by “Clear Dew” Ibuse
Wake up, sleepy head.
Here’s a cauliflower head,
kicking in the bed.
“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 E “Birdcaws” Eule
In soft feathered sleep,
the nesting mourning dove coos,
after the rainfall.
by E “Birdcaws” Eule
So swift they go by,
swallowing insects that fly.
The swallows sweep sky.
by E “Birdcaws” Eule
At golden sunset,
ah, on the top of the fence,
a red cardinal.
by E “Birdcaws” Eule
Behind, as it flies,
the scissortail cuts the sky,
to sharp open eyes.
E “Birdcaws” Eule is a poet of Japanese poetic forms, such as haiku and tanka.
by “Clear Dew” Ibuse
Blue sky overhead,
the lawn mower bends beneath
the crepe myrtle blooms.
by “Wired Clues” Abe
Across the driveway,
the white crepe-myrtle blossoms
sail in petaled rain.
“Wired Clues” Abe is a NewMillennial poet interested in the comingling of technology and Japanese poetic forms, like the haiku.
David in an Ephod
by W. Israel Ebecud
He loved to dance when he was young, expressing feelings felt,
like as he was a savage beast on the savannah veldt.
Yet svelte as well there shaking as a warrior prepped for war
against an enemy that he could not help but abhor.
He loved to listen to the driving music that he heard.
He loved the drums, the melodies, the pounding of each word.
He loved the trumpets, harps and timbrels, fir-wood instruments,
the psalteries plucked with a plectrum, gorgeous stimulants.
He felt like as a panther panting on a mountain top;
his heart there beating hard and steady, like a helicopt.
He ‘d kiss the sky, then wave good-bye, alive to brand new life.
He loved to dance when he was young, with passion strapped to strife.
W. Israel Ebecud is a poet of Israel and Judah. The books of Samuel were compiled from documents written and collected by Samuel, Nathan and Gad. According to Beau Lecsi Werd, the verb “helicopt” is used here as a noun, an ephod was a sacred vestment worn by oracular priests.
by Ciber Dele Usaw
“where AI birds are twittering away on insta-amps”
—Cal Wes Ubideer
I have no likes. No dislikes either. And I have no views.
Nobody wants to listen to my lyricks. My licks fuse.
I’m in anOther wOrld, even while I’m in this One.
Nobody wants to share my song, upload it, not a one.
It hurts to be alone, but I can’t fe-el any pain.
My heart is aching, but I can’t…or I will go insane.
My song is so un-wor-ld-ly no per-son can hear it.
My music is too strange, too eerie, too mist-eerie-us.
My hands are heavy metal. That is why I wear a glove.
My spirit is binary digital. O, cyborg love.
Ciber Dele Usaw
“Well I mean, if I can do it, what are the Russians doing to him?”
—man in elevator, “Charade”
On Sunday on a dark web site used by the REvil gang,
for the unlocking of affected systems—in exchange—
the suspect ransomware group has demanded—urgently—
some million-dollars—seventy—in crypto currency.
On Friday many companies and public agencies
were hit—Miami software base Kaseya being breached.
In May, the FBI said REvil—Russian-linked, they guess.
shut down the World’s largest meat-processor—JBS.
On Saturday Joe Biden said the US would respond
if he found out the Kremlin (in this) was at all involved.
Ciber Dele Usaw is a poet of binary numbers. His techno-info is frequently erased, i. e., cut, from YouSaw. What made the hack dramatic and traumatic was it infected over 1,000 businesses with its supply-chain attack.
Red Chinese Recruit
by Uwe Carl Diebes
He was arrested and indicted—Was their nervousness?—
for feeding info to the Chinese intel services.
Recruited on a lecture trip to Shanghai, 2010,
Klaus L. gave info for some money, time and time again.
He had worked at a think tank, German prosecutors said,
collecting data through his contacts for a decade’s length.
What was he thinking at Hanns-Seidel-Stiftung? Did he think?
that he could skirt the rule of law by living on the brink?
Was he promoting strengthening civility by this?
by using data he snuck for democracy and peace?
Uwe Carl Diebes is a poet of Germany. The Hanns Seidel Foundation supposedly supports strenthening civil society instead of striving for the clandestine destruction of it.
by Aedile Cwerbus
If any wish to know all my misfortunes, that can’t be,
though I did not endure more than stars in eternity.
That part will be masked, covered, perishing forever, so.
I do not have a voice of brass; my first name is not Beau.
Wise poets will not write my troubles, like as Neritus;
I have not been to Tomis mist, nor was Odysseus.
But I have been to Rome, the place of em-pire and the gods,
and glad to leave it to its denizens—great Vergil nods.
Athena brought me aid; that is the best I could hope for,
and reading Ovid in the Covid-19 curse and scourge.
Aedile Cwerbus is a poet of Ancient Italy. Ovid (43 BC – 17 AD) was a Silver Age Roman poet. The Coronavirus Disease listed deaths ( extremely approximate): 1) USA, 610,000; 2) Brazil, 520,000; 3) India, 400,000; 4) Mexico, 230,000; 5) Peru, 190,000; 6) Russia, 130,000; 7) UK, 120,000; 8) Italy, 120,000; 9) France, 110,000; 9) Colombia, 100,000; 10) Argentina, 90,000; 11) German, 90,000… Does anyone really believe the Chinese Communists that there were only 4,000 deaths in China? Whatever the case the Chinese Communists, with their supply-chain virus, certainly caused the deaths to date of 4,000,000.
by Dr. Weslie Ubeca
Transmittant Covid-19 delta variant was found
in India, December 2020, inward bound;
and now it ‘s reached some seven dozen nations in six months,
in many countries, like the UK, it ‘s now dominant.
And now new delta-plus is worrying some from its morph,
because it has acquired the spike protein mutant form.
It is the most contagious version of the virus yet,
a superspreading strain, the worst the Wuhan lab has sent.
How many more must die because the Wuhan lab upset
the World with its vile, very virulent ascent.
Dr. Weslie Ubeca is a poet of medicine, not a medical doctor.
In Tokyo, the Japanese Prime Minister declared
a lockdown so to slow mutated strains now climbing there.
On Wednesday night, amidst gang violence, men carried out
a well-coordinated hit on Haiti’s President.
Police killed four, arrested two, with hostages released,
Claude Joseph taking reigns from the dead Jovenel Moïse.
Interlude of the Common Man
by Caud Sewer Bile
From Caribbean to the Mediterranean Sea,
from the Arabian Sea’s reach to the South China Sea,
from Tasman Sea to Bering Sea to the Sargasso Sea,
how strange it is to live in these so-called de-Mock-ra-Seas,
these coups, these new-formed governments, these real conspiracies,
controlled by mobs and oligarchs, backed by securities.
Caud Sewer Bile is a poet of vile, overreaching, overzealous governments.
Le Monocle de Mon Oncle
by Walice de Beers
O, sceptre of the Sun, crown of the full and lovely Moon,
my uncle in a monocle was seated in the room.
He seemed uneasy sitting there beside the many shelves
of ordered boxes, far from foxholes, or French trenches’ delves.
He sat there in his gray and white shoes, neatly combed, coiffured,
my uncle upright, arguing, in a trimmed, dark black beard.
His eyepiece was positioned, as he squinted through its lens;
he looked, like as a Frog, in lotus-posed asana bends.
He longed to make his point known, yes, like as a thinking stone;
he contemplating cannons, the artillery his own…
a deep up-pour-ing from some sal-ti-er well in his bone
that bursts its watery explosion in a moaning OM.
Was he a man of fortune, greeting heirs, or just a dude,
who paused from warehouse work to do a little bit of good?
Nearby another guy was lying back upon his desk,
but wide awake, his scheduled break, marked by an in-tense X.
No red birds flew across a golden floor. Where was the door?
What torrent would befall him if he found a gorgeous ore?
Although he still persisted with his anecdotal bliss,
now past meridian, there was no starry connaissance.
Debating with my uncle, he thought that Auguste Rodin
had reached the summit of his art with Le Penseur’s bold man,
placed on a pedestal of rock, right elbow leaning on
left thigh, his chin positioned on his right hand’s back in bronze.
My uncle, with his right hand on his thigh, his head bent down,
had wondered if that philosophic poet heard a sound,
or was he so far deep in meditation he heard naught;
Archangel Michael’s face by Raphael wrought in his thought.
Walice de Beers is a poet of wealth. Auguste Rodin (1840-1917) was a noted French sculptor. Modernist American poet Wallace Stevens (1879-1955), from whom this poem was drawn, was a connoisseur of art. The High-Renaissance Italian painter Raphael (1483-1520) lived during the lifetime of sculptor, painter and poet Michelangelo (1475-1564).
The Man in Gray
by Red Was Iceblue
The walls, the ceiling, even feeling, his whole world was gray.
He felt as if someone had played a trick on him to stay.
His suit was gray, as was his pain, it would not go away.
But here he was beset by troubles, yet he would not stray.
He longed to leave behind his mind. He longed to have a grin
that covered his whole face, his eyes lit up, a smirk within.
With open eyes, he’d exercise his demons—happy then—
he found that there he could be as content as other men.
Florescent light passed over him, but this he could not see,
as he was focused on that place so far from ecstasy.
Red Was Iceblue was a poet of Modernist, PostModernist, and NewMillennial art.
The Palm Assist
by Curweb E. Ideals
At first he does word-cento—that’s his rearrangement of
a poem’s words—as he sees fit; for him it’s love, it’s fun.
Although I noticed when it came to Wise he cheated some
by using a whole column’s sum—a Humpty Dumpty thrum.
Next comes his meditative in-sert; it’s tough to explain;
like listening to Miles Davis, in a silent way,
it gets his groovy going, writing words and feeling free;
but does he really get a hard-on for his poetry?
Then finally he makes a combo of the first and next,
and ends up mashing, smashing, crashing forth with more than text.
Wise does the same, though many authors may be utilized;
in this way too, combining two or more is realized.
It’s not unlike the work of England’s greatest writing man,
who used the texts of others in creating his own span—
the Swan of Avon—William Shakespeare—poet-dramatist—
who altered British lit with his use of this palm assist.
Curweb E. Ideals is a poet of literary forms, like the “incentovise” of contemporary poet Joshua Corwin, who is not to be confused with Corwin, a Prince of Amber, the main character in the first five books of the “Chronicles of Amber” by Postmodernist American poet and fantasy/sci-fi author Roger Zelazny (1937-1995). Miles Davis (1926-1991) was a noted Postmodernist American trumpeter, bandleader and composer. William Shakespeare (1564-1616) is the favourite English poetic dramatist of Curweb E. Ideals.
by Des Wercebauli
He leaned back on the vinyl, black chair; he was quite relaxed;
unhappiness upon his face showed he was sorely taxed.
Did it have something to do with the file cabinets,
one mustard-coloured and one gray, with tabs by alphabet?
What was requir’d to get this job done satisfactory?
He wondered what was needed; one informed him orally.
It was not beautiful—these forms he had to fill—with fuss;
but there they were like hills before his climbing Sisyphus.
Yet he went forth assiduously with his task at hand,
a steady bureaucrat who was completely in command.
O, who was next up, he would have to see and de-al with,
some man he must control—noblesse oblige—no bliss—thick wit.
Des Wercebauli is a poet of work. One of his favourite writers is PostModernist American short-story writer Donald Bartheme (1931-1989), whose beguiling style he frequently emulates, as in the above dodeca.
His Dream Job
by Ira “Dweeb” Scule
How strange it was to find that he was in the classroom—yeah.
It was the first day back, and he did not know where he was.
It all was weird—the building, students, and the teacher too,
which he was, teaching mathematics; it seemed quite a zoo.
There’d been a meeting with the teachers; that too seemed quite odd.
Though he knew nearly no one, he recalled this college dude.
He had no schedule, so he asked just where the math room was;
but he did not get to the room before the ringing buzz.
He was not lost as to what he should teach the students there;
but he was rather awed to see what some of them did wear.
He taught his lesson; students worked; but it was fairly lax;
yet it would be much better—good—when they would all be back.
And then the buzzer rang! For him it was time to get up.
O, it was time to go to work—but first a coffee cup.
Ira “Dweeb” Scule is a poet of education.
A Cup of Coffee
by Carb Deliseuwe
He loved a cup of coffee in the morning or the night.
That thick, brown drink helped him to think, to focus in his mind.
It might improve his might; it certainly improved his flow.
It kept him going when he really didn’t want to go.
He loved a cup of coffee. O, it pleased him to no end.
Though it might make him nauseous, it still made him ascend.
He ‘d rise up like a mountain or a fountain’s gushing spray.
O, he was so content; a cup of coffee made his day.
He loved a cup of coffee, as it opened up his soul
to all the beautiful there passing out of his control.
Though it was but a rich, warm drink, poured in a simple cup,
he felt like he was supping at Parnassus, filling up.
Carb Deliseuwe is a poet of food and drink. Though he loves a cup of coffee, his favourite drink is carbonated lemon-lime. Parnassus has been known as the home of poetry, music and learning.