by “Clear Dew” Ibuse
Nib-bl-ing grass blades,
right at the edge of the house,
the contented cat.
“Clear Dew” Ibuse is a poet of Japanese poetic forms, like free-verse haiku.
by “Lice Brews” Ueda
The white butterfly
flits about the large brick house.
What’s it looking for?
“Lice Brews” Ueda is a poet the tiny.
by “Wired Clues” Abe
As it joins the World
of so many diverse souls,
the baby is loved.
“Wired Clues” Abe is a poet using Japanese forms united with technology, who although he appreciates the Gendai movement and New Rising Haiku, very much admires traditional haiku.
Xi’an is now in lockdown for its many residents,
complaining that they cannot get to stores for food as yet.
Xi’an is a city in China of over 8,000,000.
Across the Globe, the World’s airlines cancelled throngs of flights
due to coronavirus and harsh winter’s varied blights.
Cereal and Coffee
by Carb Deliseuwe
The international news was depressing—Xi Jinping
continued on his genocides and other murdering.
He felt like he was having cereal and coffee in…
the year of 1934—the Führer offering.
So little now had changed, the communists still flourishing.
The raisin muffin that he ate was hardly nourishing.
Across the Globe, G-Mafiat and others plagued the folks…
the year of 2021—a further turn of spokes.
O, dharma wheel, th’ armies r-e-e-l-i-n-g from Afghanistan
off to Zimbabwe…Abu Dhabi off to Zapopan.
Carb Deliseuwe is a poet of food and drink. Xi Jinping is the dictator of China. Abu Dhabi is a city of about 1,500,000 in the UAE, Zapopan, a city of about 1,400,000 in Mexico.
The Turkish lira weakened, as the government’s attempts
to prop it up with interventions failed its fresh steps.
The Nutcracker Suite
by Waldi Berceuse
From “The Nutcracker” came Tchaikovsky’s sweet “Nutcracker Suite,”
eight musical highlights from the ballét he did complete.
First are the Overture and March before the dances come,
the opening, the fairy dancing of the Sugar Plum.
Then Russian dance, Arabian and followed by Chinese,
next the Reed Flute and Flower Waltz—such fine transparencies.
O, what a magical concoction coming from a tale
by dark E. T. A. Hoffman and Tchaikovsky’s soulful gale,
by choreographer Petipa seeking sparkling bright,
adapting Alexandre Dumas père to his delight.
Waldi Berceuse is a poet of Slavic music. E. T. A. Hoffman (1776-1822) was a German Romantic short story writer, Marius Petipa (1818-1910) was a French ballet choreographer, Alexandre Dumas père (1802-1870) was a noted French Romantic novelist of works, such as “The Count of Monte Christo”, Pyotr Ilyich Tchaikovsky (1840-1893) was a noted Romantic Russian composer.
by Erisbawdle Cue
Though one be weary of the storm and sick with some disease,
one still needs to continue on no matter what one feels.
Life ever is a series of new difficulties which
one has to face through thin and thick—the neverending whip.
One must buck up, o, even when one wants to just lie down,
one has to rise to greet the dawn and meet one’s doom head on.
One needs to get into the mood, to press forth, even though,
one would prefer to fall apart and simply let It go.
Day after day this is the case; one has to face the hard;
but do so, yes, with the enthusiasm of a bard.
We live within a Universe so violent and harsh;
we are its subjects and its objects and its only charm.
Erisbawdle Cue is a poet of ethics and lecithins. Lecithins are combinations of glycerophospholipids. Lecithin was first isolated by French chemist Théodore Gobley (1811-1876); the word comes from egg yolk, “lekithos”, in Ancient Greek.
by Earl W. Sidecube
“El mundo es unas cuantas tiernas imprecisiones.”
—Jorge Borges, “…en un Libro de Joseph Conrad”
I saw him looking out behind a big, white, rounded mask.
Sunglasses made his eyes seem large, o, crazed and crafty, crass.
Like as a ninja alien, but, o, how could I ask—
What was he holding in his hand? Was he obtaining gas?
He stood beside a car; I saw his image in the glass,
like as Fernand Léger surrounded by bright, coloured ads.
Why had he paused? What did he see? O, why not simply pass?
What was reflected in his rearview mirror’s azure scan?
Was he in Argentina, near theives, rustlers and ranch hands?
Must even pages fall between the odd ones, leaves of grass?
Earl W. Sidecube is a poet of alternate realities. Modernist French painter Fernand Léger (1881-1955) was a tubist, forerunner of pop art. Jorge Borges (1899-1986) was a PostModernist Argentinian poet. Joseph Conrad (1857-1924) was a Modernist British novelist and short story writer. Stephen Page is a contemporary writer.
A US B-2 Bomber caught midflight on Google Earth,
was recently observed—that Northup Grumman Spirit stealth—
like as a pointed rainbow over Midwest farms below,
transparent, but apparent, yes, and with a shiny glow.
Located near the Whiteman Airforce Base in Warrensburg
the current home of the B-2 air-fleet, Missouri urb.
by Caud Sewer Bile
“Promises, promises, I’m all through with…”
—liricist Hal David, “Promise, Promises”
A year from now life will be normal, old Joe Biden said,
but since Trump left, the trouble is, there are more covid dead.
He said he would shut down the virus, yes, repeatedly;
however, that has not occurred; he ‘s not defeated it.
He said he didn’t think vaccines should ever be required,
and yet he’s forcing them on millions, or they will be fired.
He said he’d only ask Americans to wear their masks
a mere one-hundred days, there’d be no more that he would ask.
He said he would improve availability of tests
that was in February last; but they are not here yet.
Caud Sewer Bile is a poet of the Swamp. Some statisticians, like those reported in The Economist, have extrapolated that there may be up to four times as many deaths, as the 5,400,000 reported so far due to under-reporting in certain areas of the World. Many deaths are not tested with people infected with SARS-CoV-2, while some may have had other ailments that may have ended their lives on a similar timeframe anyway. However, one statistic is fairly clear: Fauci has worked for the US government for 55 years, and was paid $434,312 in 2020, making him the highest-compensated federal employee.
Time for Exercise
by Rudi E. Welec, “Abs”
He wasn’t twenty-one years old. One wondered was he wise.
He definitely knew that it was time for exercise.
He had to work his muscles out, to move his legs and hips.
He had to tighten abs and delts, and do both lifts and dips.
O, back and forth, o, forth and back. He needed to do more.
He had to seize the day and make his sinews good and soar.
He had to run in place. He had to keep on running fast.
One wondered just how long his energetic jets would last.
Could he keep going, onward rolling, through the cracks of doom?
and if he could, what was his mood, when he’d hit sonic boom?
A Golf Ball o’er the Gulf
by Rudi E. Welec, “Abs”
He had another cup of coffee at the open door.
He looked out past the varnished fence—the neighbour’s yard before.
He felt so free. Who could he see? Who stood beyond the fence?
He saw nobody standing there. He wasn’t feeling tense.
He stared in his white tee-shirt, as he took a deep, long breath.
He was at ease, so peaceful there. He didn’t feel a threat.
He was so happy that no one was there to look at him.
O, could he hold that pose for long, he’d do it with great vim.
But he had other things to do, and so he finished off
his cup of coffee with a gulp—a golf ball o’er the gulf.
Rudi E. Welec, “Abs” is a poet of sport. A previous neighbour used to lob golf balls, bright white, yellow-green, and yellow, onto his fenced-in lawn.
The Working Man
by Des Wercebauli
He was a hardy worker, working very hard indeed.
He was attempting to keep up—approaching New Year’s Eve.
He was there walking in black stockings, brown shoes on his feet.
His brown belt held his rugged pants. His outfit was complete.
One heard the tintinnabulation of his silver tags.
Beneath his gaze, one saw the sagging of his eyeball bags.
He felt like as he’d stuffed himself with Christmas meats and sweets.
He’d have to make a resolution—Go slow on the treats.
But as for now, he simply kept on working at his job;
he’d have to overlook the fact, he seemed a bobbing blob.
Des Wercebauli is a poet of the working man.