by “Clear Dew” Ibuse
A coarse racket climbs
in th’ oriental pear tree:
by “Clear Dew” Ibuse
A turtle plods forth
to a wide and sandy beach:
the sound of water.
“Clear Dew” Ibuse is a poet of natural settings and Japanese poetic forms. “Cicada voices” in Japanese is “semi no koe—蝉の声; “the sound of water” in Japanese is “mizu no oto”—水の音.
by “Wired Clues” Abe
In the white bath-tub,
a baby splashes water,
learning the SG.
by “Wired Clues” Abe
In the VW,
the driver becomes alarmed,
air compressor sparked.
“Wired Clues” Abe is a poet using Japanese forms united with technology. The SG (specific gravity) of dry air is .0013
by Sri Wele Cebuda
The purple drapes were open to bright white light shine outside,
as he got in the padmasana for a mental ride.
He closed his eyes in meditation, dapper, apt, and pat.
He hummed his OM, yes, o my God, upon the blue-green pad.
Perhaps he could reach satisfaction at the place he sat;
but maybe he would not reach peace, or even be that glad.
He longed to feel stable on this everchanging Globe,
where solar winds blew hot and, o my God, how they could blow.
He raised his head, his spine, his deck; he strove to keep erect,
as he flew through the Universe, alive and circumspect.
by Sri Wele Cebuda
He got into the lotus pose within a golden room.
He lifted up his head and spine, o, in a thoughtful mood.
He closed his eyes, but opened up his centered inner eye.
His lips were tight, as he stretched out his back, each knee, and thigh.
He left behind the mustard walls, the mat on which he sat.
He strove to reach nervana, ah, yes, there where he was at.
He sensed the power of the turning Globe beneath his site.
He felt as if he saw its darkness and its harsh delight.
He leaned his head back, opened up his chest, engaged in thought.
He wondered what doors he could open to the realms of God.
Sri Wele Cebuda is a poet of yoga. According to Beau Lecsi Werd, “nervana” is the wanted spelling here.
The Oldest and the Lowest City
by Crise de Abu Wel
“the city of palm trees”
O beautiful for spacious skies, for amber waves of rock,
for gorgeous hillside majesty, above the desert pock.
O, Jericho, o, Jericho, God set his Grace on thee,
for Palestinian, Israeli, and humanity.
The oldest and the lowest city anywhere on Earth,
with many springs continuing to satisfy life’s thirst,
supporting sparrows, kestrels, falcons and black francolins,
the city and environs, rounded by banana groves,
with flowers of the palms, some fragrant, there beneath the Moon,
the Jordan River near where Jesus was baptized by John.
Crise de Abu Wel is a poet of the Levant. Jericho is a city of around 18,000. Unearthed settlements go back to 9000 BC and Jericho is 258 metres below sea level.
A Circus During Wartime
by Sirc de Wee Balu
He saw the shining silver dogtags on the distant rise,
beneath the cotton candy clouds and blue ballooning skies.
Was this a circus during wartime? Was that guard a clown?
What was that fellow doing, camouflaged in green and brown?
He saw him with binoculars, with squarish, cyborg head,
beside a tan tent propped atop that butte with slopes so dread.
Was he a troop amidst a troupe of bears and acrobats?
Was he a stuntman watching for a growling wildcat?
He did not know, from where he stood, there focused on his face,
but took a long, low angle shot, and then walked off, away.
Sirc de Wee Balu is a poet of circuses.
by Radice Lebewsu
“…if we remain silent today, we will be gone tomorrow…”
Tyrannical, like Hitler, Stalin, Mao, and Xi Jinping;
he is a modern Genghis Khan or iron Tamerlane.
He hated Putin and his war machine ferociously
for all his diabolical schemes, death and misery.
The suffering of millions keeps on growing day by day;
and night by night they count the losses that accumulate.
Too late to turn it back to when it wasn’t all this bad;
it still keeps getting worse. That cursèd man at best is mad.
Why did he put in such destructive force into Ukraine,
that hard, cold-blooded monster killing those who dare abstain?
by Radice Lebewsu
He stood up tall against the Russian military bite,
in green, from top to bottom, answering his country’s fight,
the battles hard and brutal, almost futile in their plight.
And yet he didn’t back away, he met them with his might.
What hope there was was very little, yet he still fought on,
from dusk to day and down to night and early morning dawn.
He kept it up, when even he had little left to give,
with what he had, which wasn’t much, and barest will to live.
Each day was yet another chance to face his ending fate.
O, awesome was his lasting power at that Iron Gate.
Radice Lebewsu is a poet of Ukraine.
by Ewald E. Eisbruc
Arcangelo Corelli wrote only
parts for that part of the violin on
the highest string, never going past D,
the highest note in the third position.
Once, when playing Handel’s oratorio
Trionfo del Tempo, which premiered in
in 1708 in Rome, he just
would not play an A in altissimo.
Impulsive Handel snatched the violin
and showed the great virtuoso how to thrust!
“My dear Saxon,” Corelli addressed him,
“this is music in the French style, of which
I have no knowledge.” But whom bested whom:
strong German vigor or Italian pitch?
Humming Symphony Number 40’s Opening
by Ewald E. Eisbruc
First movement, in sonata form, G-Minor’s grace, the key,
molto allegro, starts, in medias res, suddenly,
and off it goes, o, Phaethon’s dart, like as a shining car,
the melody beginning on the fourth beat of the bar,
o, cruises—anacrusis—quavers with a quarter note,
a crotchet, falling semitone motif, e-motive tow,
and, after second four-bar phrase, ends with a perfect cade,
against the changing harmonies, a tonic pedal played,
and leaping to a bridge, transition to a walking pace,
starts out quite peaceful—tranquil—till it then rejoins the race.
Ewald E. Eisbruc is a poet and critic of Central European music. Arcangelo Corelli (1653-1713) was an Italian Baroque violinist and composer and Georg Frideric Handel (1685-1759) was a German Baroque composer. According to Beau Lecsi Werd, cade is a trunc for cadence.
by Bud “Weasel” Rice
A gecko is capable of climbing
a vertical surface both smooth and dry;
without needing any special priming,
because its feet have millions of setae
with spatular tips. This weak attraction
to climb walls, known as the Van der Waals force,
multiplied through millions of tiny hairs
makes enough of a sticky connection
to let the gecko take such a steep course;
and it moves so fast without any cares,
because, due to directionality
of attachment, it can detach its toes
in milliseconds and proceed quickly
beyond those first notes of Aristotle’s.
Bud “Weasel” Rice is a poet of animals. Aristotle (384 BC – 322 BC) was a Greek philosopher and the first writer to record his observations on the gecko. Johannes Diderick van der Waals (1837-1923) was a Dutch theoretical physicist and thermodynamist.
Firefighters battled wi-ld-fi-res, Greece to the UK,
in Portugal, France, Germany, in Italy and Spain.
The heat-related deaths have reached above 1,000 lives.
Mary Flannery O’Connor
by Lew Icarus Bede
Influenced first by Hawthorne, Poe and James, her stories came,
if not to fame, at least to sanguine, sage Jacques Maritain.
She heard the mystic bugle of Von Hügel playing “Taps”,
and later, in the wolf’s hard grip, Teilhard’s grotesque collapse.
Then finally, in Milledgeville, the village she came from,
she went through greater suffering to Wingdom’s Kingdom Come.
The very deep did rot. That ever this should be. O, Christ.
O, Cursèd Spite that she was ever born to set it right.
Regina…Mother…Mary, how could she reach the divine—
unpleasant bleating peacock floundering before the Night?
Lew Icarus Bede is a poet and literary critic. Mary Flannery O’Connor (1925-1964) was an American PostModernist writer. Nathaniel Hawthorne (1804-1864) and Edgar Allan Poe (1809-1849) were American Romantic writers, Henry James (1843-1916) was an American Realist and Friedrich Von Hügel (1852-1925) an Austrian religious writer. Teilhard de Chardin (1881-1955) and Jacques Maritain (1882-1973) were French Modernist philosophers. Milledgeville is a central Georgian city of around 17,000.
by Bilee Wad Curse
His deep-set eyes, his flat-hair top, the wrinkles on his face,
made him seem like an angel who had fallen far from Grace.
How far? you ask: one hell of a long way to say the least.
One could mistake him for a vile, wild, riled beast.
His eyes, lit slits, his mouth not closed or open, like a snake’s,
that curves about, like nerves of doubt, and quivers with sprung shakes.
Satanic? No, nor sated, but with visage melting down;
his countenance sun-burned and brown. He slithered on the ground.
He seemed to like the even time. He lurked at dawn or dusk.
The way he looked, like as a crook, made him seem hard and brusque.
But when I saw him, I knew to avoid him like the Plague;
he meant no good to any body, he was like a gale.
Bilee Wad Curse is a poet of snakes.
The Secret Service has deleted its text messages,
relating to the presence of its varied agencies,
their contribution to the January 6th event,
in pushing for a fraudulent “elected” Resident.
by Des Wercebauli
He loved the warmth of his garage in summer’s pounding heat.
It warmed his body, top to bottom, head down to his feet.
He felt like as he was within a large wall-oven space,
enough to turn cold-to-the-touch dogtags to toasty drape.
He felt Freiheit, so free and hot, like frying hot-dog franks,
from back and neck to glutes and pecs, from shoulders down to flanks.
Beside a parked car on the hard floor, sparks were flying round,
that brute in boots, a wild galoot, was sweating on that ground.
His uniform was white before the oil soiled it;
but shortly he had to escape that broiling, boiling spit.
Des Wercebauli is a poet of labour. Freiheit is German for freedom.
At the End of the Line
by Bruc “Diesel” Awe
He was in the city now. He had been
there for far too long he was sure; and then
he had come to this bus stop. He waited.
Around him traffic moved unabated.
He was lost. He had no idea what he
was doing. He felt like silly putty.
He felt he was being transformed into
someone else, what others wanted him to
be. He did not like it. Maybe he should
just run away. Perhaps this next bus could
take him away. If not, he thought he’d drown
in the rain, in the fog, in the gray-brown
bog of buildings and smog. In the distance
he heard the bus’s braking insistence.
This was the end of the route, the city’s
center. It was hideously gritty.
He waited for the bus. It came nearer.
Perhaps he was its most hopeful hearer.
The brakes sounded louder. They were closer.
Did he ever want to return? No, sir.
Now he could see it coming down the street.
When it reached him, he would feel complete.
Finally it approached. It slowed. It stopped.
The folding doors popped out, opened up propped.
He proceeded to step up the steep step
from the curb, looking forward to this trip.
“Sorry, sir, this is the end of the line.
We start tomorrow at 5:59.”
Bruc “Diesel” Awe is a poet of transportation.
The Years Have Fled
by I Warble Seduce
The years have fled, and time so swiftly flees,
since that brief hour when you and I first met;
but how we loved I still remember yet;
so purely did you live and love and please.
You were a wonder then and still are now,
a form of beauty and of loveliness;
your spirit shines with light and blessedness;
you are a bright and cheerful soul. And how!
When you’re around you do not understand
how happy is my heart and soul and mind.
You make me glad that you are near; yes, and
when I see your infectious joy, I’m blind
to everything else, which seems drab and bland;
and my cold soul is warmed by what I find.
I Warble Seduce is a poet of love.
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