning guest, the best that he could do.
He turned his head off to the right to kiss the moment new.
He opened up his lips to take a deep breath of fresh air
into his lungs up past his tongue. His hips were over there.
He felt like as a floating lotus on a lovely pond.
With nature, a church to which he could bond, and be beyond.
He longed to grasp eternity and clasp it to his whole
and go amidst its colours of white, beige, bright brown, and rose/
Sri Wele Cebuda is a poet of meditation.
Heard Lyric Clip:
“Smoke on the water; a fire in the sky.” [Deep Purple]
Zam on the Water
by Caud Sewer Bile
“What does it seek in foreign lands?”
—Mikhail Lermontov, “The Sail”
We watched him from our buildings made of steel, glass and stones.
We did our math and engineering in our ordered zones.
We loved one-state solutions, guardians were our police..
We fled imagination, as a dangerous disease.
We kept apart from dreadful individuality.
We heard that happiness and liberty did not agree.
We did our best to focus on the age of the machine.
We tossed bad actors to the Benefactor’s guillotine.
We saw Zam yachting on the Chesapeake, that brownish bay.
We wondered as he sailed on, if he would get away.
It’s Time to Heel
by Caud Sewer Bile
“…a time to keel, a time to heel…”
—Mighty Jungle Gym Quinn
It’s time to heel, lapdog press, keep boots upon the face.
Don’t let the facts get in the news, or truth get in the way.
Support the d-ruling, power-hungry, high-tech oligarchs
With yips and yaps, with zips and zaps, with howling arfs and barks.
Trained lackeys, listen to your masters; let them overreach.
Be sure to shred the Constitution, censor all free speech.
You are the propaganda press. Do not forget your place.
Support d-a-r-k om-minous totalitarian dictates.
Be proud to be part of the Goolag Archipelago,
this brave, well-or-dered, new World Order: Re(ady)-Set-and-Go.
Caud Sewer Bile is a poet of the Swamp. Zam is a nickname for the Russian novelist (1884-1937) potrayed by Boris Kustodiev in 1823.
by War di Belecuse
He stood up at attention in the rawness of the morn,
his dogtags hanging neck to pecs, erect, in uniform.
His head was up, his shoulders back, he pulled his stomach in.
He hardly deigned to move at all, like as a mannikin.
He had been taught to make sure that his muscles were all taut.
He had to be aligned and neat from bottom up to top.
His hair was trim, all parts of him required to be stiff .
He had to stand in place; there was no but, no and, no if.
I saw him once in a reflection mirrored in the sky.
He was an army soldier standing by and by—this guy.
War di Belecuse is a poet of the military.
Wait For the Game To End in the Hot Sun
by Cu Ebide Aswerl
Outside the day was sunny; green grass was beneath the trees.
Inside a van, there was a man, He could not feel a breeze,
He was so hot, but he did not want in the blazing Sun/
He got into the back to get as cool as could be done.
The van in back was dark and shadowy, so hard to see;
but it was where he, for the moment, wanted most to be.
He kept his head within the shade, as best as he could do.
He didn’t want to go out, though he loved the sky was blue.
And there he sat on that hot seat until the time to go.
How did he last so long? he asked himself. Then off he drove.
Cu Ebide Aswel is a poet of waiting. He remembers frequently waiting in cars from youth to maturity.