by “Clear Dew” Ibuse
Upon the dry grass,
buckets of water are dropped:
heaven’s massive spout.
by “Clear Dew” Ibuse
The cat at the door,
it doesn’t matter which side,
wants through one more time.
“Clear Dew” Ibuse is a poet of Japanese poetic forms. Among the many names The Japanese prose and haiku writer Natsume Soseki (1867-1915), was the author who used a common house cat in his satirical novel, I Am a Cat.
by E “Birdcaws” Eule
In armchairs, chatting,
beside the chimney mantle:
a mockingbird chants..
E “Birdcaws” Eule is a poet of Japanese poetic forms, like haiku. He admires the poetry and prose of the Japanese poet Matsuo Basho (1644-1694).
by “Wired Clues” Abe
Offspring on the screen:
from heirloom-tomato size
to banana seen.
by “Wired Clues” Abe
Landing on the Moon,
a rocket from planet Earth:
a space alien.
by “Wired Clues” Abe
The death toll of the
No one knows the count.
by “Wired Clues” Abe
the three-month cell-phone black-out—
reading the tea leaves.
“Wired Clues” Abe is a poet of technology in English, using Japanese forms.
by Wu “Sacred Bee” Li
He saw that butterfly fly past, its wings a W.
It was so charming and disarming, an amazing view.
He stood in black shirt down to black soles there above its flight.
He focused on its passing flaps. O, it was quite a sight.
It flew up, down, and all around, so beautiful to see.
Though stuck in boots upon the grass, he felt sheer ecstasy.
How could he not? It flew nonstop. He could not catch its dance.
He wished that he could hold it fast—that glad and golden glance.
But he could not. It sa-iled off into the lovely air,
ephemeral and fast, it could not last, too fine and fair.
Wu “Sacred Bee” Li is a poet of classical Chinese.
Upon the Couch’s Lie
by Sri Wele Cebuda
He got into the lotus pose upon the couch’s lie.
He spread his legs, bent knees, and lifted up his head on high.
Nearby there was a window flooding light, so bright and white.
He couldn’t help but feel a little twinge, almost delight;
for he could be at peace upon that piece of furniture,
serenely there, like as a king upon a burnished chair.
He gazed in awe at what he saw, the cosmic law revealed.
a lamb, a lad, a laugh, a gas, upon a lovely field.
He felt unfettered, and uncuffed, from life’s ongoing chains.
He held his hands there at his thighs, free from all joys and pains.
Yet he was so content—o, yeah—as if he was set free,
embracing for a bracing form of mi-ld ecstasy.
Sri Wele Cebuda is a poet of meditation.
by Budi Eas Celewr
In Indonesia a mass funeral was held for four;
jihadists murdered coffee farmers they were looking for
The regional police know the identities of
who massacred the Christians in the fields where they hoe.
The group has been at killing people, burning houses down.
a church at mass upon Palm Sunday was itself up blown
The terrorists in Sulawesi want to spill the blood—
as many as they can—of Christians in the neighbourhood.
In Indonesia ISIS-linked and the al-Qaeda groups
are active in each province say the military troops.
Budi Eas Celewr is a poet of the Indonesian archipelago, including islands, like Sulawesi, population approximately 19,000,000.
The Swastika Appears
by W. Israel Ebecud
This week more rockets rained on Israel, day after day.
as antisemitism grows, Manchester to LA.
The present White-House Resident told Israel to stop,
although he hasn’t said a thing to leaders of Hamas.
The Chinese and the Russian armaments used by Iran
are being funneled to the Gazans and to Lebanon.
Appeasement is appealing even if war does not cease.
When Chamberlain gave in to Hitler—that was quite a peace.
This week in Canada and France, the swastika appeared.
In rallies for the Palestinians, hate’s head is reared.
by W. Israel Ebecud
There at the foot of that great mountain a gold calf was made.
one fashioned with a tool. Before the people it was laid.
Behold, an altar there was built. and gilt with jewelry,
adorned with pure corruption and the finest cruelty.
Rejoice, enjoy. Tomorrow there will be a festival.
Ah, yes, indulge in revelry about this pedestal.
And best of all, some will be buried in one vast, mass hole.
O, yeah, it will be beautiful, an awesome godly bull.
They have made up an idol they can worship. That’s their lord.
Rejoice. Enjoy. By horns, this stiff-necked people will be gored.
W, Israel Ebecud is a poet of Israel.
by War di Belecuse
They were commandos going out into the barren dunes.
They parachuted in the night, the only light the moon’s.
They were so hot, the sand was soft, the air was warm and dry.
They’d fallen from the passing plane, out of the massive sky..
The moonlight was so beautiful; so dutiful were they.
Their dogtags shining on their pecs, from necks were silver-grey,
They darted through the shadows with their cocked and loaded guns.
So stealthily they moved, their boots, their muscled legs and buns.
Their tongues were panting, on the landing, as they moved along.
O, they were ready for some action, active, brave and strong.
War di Belecuse is a poet of soldiers and war.
A Grecian Mariner
by Ercules Edibwa
“None but the brave deserve the fair.”
—Apollonous of Rhodes, “Argonautica”
He was a bearded mariner adrift upon the sea.
To him white undulating waves were utter ecstasy.
He cried out, “O, my God!” when he was managing the keel.
Fierce curse words filled loud Jason’s mouth; acerb rock was so real.
He loved it—being out there in the fresh and open air.
Sometimes it was so beautiful, it was too hard to bear.
He shouted to the silent sky that hovered over him.
He loved it when the wind picked up…such rigour and so grim.
He longed to ride the the gust-filled sails. O, Zeus, he loved the blast.
He longed to fly up to the clouds, but held on to the mast.
He was a Grecian mariner. I only saw him once.
He gasped for air. He had to speak. He shouted to the Sun.
Ercules Edibwa is a poet of ancient Greece. Apollonius of Rhodes (early 3rd century BC – late 3rd century BC) was a noted Hellenistic, epic poet.
by Ibewa del Sucre
I saw him at Relato Corto in the Realm of Awe.
Was he a true knight seeking new light overwhelmed by God?
I wondered what he sought to find between the land and sea.
and if his borrowed knowledge came from cosmic mystery.
The blessed journey he was on—that cheeky gentleman—
did he make it, o supercharged with gold adrenaline?
Sebastian Iturralde, cutting short his story’s force,
reminded me of Jorge Borges, barely just, of course.
I only saw a few black lines in print upon the screen.
With such a little bit of grit, what had I really seen?
And yet, it was as though there was some thing to focus on.
But what it was I did not know; and then the dawn was gone.
El Condor No Pasa
by Ibewa del Sucre
A group of over fifteen condors crashed a woman’s pad
in Tehachapi, California. Those birds have been bad.
She’d rather have them sa-il far away, and so be gone…
but still they stay. The human gives the World its saddest song.
Because they are endangered, she could not get rid of them;
the biggest birds in North America have trashed her home.
Her roof, her deck, now show neglect, although this isn’t so;
it’s just because they picked her place as a good place to show.
But for her trouble, Cinda Michols’ name soar’d o’er the news,
though not because she did a thing, but what some birds did choose.
Ibewa del Sucre is a poet of northwestern South America. The composer of “El Condor Pasa”, a sample of zarzuela, was Damiel Aromia Robles (1871-1921) a Peruvian musician. In 1965, American folk-pop artists Paul Simon and Art Garfunkle had a saccharine hit with it. His favourite South American writer is the Argentinian Modernist Jorge Borges (1899-1986).
Manuel Gutiérrez Nájera (1859-1895)
by Cesal Dwe Uribe
He travelled through the desert places in the beating Sun—
El Duque Job, a Frú -Frú Puck, a wide-eyed Junius,
unravelling his visions, like a Raphael composed,
a Mr. Can-Can on the road, or Juan Lanas exposed.
Before Pessoa’s personalities had been revealed,
he found El Campesino toiling in the barren field.
There were so many people that he passed along the way,
Recamier, El Cura de Jalatlazo, o, say,
El Sacerdote stood reposed beside the fountain church,
there strug-gl-ing among the rocks in his great mountain search.
El Perico de los Pelotes, Mister All-in-All,
the Mexican man Manuel Gutiéúrrez Nájera.
The Documented Migrant
by Cesal Dwe Uribe
He was so glad that in the end he got to the US,
the man clad in black boots, gray pants. He felt so truly blessed.
When he got in to that drab room, the stars and stripes hung there;
although he felt so warm, so hot, he loved that arid air.
He slapped his cheeks to make sure it was not some awesome dream,
but was, in fact, reality—O, yeah, uh huh, it’s me.
He laughed, ha-ha. He felt so good, He slapped his cheeks again.
He’d gotten past drugs, sex, and kids, coyotes, hardly men.
How many rosy-fingered dawns had he been traveling?
Life sucked, he felt ridiculous, he’d been unravelling.
But he had focused on the journey. He would not give up.
He held it firm, despite all odds—the holy grail cup.
And now this dude was checking up on him. He felt so good.
The worst was over. Now he could begin to be renewed.
Although his clothing was so spare, in this here barren hole,
he felt, like as a king upon this hard, bare chair—his throne.
Cesal Dwe Uribe is a poet of Mexico. Since Biden has resided in the White House, half a million illegal aliens, from around the Globe, have crossed in the USA, some dying along the way. According to the Angel Mothers, more Americans have died from illegal aliens than died in the last three wars: the Persian Gulf War, the War in Iraq, and the War in Afghanistan.
by Brad Lee Suciew
“We are not criminals, We are not criminals…”
But with you, sir, unwanted stuff doth clutter up the World.
O, with usura, there’s no jurisprudence unprocured.
No heart distempered brings forth order to this Universe.
The cosmic laws regard our thoughts as little more than birds.
The gold man’s sacks, his silver bags, his platinum suitcase:
the bio-chemo-nucle air is swallowed by the Snake.
A World of made is not a world of born, borne on the wind,
but rather a distasteful fate, framed by the hateful din.
The powers of disorder cannot bring new order in.
Around the Milky Way, the Sun goes on, the good Earth spins.
Brad Lee Suciew is a poet of business. This tennos draws on the “Cantos” of Modernist American poet Ezra Pound (1885-1972).
O, Gorgeous Mandolin
by “Bad” Weslie Ecru
We are so cool when we play pool down in the downtown dive.
We shoot our balls. We hit the holes. We are in love with life.
We focus on the bright green lawn; we focus on our aim.
When we are done, we’ve had such fun. We love to play this game.
There’s Mister Muscles: when he hustles he makes wads of cash.
There’s Pistol Pete: when he competes ,he likes to make a splash.
We strike out straight and lurk so late. We play till two-o-eight.
It’s such a boon—the jazz in June—we love the tunes. It’s great.
We are reminded of the music of sweet Gwendolyn
We sing out sin in unison, O, gorgeous mandolin.
“Bad” Weslie Ecru is a poet of Chicago. This tennos draws from one of his favourite poems by Postmodernist American poet Gwendolin Brooks (1917-2000).
by Car Weeled iBus
He sat at the gas station, waiting for his turn to pump,
anticipating when he’d get to get off of his rump.
When finally it was his turn and he could pump his gas,
he drove up, opened up his door and got up off his ass.
He put his card in, punched in buttons, opening the lid,
then grabbed a nozzle, placing it, and squeezed; that’s what he did.
He had heard of the pipeline hack and ransom that was paid—
in bitcoin, ninety million—yeah, someone was getting laid.
Was it the Russians, or some other group or entity?
He didn’t care that much; in fact, he was just glad, you see,
to drive back home to his garage, his couch, and watch TV:
the g-a-s-l-i-n-e-s, ransomware, and action scenes of…gasoline
Car Weeled iBus is a poet of transportation.
No Cactus Plant Nor Shack
by “Wild” E. S. Bucaree
He got into the lotus pose upon the tan divan.
Behind, beige curtains had been closed; along the wall they ran.
He stretched his legs out to each side, like horns upon a steer,
but he was not out on the prairie, at the edge of near.
Beneath him there a blanket fell, like as a waterfall,
but it fell not upon some rocks,; it was not all that tall.
He meditated on those cushions, at the couch’s back;
but what he thought about was neither cactus plant nor shack.
Up rose no hills rimmed by no sun, though there within that house
was one man sitting quite contentedly upon a couch.
If he looked down, there was no ground, but only dark brown floor.
He loved high skies with flying birds, but here they did not soar.
His knees were bent out in the air, like limbs upon a tree;
but here there were not even scraggly bushes growing free;
just this one man in meditation by a door ajar,
but as for that, its opening, would not get him that far.
In concentrated contemplation, point, line, circle plane.
He stretched his muscles, as he sat. Would he be back again?
Informative and Normative
by Rudi E. Welec, “Abs”
O, it’s all yours. You’ve got one body. You should keep it fit.
At times life can be so damn hard, a real son of a bitch.
So you should do some exercises any time you can,
and focus on their functionality. Yes, sir. O, man.
Nutrition is the biggest task of all. Watch what you eat.
Just do your best. Life does the rest. Good food health can’t be beat.
When you begin your workout, do your stretches, head to foot.
It’s so important to warm up, before each day’s reboot.
Loose-fitting trunks aren’t necessary, but they truly help,
when you are flowing, really going, and you want to yell-p.
Position is important too, the placement of your parts,
when you are exercising, from the end back to the start.
Do each completely, o, so neatly, loving every one.
Make all your moves, and all your grooves, an exercise in fun.
Good workouts can make life worth living, giving you an edge.
When dealing with eternity, it helps to have a wedge.
Rudi E. Welec, “Abs” is a poet of physical exercise.