by “Clear Dew” Ibuse
In early dawn’s light,
standing at the window—whoa!
a hummingbird thrums.
by “Clear Dew” Ibuse
Through cloudless, blue sky,
the Sun is pouring down hard;
the crepe myrtle blooms.
by “Clear Dew” Ibuse
From corn on the cob,
to grounded rutabaga,
they grow—roots to air.
“Clear Dew” Ibuse is a poet of Japanese forms in English, especially the traditional haiku, which reached its height in the 17th -19th centuries.
by “Wired Clues” Abe
Lightning and thunder—
underneath the clouds rain pours—
by “Wired Clues” Abe
At the house’s base,
stands the man with his edger,
trimming the thick grass.
by “Wired Clues” Abe
This midsummer night,
over the water tower,
the full moon goes down.
“Wired Clues” Abe is a NewMillennial haiku poet.
Hong Kongers Bid a Painful Farewell in the Pouring Rain
by Li “Web Crease” Du
Hong Kong’s most vocal proDemocracy newspaper’s gone,
its last edition printed Thursday; its long run was done.
It is the end of freedom for the Hong Kong media—
this nail in the coffin of free speech, immediate.
Since Jimmy Lai began the paper, 1995,
the Apple Daily did its best to help the truth survive.
But now the CCP has quashed the Hong Kong voices that
do not support its vicious lies, its villainy in tact.
Remember Jimmy Lai who had a vision of the truth,
as Chinese Communists do all they can to stop the news.
Li “Web Crease” Du is a poet of China.
by Sri Wele Cebuda
There are a lot of benefits for doing yoga—yeah:
your flexibility improves and overall wellness;
you will have better breath control, increased testosterone;
your focus will improve—o, yeah—mind, body, flesh and bone;
you can attain a better posture, more tranquility;
perhaps you also will decrease your risk of injury;
and the asanas you do may increase mobility;
perhaps from ailments you have, you’ll boost recovery.
Along with balance and awareness, joint health can improve.
In short, contentment comes to you when you’re in yoga’s groove.
The Sleek Ascete
by Sri Wele Cebuda
The slikh ascete sat on the round, black cushioned table-seat.
Triangles dangled all around in air, on wall, in heat.
Bharmanasana was his pose—this thinker thought in th-ir-ds.
Absorbing orbit Earth, he took deep breaths in stark, dark threads.
That thirsty seeker after knowledge drank in all he could;
but it was all this awed disciple could do to do good.
He longed to reach a satisfying height there in that realm,
a lofty vision, clear and focused, that would overwhelm.
His mind divined sweet bliss; he raised his head, his torso too;
the rugged mountain he was on gave him an awesome view.
He thought and thought and thought but did not speak a single word,
though in a drab and dreary place, like as a winging bird.
Sri Wele Cebuda is a poet of yoga.
Election in Iran
by Delir Ecwabeus
Iran accused the USA of interference for
observing their election was not either free nor fair.
US officials spoke of the invalid ballots cast;
and they should know about all that, o, yes, indeed, alas.
Iran said US critics meddled in their own affairs,
while many voiced that low turn-out had demonstrated err’rs.
New Resident-in-chief, now Ebrahim Raisa, laid
aside his part in killings back in 1988.
The hardline goal of keeping power, keeping others out,
continues in Iran; in the US there’s room for doubt.
Delir Ecwabeus is a poet of Iran.
The Mountain Climber
by Ercules Edibwa
“They gang in Stirks, And come out Asses, Plain truth to speak,
An’ syne they think To climb Parnassus By dint o’ Greek.”
He pulled a strap, as he clung to the surface he was on—
it was a rugged mountain slope in rosy-fingered dawn.
He hung there dressed in camo pants; he paused to look around.
O, he was looking out below his dogtags hanging down.
O, his position was precarious where he was at.
O, how he wished that he could be relaxed and much more flat.
But he had to continue climbing up the mountainside,
the pressure mounting, as he sighed. O, could he make it ride?
He had no crampons, harness, rope, belay device, or axe,
and yet he kept on going up, on each edge Niche attack.
His body twisted, mind assisted, o, a soul in stress;
but he would keep on going upward. Yes, o, yes, o yes.
Ercules Edibwa is a poet of Ancient Greece. One of his favourite 19th century oracles was Friedrich Nietzsche (1844-1900).
From Hermann Hesse
by Uwe Carl Diebes
How strange it is to walk in fog, detached each bush and stone!
No tree can see another tree; for each one is alone.
So full of friends my world was, when my life was still light;
but now that fog is falling, ah, no one is in my sight.
I say that truly none is wise, who does not know the dark,
which softly, inescapably, from all, keeps each—a-part.
How strange it is to walk in fog; this life is loneliness.
No person knows another one; each is the onliest.
Of all the many things I learned from Hermann Hesse, this
is what I keep…remembering…before the great Abyss.
Uwe Carl Diebes is a poet of Germany and German literature. One of his favourite novelists is German Modernist Hermann Hesse (1877-1962). Though in his youth, “Steppenwolf” and “Siddhartha” were his favourite Hesse novels, now it is “The Glass Bead Game”. Hesse won the Nobel Prize for literature in 1946.
O, Do Not Weep
by Badri Suwecele
O, do not weep, the corpses speak, be happy, o, be glad,
though Ganges be a hearse, Lord Ram, and we ourselves are sad.
The woods are ashes, spots are rare at crematoria;
care-givers, mourners and pall-bearers even rarer, yah.
O, Yama prances in his dances over Ganges flow;
the smoke arises from our chimneys; we are very low.
As bangles break and chest-hearts shake, he fiddles as we burn.
O, Ganga, billa-ranga lances fly across the stern.
Your clothes are radiant, Lord Ram, the emperor has none;
we all are naked to this virus here beneath the Sun.
Badri Suwecele is a poet of India. This tennos owes its essence and its very existence to “Shabvahini Ganga” by NewMillennial Indian poetess Parul Khakhar. The title comes from a poem “War Is Kind” by American Realist Stephen Crane (1871-1900). The Ganges River (Ganga) flows from the Himalayas to Bangladesh. The virus is the Communist Chinese, Wuhan bio-lab virus set upon the World in 2019.
A Fairy Tale
by Lucas Eberewud
The Emperor advanced beneath the lovely canopy.
All called his brand new clothes superb, pretending they could see.
None dared to mention that he wasn’t wearing much at all.
lest they be branded foolish or a dumb “neanderthal”.
The grand procession moved along; the crowds looked on in awe;
The ogling and the oohing went on in das Kapital.
But he’s not wearing anything, observed a little kid,
and others started noticing that that was true indeed.
The Emperor felt most uncomf’tr’ble; but thought he would
continue on till the procession ended in his Hood.
Lucas Eberewud is a poet of Denmark. The “Emperor’s New Clothes” is a tale by Danish Golden Age writer Hans Christian Anderson (1805-1875). One of his least favourite authors is Job I. Denmark, a New Millennial basket case.
Act One, Scene One
by Wilude Scabere
Who’s there? What art thou, Spirit, that usurp’st this time of night.
‘Tis bitter cold, and I am sick at heart. What is this sight?
Please speak. I charge thee speak. Why art thou here? Why dost thou stay?
O, Spirit of November Third, why won’t you go away?
In what particular, I know not what thou may portend.
It bodes some strange eruption to our state—perhaps some end.
O, harbinger and prologue to the omen coming on,
please tell me now, if there be any good thing to be done.
If thou are privy to thy country’s fate, please let me know.
Why dost thou walk in death but vanish when the cock doth crow?
Wilude Scabere is a poet of British literature. This tennos draws from English poet William Shakespeare’s Hamlet.
How Many Forces?
by Ira “Dweeb” Scule
Since Newton’s time, we’ve come to know of five known forces—yeah;
that’s how they are presented in the present era—yet…
There’s gravity, electromagnetism, and strong force,
the weak force, and the Higgs field, making up the five, of course.
It’s gravity that keeps us firmly planted on the Earth,
and guides the planets and the stars throughout the Universe.
Electromagnetism covers chemistry and light,
while strong force binds the nucleus with an enormous might.
The weak force takes into account the ra-di-o-ac-tive,
while the Higgs field gives mass to sub-atomic particles.
In the late 1960s, scientists began to think
electromagnetism and weak force were but one thing;
and recently the Higgs field’s inextricably so linked
to those three forces; maybe they are their own unity.
The great English mathematician, physicist and astronomer Isaac Newton (1643-1727) was considered by Einstein, inter alia, to be the greatest scientist of all time.
Cebas Ur Ewilde
by Ibewa del Sucre
O, Cebas Ur Ewilde was an Ecuadoran knight
whose zest in quest of fantasy, his zeal and delight;
like Don Quixote, caught between adventure and the real,
was lost in authenticity and dreams of what could be.
O, Cebas Ur Ewilde wasn’t truly all that fat,
no Sancho Panza, that original, nor feral cat;
but he was like an author, by imagination fed,
the type Alonso, battle-ready, addle-headed, read.
O, Cebas Ur Ewilde wasn’t venerable, no,
nor awesome-dreadful either; neither one described his soul;
no, he was rather like a source or spring of water found
next to a fountain showering and flowing, outward bound.
Ibewa del Sucre is a poet of Spanish South America. The novel “Don Quixote” was written by Spanish writer Miguel de Cervantes Saavedra (1547-1616), who is not only one of the greatest Spanish writers of El Siglo de Oro, but of World literature. The main characters in the two parts (1605, 1615) are Alonso Quixano (who renames himself) and his sidekick Sancho Panza (a local farmer). In the novel, Don Quixote decides to become a knight-errant to revive chivalry and serve his country. For the ingenious literary critic and gentleman Bièl Cerwaudes, “Don Quixote” is the greatest novel of all time. Bièl Cerwaudes is not alone in his assessment, Fyodor Dostoyevsky, likewise thought so: “Of all the beautiful individuals in Christian literature, one stands out as the most perfect, Don Quixote.”
by Urbawel Cidese
He rested on the window sill of his department room.
He looked down on the city far below his looming gloom.
The dark-brown curtains at his side, the bright white sky beyond.
he wished that he could be transported by a magic wand.
But still he stood there at the gray sill, while the whee-l turned,
the bright-white, giant ferris-whee-l, in clear light discerned.
His agony was real, like as the urban landscape seen:
the many buildings towering, and unseen streets between.
He wished there was some power that could safely take him down
there to the bottom of that awesome city on the ground;
but what was there where he was at but just a jolting shove
out of his work, his job—that jerk! and not a jot of love.
Urbawel Cidese is a poet of the city.
A Motel Piece of Mind
by Bruc “Diesel” Awe
He was an eager beaver to git in his motel room;
he had been driving hours and he wanted something new.
The walls were gray and lightest green, so beautiful to see.
He got upon the bed-spread for the peace of ecstasy.
Outside the light was bright and white, the leaves a lovely green.
Inside the framed pic was a gorgeous, torrid, florid scene.
The plant was pleasant, pleasing in a pretty colour scheme;
but it was re-al, not a de-al like a creamy dream.
Ah, he was glad to git down on the bed to take a rest.
He felt as though, o, yeah, he was a very pampered guest.
He plopped down on his back, his mouth was breathing, o, so deep.
Perhaps he’d find some piece of mind, content, relaxed, and sleep.
Bruc “Diesel” Awe is a poet of truck drivers.
by Brad Lee Suciew
On August 20, 2020, AMC began
reopening its theatres across the US span.
A special ticket 15¢ promoted on that day—
at 1920 prices—what attendees had to pay.
The company reported that their cash would be used up
by 2021. Hedge funds thought it an easy scoop.
But January brought free-market Army-Apes in force,
who moved the stock up crazily. The shorts got smacked, of course.
So hedge funds, with their friends in corp’rate media, fought back
misinfo to investors, Citadel wants off the track.
Brad Lee Suciew is a poet of business. One of his favourite French PostModernist novels is that by Pierre Boulle (1912-1994)—”La planète des singes.”
A CCR Revival Hearing
by Educable Wires
A song that’s going through my head, as summer starts again,
was by John Fogerty, called “Have You Ever Seen the Rain?”
Straightforward lyrics ask the question with intensity
about a sunny day beset by rain’s pierced density.
The simple trochees pass by with a plaintive urgency,
and yet there’s something strangely upbeat in delivery.
It is a song I never paid attention to before,
yet here I am continuing to hear this disc’s disc-ord.
“I wanna know” why it keeps playing. Is it here to stay—
this catchy, clear, curt lyric—like rain on a sunny day?
Educable Wires is a poet of rock. John Fogerty was a member of Creedence Clearwater Revival. “Have You Ever Seen the Rain?” was a single released in 1971. Sunshowers are a common Louisiana phenom.
by Waldesi Erebus
From childhood, I have not been content as others were.
I did not want what others wanted; such brought me no myrrth.
I did not yearn to learn what I might earn to gain some joy.
I did not long to be a happy, satisfied, young boy.
I did not wish that I could find a treasure for my own.
I did not yen for pleasures that would make me less forlone.
I did not hope that I could cope with being as I was.
I did not dream that I could scheme to leave this chasm’s bluff.
And so now when I must depart, I do not care at all
for what I’m leaving now behind forever in my fall.
Waldeci Erebus is a poet of the dark side. According to Beau Lecsi Werd, myrrth and forlone are understandable neologisms in context.