Thanksgiving Day, November 25, 2021
Usa W. Celebride
Although there is no turkey, and there is a lack of sleep,
thanksgiving…still…abounds, amid the lack of even…peas.
Thanksgiving dinners that will be no more, that once have been,
are still remembered in the mind of golden, hollow men.
Like stuffing with the mashed potatoes, gravy-shallow dams,
desire and memory are so composed—marshmallow yams.
The buttered buns, the broccoli, and tart cranberry sauce,
though nowhere near, re-call again the deepest thoughts of God.
And though the nurse must be on-call, the World’s awesome yet;
as seen through baby’s brand new eyes, o, one is thankful, yes.
Usa W. Celebride is a poet of thanksgiving.
by “Clear Dew” Ibuse
The baby fla-ils,
rounded belly and clenched fists,
Buddha budding, ah.
“Clear Dew” Ibuse is a poet of Japanese poetic forms.
by “Wired Clues” Abe
The squirrels scurry
on the busy one-way street,
lined with large oak trees.
“Wired Clues” Abe is a poet of Japanese forms and traditions with a modern twist.
A New Disposition
by E. “Blue Screw” Dai
He was unbeaten by the rain, unbeaten by the wind,
not bested by the summer heat, nor winned by winter’s wet;
free of desire, strong of body, smiling quietly:
four cups of brown rice, miso, and some veg’tables to eat;
observing all things with dispassion, but recalling well,
that house, o, canopy of pines! where he once used to dwell;
recalling going north, east, west, and southward to the Sun,
o, bearing loves and shedding joys, whenever day burned dun;
not useless to a whirling World, nor useful to a bum:
that is who he would like to be, not praised, nor bothersome.
E. “Blue Screw” Dai is a poet of surreal tendencies. This poem draws deeply from Kenji Miyazawa’s “Ame ni mo makezu”. Kenji Miyazawa (1896-1933) was a Modernist Japanese poet.
by Sri Wele Cebuda
“Shantih shantih shantih”
—T. S. Eliot, “The Wasteland”
He got down on the thick mat in the shavasana pose,
his mind and body, calm, at ease, o, in repine repose.
He spread his legs apart, his body, mind, his heart and soul,
all linked together, tandem tethered, in a random whole.
As he proceeded sinking down, releasing stress and strife,
he rose into a deeper, steeper level-loving life.
His breaths were full, his lips apart, inhale and exhale,
he felt like as a sailor on a float without a sail,
so beautiful, his dips, from tarsal to his fingertips,
relaxed, untaxed, on one of his most pacifistic trips.
According to Beau Lecsi Werd, “brandom” is a neologism linking, “band”, “random”, and “dom”, subsumed under the umbrella of a naturalistic experiential synthesis, as seen in the works of Robert Boyce Brandom, a contemporary NewMillennial American philosopher.
On Monday, Austria began a national lockdown
to help contain coronavirus spreading through the land.
For twenty days the people will be banned from leaving homes,
except for some essential purposes. Up went the moans.
Health Minister of Germany, Jens Spahn, this week has said,
this winter will end with most “vaccinated, cured or dead.”
In Rotterdam, the Netherlands, the Dutch police fired at
protesters demonstrating new constraints for the unvaxed.
Coronavirus deaths by nation:
1. USA, 796,000;
2. Brazil, 613,000;
3. India, 466,000;
4. Mexico, 290,000;
5. Russia, 267,000;
6. Peru, 200,000;
7. UK, 144,000;
8. Indonesia, 143,000;
9. Italy, 133,000;
10. Iran, 129,000…
That Crwthor Du
by Eusebeia Crwld
There by that steep-walled, mountain, semicircular, pooled cwm,
he played that Celtic instrument, the crwth, beneath the Moon,
the lower end braced at the pecs, a strap around the neck,
a hundred voices in the strings, o, at its call and beck.
The tone was rough, but softer, than the modern violin,
its melody was charming, and disarming, like as Gwyn,
when there among the wolves that crowded round his plucky tunes,
he played, in turn, both forcefully and gently, calming them.
O, by that steep-walled, mountain, semicircular, pooled cwm,
he played, as though his life depended on ‘t—that crwthor du.
Eisebeia Crwld is a poet of the Celts. Gwyn is a figure of Celtic lore.
by Cadwel E. Bruise
His poetry falls in the realm of the confessionals,
but is without pomposity seen in professionals,
this editor and founder of the oddball magazine,
whose train of thoughts runs past both rugged hill and jagged stream.
His poetry flows through reality in me(n)tal (p)lanes,
and goes with rhythmic rhymes and verses, free as gentle rains,
this meditating bounder traveling to distant fields,
whose train of thoughts can carry passengers upon its wheels.
His poetry flies up the track, with humble rum-bl-ing,
but rarely with booked airy-dition or crass grum-bl-ing,
this engineer of peace and justice in the universe,
whose train of thoughts goes down the track, unfurling tours and whirs.
Cadwel E. Bruise is a poet of New England, Jason Wright a contemporary poet.
by Brice U. Lawseed
Real journalism is replaced by reading leaves and bones;
reporting facts and evidence replaced by broken stones.
There are few eyes here in this valley of the dying stars.
I had not thought so many had been overwhelmed by tears.
Misinformation rages. Ignorance is everywhere.
So many do not want to know the truth, nor do they care.
So many do not want to be objective or detached.
I had not thought chance had undone so many in its dance.
After the Trial, November 19, 2021
by Bryce U. Lawseed
It has been written that my house will be a house of pray’r;
but some are making it a cave of robbers and despair.
Brice U. Lawseed is a poet of journalism.
Sonnet in B Major
by Caud Sewer Bile
Some people do not like him very much—that woodsy Gump,
the one-time White House senior counselor to Donald Trump.
Effronting him, in garland gaunter than a girl’s briefs,
p(ec)uny FBJ indicted him for his beliefs.
He must come to the Congress Kangaroo Mock Court betimes.
Enough. He don’t. He won’t. And so he must be charged with crimes.
None can invoke ex-ec-u-tive [sic] privilege like that.
Kabuki dancing posturing must be invoked in fact.
Blast him—that war room renegade, that Shaman Q-Anon,
a ban on him, and all so dim, although they be not wrong.
Nobody should now take their eye off of the ball. Show poise.
News of these hit indictments hitting hard are heartless noise.
O, no, contempt of Congress must not be allowed to soar.
No, politicians aren’t corrupt, especially when they roar.
Caud Sewer Bile is a poet of the Swamp. One of his favourite songs is that by “Weird Al” Yankovic—“Gump”. The acronym FBJ comes alphabetically after the FBI.
by Ed “Bear” C. U. Lewis
He stood up at attention, tension in his muscled flex,
his silver dog-tags dangling from his neck down to his pecs.
His face was sober, no stress in his countenance—at all.
He listened to the orders he was given. He was tall.
His legs and feet were in position, knees secure and sure;
they were not locked, nor loaded with what he could not endure.
He was prepared to do what he would be assigned to do,
but thoughtfully and carefully; still in a fighting mood;
o, bravely facing difficulties, ready, steady, strong,
to give his all, o, all he had, though strife be hard and long.
Ed “Bear” C. U. Lewis is a poet of military practice and hardware.
The Soldier in Fatigues
by War di Belecuse
I saw him striding on the ground—the soldier in fatigues;
in vee formation over him—a honking flock of geese.
That panting man was breathing hard. How long had he been there
out in the warm, hard maelstrom that formed around his air?
Left-right, left-right, his hips were tight, as he moved through—Varoom.
He saw the Sky up in the Moon in topsy turvy turf.
What was he running to, o, Lord? What was he running from—
that panting and breathtaking dude down in that mucky mud?
Apparently the enemy was nearer than he knew;
for when he turned around to see, one fired &) he was through.
War di Belecuse is a poet of military matters.
His Hard Workout
by Rudi E. Welec, “Abs”
He loved to be…outside beside the lovely greenery,
there by the gray fence, tall grass, and the thin-stemmed scenery.
How beautiful the rising stalks, the corn, holed in the ground,
that climbs up past the open gym, the barbell’s clinking sound.
Just in from his hard workout, in the sunny morning light,
alone and palely loitering, alive to time and might,
he sits back in that happy place, observing all around,
at peace, and resting, breathing, yes, and glad to be unbound.
It’s time to take a shower, and the water trickles down,
machinery and sight refreshing. There’s no room for doubt.
Rudi E. Welec, “Abs” is a poet of exercise.
by Carb Deliseuwe
He sat down to his breakfast on his favourite hard chair.
He drank a citric-acid orange with a king-cuffed flair,
as much caffeine as in a cup of coffee in that brew,
a plant-based booster for that rooster—Cock-a-doodle-do.
Two pasture-raised brown-eggs from vegetarian-fed hens,
filled with green-peppers, onions, and tomatoes—piquant blend;
two rounded, veggie, sausage patties, only plant protein,
and low-cal wheat-toast, clover-honey covered, roasted, neat.
All finally topped-off with some Greek, low fat-yogurt cream,
less sugar, fewer carbs, but, o, so lush—this yolk-girth dream.
Carb Deliseuwe is a poet of drink and food.
The Omniverous Argentine Tegu
by Bud “Weasel” Rice
The Argentina tegu is a lizard, black and white,
with traits that make it an invasive species over time.
Omnivorous, it eats invertebrates, and carrion,
small vertebrates, and various eggs it can dine upon,
like turtle, tortoise, alligator, crocodile, and birds,
and also eats crustaceans, insects, spiders, annelids.
This species has become invasive in south Florida
and threatens many other creatures with its horrid mug.
Pet owners may have started its rampaging raging romp,
now reaching into Georgia and South Carolina’s stomp.
Bud “Weasel” Rice is a poet of animals.