by “Clear Dew” Ibuse
The baby flails
with excited energy.
human solar flairs.
“Clear Dew” Ibuse is a poet of Japanese forms.
by “Wired Clues” Abe
Pink, azure, and gray,
in straight horizontal strafes,
dawns electric day.
by “Wired Clues” Abe
Rigid foam board, cans,
blown from the housing project,
sit in trees and streets.
“Wired Clues” Abe is a poet of Japanese forms and traditions with a modern twist.
Top tennis champion Novak Djokovic from Serbia
has been deported from Australia since he wasn’t vaxxed.
He has a large stake in a Danish firm QuantBioRes
that’s working on a cure for covid, í-ron-íc-al-ly.
The Winter Games Go On
by Lu “Reed ABCs” Wei
“Nobody cares what’s happening to the Uighyrs.”
—billionaire Chamath Palihapitiyah
“Beware the Corporate Industrial Complex.”
—thousandaire Brad Lee Suciewe
Although detainees must sleep in cramped cells on cément floors,
and though they must wear shackles with their numbered uniforms,
and though repression crosses Xinjiang’s pale-locked-down sky,
the corporate industrial compléx won’t bat an eye.
Although Hong Kong was once a base of civil liberties,
and though the communists crush those who want democracy,
and though the people now are jailed, practicing free speech,
the corporate industrial compléx won’t say a thing.
So now in Beijing, the Olympic Winter Games go on,
supported by Proctor & Gamble, Visa and Bridgestone,
Intel, Allianz, Coca Cola, and Airbnb…
The IOC states it will be still aired by NBC.
Lu “Reed ABCs” Wei is a poet of New Millennial China. Other companies include Alibaba, Atos, Dow, General Electric, Omega, Panasonic, and Toyota.
The black five-hundred-fifty-five-point-five-five diamond rock
from outer space, in February will be auctioned off.
Its facets number fifty-five, this khamsa from Dubai,
named “The Engima” represented by the number five.
In Israel, a team of scientists showed that a boost
of Pfizer or Moderna won’t stop Omicron’s roots roost.
by Duc Blaise Were
“L’appétit vient en mangeant, la soif s’en va en buvant.”
As he was too obese—that beast—he felt he needed to
lose weight around his hips, o, yes, and tighten abs up too.
But people whom he loved told him, he was just fine as is,
and buddies told him that they loved those attitudes of his.
Still, even if the crudest dude thought that he was okay,
he wished he wasn’t, yet, so fat, no matter what they’d say.
His problem was will power: o, he didn’t have enough;
there were too many cooks out there who loved to fill him up.
He took a beating—he loved eating—snacking all the time.
If only he could lighten up and slow his appetite.
Duc Blaise Were is a poet of French cuisine. The French translation is approximately, “Appetite comes with eating, thirst goes away with drinking.” Alcofribas Nasier (c. 1488-1553) was a noted French writer of the Renaissance.
On Claude Michel
by Beau Ecs Wilder
I read some poems by the poetess Toi Derricotte,
because she had received the Wallace Stevens…dot-dot-dot.
And then I thought of Claude Michel, called also Clodion,
a terracotta sculptor, rococo and francophone.
I thought of his “The Separating Waters of the Rhine”—
there pouring water out as some old dude upon his side.
I wouldn’t call it nice; it rides in gray-pink, baked-earth clay;
but it has that within its splat, flat in display its glaze.
And I have heard his Homer was a beggar chased away
by fishermen who wouldn’t give the guy the time of day.
Beau Ecs Wilder is a poet of 18th and 19th century French art. Toi Derricotte is a contempory American writer, Wallace Stevens (1879-1955) a Modernist American poet, Claude Michel (1738-1818) a French Rococo sculptor, and Homer (fl. 8th century BC) an ancient Greek epic poet of extraordinary power.
At the Gallery
by Red Was Iceblue
He stood before the Minimalist painting—Valery—
appalled at all the gorgeous pictures in the gallery.
His dark brown hair, his beard and mustache, neat and finely combed
contrasted with the Mondrian so straight, to which he’d roamed.
He looked behind to see if one saw him; he was discreet.
He paused to tie his big black boots he wore upon his feet.
And then proceeded to look at the art before his mind,
agreeable the gray background, criss-crossed, well-placed, brown lined.
He wondered how long would the wonder of this painting stay.
He loved its beauty and its order in that corner bay.
He loved its basic pattern; it inspired to no end;
but even pictures have to go away in space-time’s bend.
Red Was Iceblue is a poet of Modernist, PostModernist, and NewMillennist art. Paul Valéry (1871-1945) was a Modernist French proset. Piet Mondrian (1872-1944) was a Modernist Dutch painter.
As covid-19 has become endemic in its course,
by March, it seems that England will toss out its vax passports,
nor will there be mask mandates forced upon the people there,
whoever wakes in England then, some morning unaware.
British poet Robert Browning (1812-1889) was invoked in the last line above.
At the Swimming Pool
by SubCIA Weedler
Around the swimming pool he saw green vegetation sprawl,
the aqua, sunlit water, undisturbed, rectangular.
A man sat lounging upright in a hard, reclining chair,
his face was rather distant, vacant, in a vapid stare.
His left hand rested on a redge. What was he thinking of?
A cocktail in his hand, o, yes, or azure sky above?
It was not love, but was it something shaken, and not stirred?
A waiter with a nearby tray made the whole scene absurd.
Was that James Bond? or Daniel Craig? or Ian Fleming’s ghost?
who ordered a martini, and was there about to toast.
SubCIA Weedler is a poet of espionage. James Bond was a character developed by British PostModernist novelist Ian Fleming (1908-1964), Daniel Craig is a contemporary British actor. According to Beau Lecsi Werd, a “redge” is a round-edged object.
To Git, and Get Free
by War di Belecuse
He was a member of a squad in a banged-up platoon,
that only recently had managed to escape grim goons.
Beneath the Moon, he and his fellow troops had snuck away;
they under cover ran the gauntlet prior to the day.
The glowing Moon had offered all the light that they possessed
to get across the battlefield and earn a bit of rest.
His fellow soldiers worked together, passing enemies,
that lingered everywhere they went, to reach good benefits.
O, dangers hung around each corner in that darkened night;
the little hope they had was working as a team outright.
They squatted down beneath the trees, their dog-tags swinging low,
their focus was to git, and git free from their foe’s control.
War di Belecuse is a poet of conflict. January 17th, 2022 had the first full moon of the year.
by “Weird” Ace Blues
He said he wanted to be known “as a jazz poet” who
would blow, and blew, “long blues” upon sweet Sunday afternoons,
free-flowing, uninhibited, incorporating jazz:
o, there beside the bright blue drapes, he’d play, yeh, play his sax.
He was a Cath’lic cat who loved to meditate on life,
in cosmic, karmic, samsāra, in heaven’s holy strife.
He’d open up his inner eye, to gaze upon the World,
composing gorgeous, mellow music, manfully unfurled.
Like as an arrow whacked, backed by a jacked-up whirlwind,
o, Kerouac up On the Road and traveling to Ind,
sought out the sots that he could find to ask them what they thought
of living on the edge of love, like as an astronaut.
He strove to be a beat, but not without beatitudes.
He longed to reach the beautiful and all its varied goods.
He longed to penetrate the inner beaches of his mind
and grasp new insights into life, and note all he could find.
“Weird” Ace Blues is a poet of Beats. Jack Kerouac (1922-1969) was a PostModern American novelist and poet of French-Canadian heritage. L10 of this hexadeca alludes to both Milton and a novel.
by Slade U. W. Bierce
“What like a bullet can undeceive!”
—Herman Melville, “Shiloh: A Requiem (April, 1862)”
In Colleyville, north of Forth Worth, within the Metroplex,
a British national named Akram took four hostages,
on Saturday inside Beth Israel, a synagogue,
the FBI suggesting quickly, no one else involved.
One hostage was released some hours into the event,
and then about at five o’clock the other three had fled.
The hostage-taker briefly stepped out, pistol in his hand,
then quickly went back in the building, when the fight began.
The Rescue Team swarmed round, four single gunshots ringing out.
A loud explosion followed, so the team rushed in to pounce.
While entering, there were three more gunshots—the sound of lead—
and then a single shot, and that was it. Akram was dead.
Slade U. W. Bierce is a poet of the Southwest. Colleyville, Texas, is a city in the Metroplex of around 22,000.
by Des Wercebauli
He worked at home. His brown-shelved study was his office space.
He put Italian sweet cream in his coffee cup apace.
He got behind his shiny, brown desk at his monitor,
prepped physic’lly and mentally to go upon a tour.
His socks were pulled up, shoes were tied, he was prepared to type.
He leaned into his work with all his energy and might.
Although he had a lot to get done in a timely way,
he loved his work, it felt worthwhile, nearly every day.
He’d love to work continuously, but the truth was that
enthusiastic energy and eagerness would flag.
Thus, when his tasks were all complete, and there were quite a few,
he’d pause to rest, to take a respite, which he felt was due.
Yet there were times when he was pressed to work into the night.
His boss would tell him there was more to do, and get it right.
Communication with his fellow workers was required,
no matter what he wanted so to do, or so desired.
At times he felt like he was in a penitentiary;
and had to keep on working, o, yes; no, he was not free.
But he would give his all, because he was that kind of guy,
who’d keep on working if he had to, striving to get by.
And then, he had to disregard all aches and pains he felt,
sit upright in his seat, o, plant his feet, give of himself;
for such a feeling of accomplishment would then appear,
and he would be a happy camper, full of love and cheer.
Des Wercebauli is a poet of work.
by Carb Deliseuwe
At La Azteca, he bought bright-red fresas frescas for
two-dollars-twenty-nine cents, sí, and not a penny more.
It was a pound of those delicious, aromatic fruits,
external seeds, so juicy-sweet, from runners, ah, bare roots.
Lo, brilliant, o, rubescent, they were not cerise or rose,
but rather more like as the vibrant colour rosso, ho.
Fragraria ananassa, rich in vitamin C,
contains potassium, some folate and good manganese.
He ate them raw and fresh, enjoying antioxidents,
like as ellagic acid and its anthocyanins.
by Carb Deliseuwe
He took a break there in the kitchen on the counter top.
Beside the paneled wall and stove he took a photo op.
He sat in lotus pose, although his seat was hard and flat.
His knees and legs were spread apart, o, high, up there on that.
He seemed to feign a casual stance, but also seemed uptight,
o, there within the brilliance of a nearby shining light.
His mouth was only slightly open; it was not a smile;
and yet he seemed to be content, and had been for awhile.
Perhaps his inner eye was going over many things,
which left him feeling he was reeling, wheeling, like as rings.
Carb Deliseuwe is a poet of food and the kitchen.
Beneath the Dappled Shade
by W. “Blue Cedar” Ise
He’d come out to the forest green in his blue tennis shoes.
He had been running, gunning through the bush and brush subdued.
He found a spot, o, not too hot, beneath the dappled shade,
and sat upon a smooth, but solid rock; and there he laid.
He opened up his inner eye, in contemplation wrought.
He loved to channel energy, engaged in deepest thought.
Although he seemed uncomfortable, he still was quite content
to rest from running, gunning. Could he have some time well spent?
Beyond, a fellow runner then came up the grassy trail,
and passed that man upon that rock, and left him unassailed.
W. “Blue Cedar” Ise is a poet of trees.