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
It seems quieter
with a series of rain-storms.
Are there fewer birds?
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
The trash cart is flopped,
once it has been dropped.
by “Wired Clues” Abe
The cat’s blanket’s cleaned,
fresh from the washing machine:
it wants the old one.
“Wired Clues” Abe is a poet of technology in English, using Japanese forms.
A new disease from China was announced the 1st of June,
not hidden like the Wuhan bio flu, Bui it is new.
The first case of a human getting H-1-0-N-3;
as yet no indication that it can spread easily.
The lao baixing are still remembering the 4th of June
despite The Panda Xi Jinping and his crack tank dragoons.
John Cena won’t support Taiwan; he must not think it great,
but Taiwan’s battle for its freedom ‘s real. It is not fake.
by Sri Wele Cebuda
Distilled form all eternity, a moem in the sun,
above the alcove past the sand, where thick, high green growth was.
within the house where bright white light spreads through the living room.
beside the wall-length window, on white furniture assumed,
he got in an asana pose, that hard and agile man,
a twist-revolved triangle, angled to the sky’s high span,
his jaw firmed up, his mind immersed, cuffed to his cosmic home,
his humdrum hum accentuated by his deep-voiced OM.
So stretched, erect, yet in black socks and shoes, he held his stance,
firm, but in motion, functioning like as, o, yeah, a dance.
Bharmanasana on a Sofa
by Sei Wele Cebuda
He got into Bharmanasana on the couch—o, yeah.
He heard the clock’s tick-tocking pass, ready, aim, progress.
Uptight, he wanted to stretch out his head, his back and spine.
Ah, yes, he focused on those things, to reach for the divine.
That large asceete, big heart, big feet, arms, like a rooster’s, out,
as if he were upon a fence, he recently did mount.
Out came his cock-a-doodle-do; it was an awesome sound;
He felt so good, there in the morn, extending, inward bound.
That strapping and enthusiastic individual
sang out his shout aloud and proud, so rich and guttural.
He felt like as a bridge to some new beautiful deep realm,
in which he was like as a butterfly, o, over-whelmed.
He flapped and flipped upon his trip; he focused on the scene,
a realty-breaker from t-his acre of eternity.
And he came back, now on his back, by pillow, lap and lamp,
reality, so beautiful, awe placing its firm s-tamp.
In an Asana Pose
by Sei Wele Cebuda
One wondered why he got in an asana pose himself.
What was he trying to attain near that forgotten shelf?
No one was really with him, though there were some close to him.
Some loved his toughness and his focus, but few had his vim.
Still he attempted to embrace the emptiness within.
If he could grasp that awesome nought, could he condense his win?
But though he felt that he was winning, he was losing too
to two there overseeing all that he was going through.
One wondered at the wonder of the one deriving joy
from hunting ducks, o, shooting them, those lovelies downed, decoyed.
Sri Wele Cebuda is a naïve poet of yoga and India. The last line of the above tennos draws from a lost sonnet of 1984 by R. W.
by Darius Belewec
Around Mount Ararat, more than two-thousand years ago,
the country of Urartu sat in eastern Anatole.
This kingdom of the Iron Age was likewise known as Van
from the 9th century BC, foe o’ th’ Assyrian.
First mentioned as “Uruartri” 1274 BC,
one of the loose confederated states of Nairi,
Though it was subject to attacks by the Assyrians.
it once held the religious centre, o, great Musasir;
although its treasures long since hacked, Ardini still remains
a temple in the memory in men’s minds many claims.
Darius Belewec is a poet of Armenia.
by Esiad L. Werecub
Upon the dark couch cushions, o, in an asana pose,
his shoulders wide, his legs astride, his head and torso rose.
One never steps in the same meditation river twice.
As Heraclitus noted everything’s in flux—all flies.
Today his top was black, as was his bottom in lamp light.
O, where he sat was very bright, although it was dark night.
His elbows were akimbo…opened wide/…his inner eye.
He noticed he was satisfied, his mental launch sufficed.
But as he gazed off into space, he wondered where he’d go.
O, yeah, would he reach inner peace that’s always on the go.
Esiad L. Werecub is a poet of Greek mental immersion. Heraclitus (c. 535 BC – c. 475 BC) was an Ionian, PreSocratic philosopher.
Under Duress in Hameln
by Uwe Carl Diebes
Demonic rats now plague the cities with their viruses.
Across the Globe great urban centers are in dire stress.
They gobble dogs, they crunch on cats, they nibble cheese in vats.
They also have been known to eat up bio-hazard bats.
These vermin threaten young and old and all folks in between.
They are a terror and a horror, obnoxious and obscene.
They mask their evil deeds with screeds and fake computer news.
They like to plague hard-working eggs, especially the Jews.
They love to hate, to huff and grate and terrorize the pigs.
They are an awful crowd of vicious, ugly, bigot-gits.
Where is the motley piper who can play their plagues away?
Where is the piebald player and his piccolo? O, say.
Uwe Carl Diebes is a poet of Germany. Germany has had over 89,000 deaths from the Chinese coronavirus. Hameln is a city in Germany of around 56,000.
by Uberde Ascweli
Gozzano, born December 19, 1883—
his given name was Guido—in Turino, Italy,
a representative of crepuscolarismo’s school,
direct and unadorned, nostalgic memories reviewed.
He briefly went to law, before he fled to poetry,
the road to refuge via Gabriele D’Annunzio,
the colloquies addressing youth, repression and regret,
as well as that which came to him, in his case TB, death.
In 1916 in Torino, August 9th he died,
far fallen from Apollo and the alpine mountainside
Uberde Ascweli is a poet of Italy. Gabriele D’Annunzio (1863-1938) was an Italian Modernist.
Adventuring in Sherwood Forest
by Wilude Scabere
The old, bold fart, he loved his art; he loved its moving scene,
like as a movie in a groovy cinema he’d seen.
He loved to think about the greening of America.
He loved the beautiful whenever it occurred, o, yeah.
He loved his dreams—adventuring in Sherwood Forest’s trees.
He loved to linger in its bowers in a warming breeze.
He loved to be with Robin Hood’s good band of merry men.
It was a dream of his to fly through his arboral gym.
But such swashbuckling probably would not occur real soon;
so that bald fart, he used his art to go off to the Moon!
Wilude Scabere is a poet of Medieval England.
A Poet to a Novelist
by Ibewa del Sucre
Was he a postproduction supervisor for Lord Time,
who with his dirty hands was travelling dark realms of crime?
Did he come from Columbia, on the Pacific coast?
Had he seen Gabriel Garcia Márquez or his ghost?
Had he seen Santiago, fisherman El Campeón?
or the insane adventure of Charrière’s Papillion?
Did he brave waves of war-torn horrors with his naïve friend,
with whom a growing tension had developed at the end.
He smelled the fumes of glory on his journey for Lord Time,
ingeniero de projectos, hero of Light’s might.
Ibewa del Sucre is a poet of northwestern South America and the super-real, as can be found in the plays of Plato. Gabriel Garcia Márquez (1927-2014), Ernest Hemingway (1899-1961), and Henri Charrière (1906-1973) were 20th century novelist.
The Spirit of November Third-—he hardly said a word;
with 2020 hindsight, flapping like a flopping bird.
He didn’t have a ghost, no, of a chance to find the truth;
so many sold their country out for silver and vermouth.
At the Apartment
by Brad Lee Suciew
Far from the hustle-bustle jockeying for sweet success
and slick, but nasty, working individuals, o, yes,
he stood up tall in the rectangular apartment room
with soft peach walls, wide, giant windows, in his neat, black boots.
He put his left boot on the foot stool, balancing himself;
the open roomy space did not contain a single shelf.
He gazed in awe at what he saw, reflected in the glass;
he thought he saw a man with bulky, fulcrumed cam’ra pass.
The skies were pale blue; they were so beautiful to see—
that square-jawed dude—so comfy—where he was was ecstasy.
He felt so free, despite the fact he was pressed on all sides,
front, back, below, o, to and fro, this meditative ride.
He had not felt this peaceful, or this calm, in quite a while,
here tripping in trigonagana, up above the tile.
He had worked hard to get to here, but he’d been lucky too
to find two kinds of functioning asanas in his view.
He felt like as D-503 before he left the straight
and narrow pathway of the lovely OneState gate to space.
uncuffed, like as Zamyatin—Yevgeny—in Russia’s grip,
enroute to points beyond in his own special, spatial ship.
Brad Lee Suciew is a poet of business. One of his favourite novels is “We” by Yevgeny Zamyatin (1884-1937). Though “We” was completed one century ago, it fits the present perfectly in so many ways and places.
Henry in a Whirlwind
by Red Was Iceblue
He was stuck at the bottom of the ladder of success.
He wasn’t going anywhere there at the bottom steps.
He felt like as one squatting at the summit of K-2,
unable to go back or forth, unsure of what to do.
Content, but longing for another,,,point of view…revealed,
from which or to, his quiet thoughtfulness could be appealed.
He looked like Carl Anderson’s quaint, comic-strip cartoon,
whose head was big and bald and floating like a big balloon.
a quiet character who hardly said a thing at all,
in a brash pouting, crashing, shouting splashing, smashing squall.
Red Was Iceblue is a poet of Modernist, PostModernist and New Millennial art. Carl Anderson (1865-1948) was a Modernist American cartoonist. K-2 is the 2nd tallest mountain on Earth @ 8,611 meters.
by Rudi E. Welec, “Abs”
There are all kinds of yogas, but perhaps the strangest one
is Diamond Dallas Page’s yoga; yeah, it changes one.
It is relentless, the intense-est, the best kind of fun,
the kind that makes you want to follow it till you are done.
He’s like a daddy panda bear who pumps you up with hope.
DDP yoga is addictive, helping you to cope.
He makes you fe-el tougher, when you’re feelin’ kind o’ weak.
He makes you try when you no longer want to—that is key.
He makes you stronger, really longer, when you think you can’t,
o, Diamond Dallas Page, an inspiration and a stance.
Rudi E. Welec, “Abs”, is a poet of physical exercise.
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