by “Clear Dew” Ibuse
In freezing weather,
the homeothermal squirrel
huddles in his home.
by “Clear Dew” Ibuse
Near oaks and winter,
this squirrel is a winner:
by “Clear Dew” Ibuse
Across the fence top,
swishing his tail about,
the squirrel hurries.
“Clear Dew” Ibuse is a writer of haiku.
by “Wired Clues” Abe
An infant chortles
over the logistics of
drinking with a straw.
“Wired Clues” Abe is a haiku writer.
More than two-hundred-sixty dead in Indonesia’s quake;
the temblor’s depth caused many deaths; it was an inland shake,
so near to where so many live, the devastation hit
more than expected from a magnitude of 5.6.
Beneath a Jet
by Sri Wele Cebuda
He was a fairly angry dude, who sat upon a chair.
He got into a lotus pose, up in the open air.
He opened up his inner eye, external eyes were too;
he spread his legs across that seat, as wide as he could do.
He wore a sneering grimace on his face; his lips were closed.
How close were his clothes to his torso? Yes, indeed. O, so.
He didn’t dose while meditating in that dining room.
He saw the kitchen to his left, but could not see the Moon.
He stretched his arms out to each side, puffed up and angular,
within those walls and dark halls, all acute, rectangular.
But meditating didn’t bring him peace; he sat on edge,
as if he were a man upon a ledge, beneath a jet.
Sri Wele Cebuda is a poet of yoga.
Upset at the World Cup
by Saudi Becrewel
It was an upset at the World Cup: the Saudis beat
the heat and Argentina’s team, which went down to defeat.
Both Saleh Al-Shehri and Salem Al Dawsari hit
their targets in the second half—the hot Green Falcons bit.
King Salman bin Abdulaziz decreed a holiday,
and even Tadawul was closed for the amazing game.
Saudi Becrewel is a poet of Saudi Arabia. The Tadawul is the Saudi stock exchange. The match took place in Lusail, Qatar, a city of about 200,000.
He wants immunity for Saudi Crown Prince MBS;
Joe Biden doesn’t want him tried in the Khashoggi case.
by War di Belecuse
They were at war—Ukrainians and Russians—in the bush and brush.
How happy could they be within a country being crushed?
They fought upon the farm-lush land—the grasses going tall,
o, growing all around them there beneath their grappling fall.
The cries for help, within that hell, were hardly heard at all.
It was like as nobody cared enough in that harsh squall.
But still they kept on fighting, getting dirtier each day,
gaunt faces and some traces of appallants on display.
It was so horrible—who dared to speak about its ess?
How long could anyone look down into that deep abyss?
War di Belecuse is a poet of military conflict.
by Ewald E. Eisbruc
“Unmov’d the King of Terror stands,
Nor owns the magic of thy hands.”
I. As Per a Student of Matthew Dubourg (1703-1767)
Tim Ginnadrake got up at four o’clock each early dawn
to work on the fifth of Vivaldi for five months along,
and practiced five full hours every day to reach pure ease;
the violin requires it t’ attain proficiency.
II. As Per Charles Burney (1726-1814)
In younger days, the fifth concerto of Vivaldi was,
composed of rattling passages in semiquaver waves,
the making of each violinist who could mount the clouds,
and imitate the flight of birds, as well as whistling sounds.
Music From Beethoven’s Ninth
by Ewald E. Eisbruc
He was inspired by music from Beethoven’s Ninth,
and in particular, the Second Movement, which
is filled with energy, exciting as the Rhein,
and taken to an extraordinary pitch.
The scherzo is dynamic, from the opening
announcement, brazen and spectacular. Unhitched
D minor triads split. The beat, like Dopamine,
increases heart rate and blood pressure. It goes wild.
The patterns make one spin, so much is happening,
but they’re so wonderful, that one is reconciled
to them, though they scatter and scurry to the nth
degree, like hounds that chase a fox across the field.
Ewald E. Eisbruc is a critic of music. Antonio Vivaldi (1678-1741) was an Italian Baroque Composer.
Landscape in a Dorian Mode
by Uwe Carl Diebes
How quiet is this city neighbourhood of car-lined lanes,
illuminated by gray skies, seen from adjoining panes.
Off go the visitors, the workers, or the shopping crew;
they leave their homes, filled up with hopes in all that they pursue.
It is pristine, and emptying, still seeming tranquil, still,
no thought at all of loss and profit weighed contentedly.
The waiting houses, busy factories, and marketplace,
in distant neighbourhoods, are flush with flowers, crafts and grapes.
One hears the sound of music, where a lonely pilgrim rides,
Baroque and soft amidst some GPS instruction glides.
Away, one sees a fountain rising in the corner of
discovering a park along the highway borne with love.
Bells ring upon the radio, there in the twilit air,
a voice announcing what the hour is, a recent wreck,
the stars, still there, but as invisible as private eye,
the Moon, like as the shadow of the Earth, faint in the sky,
above the rooftops and the hills, uncaring, unconcerned,
unsplendid, ordinary, in these Universal turns.
Uwe Carl Diebes is a poet of Germany. These eighteen lines of iambic heptameter draw upon Hölderlin’s “Brot und Wein.”
Facebook employees have been fired for their taking bribes
accessing online operations—OOPs—raked Zeitvertreibs!
by B. S. Eliud Acrewe
He never got it. He was one of those
strange individuals who fit nowhere.
Unhappy at both home and school, he rose
to boredom with Russian roulette despair.
How could he ever find true peace that way?
The next stop was psychiatry. Perhaps
analysis could figure out what was wrong;
but it was nothing more than a delay.
How could analysis undo collapse,
or grapple with the fact that life is long?
He wanted thrills and to be entertained.
He thought he might go off to college next.
He’d need to study. Could that be maintained,
when he so easily tired at the text?
He picked up drinking, smoking cigarettes,
and other habits not of much avail.
Then came no trip to China, some regrets,
and to Catholicism’s shores by sail.
With these assailed, he wed, and went to work
as a print journalist. The letters whirled.
He wrote about the morally corrupt.
Vicariously he could be a jerk:
demand for tales of crime in a bleak world
and all that; money if he kept it up.
So he continued in that vein for years,
exotic places, one-half century,
a trip to China, away from Shakespeare’s
isle, like old Mister Green, just add an e.
B. S. Eliud Acrewe is a British literary critic. British Postmodernist Graham Greene (1904-1991) was the author of novels, like “The Power and the Glory”, “The Heart of the Matter” and “The Third Man.”
Among planned speakers at the sponsored New York Times event
were Yellen, Zuckerburg, Zelensky, Fink and SBF.
Miss Information at the Mike
by Lars U. Ice Bedew
Anne Ominous disputes Bill Happer and his climate myths.
Medieval times were colder than these Present hotter fifths.
No, CO2 does not lag temp; it amplifies this warmth.
All of the Present models are successful thermal broth.
CO2’s bad, it negatively changes ag and sky.
The extra cost on carbon use does not make prices rise.
Our storms are getting stronger due to this our heated hearth.
The Little Ice Age cooling off has not caused fevered Earth.
Carbon dioxide levels were not higher in the past.
Yes, CO2 pollutes at geologic light speed—fast.
CO2’s not plant food; high is Earth’s sensitivity.
It’s not a trace gas, nor is this a hyped conspiracy.
The IPCC didn’t interrupt Medieval puff.
Our breathing doesn’t really add to CO2 build up.
It’s urgent. Cloud feedback’s unlikely to be negative.
Renewables do not kill jobs; they only make them live.
Lars U. Ice Bedew is a poet of the icy north.
It leads the list of colleges—with antisemite hate;
two dozen incidents last year placed Harvard at the gate.
Why would they strive to be on top? What good is number one?
It seems this dubious achievement has been better done.
The Rodeo Rider
by “Wild” E. S. Bucaree
His mouth was shut;
his jaw jut out;
as he got down
astride the mount.
His left hand held
the taut rope tight;
upon the gate
he placed his right.
His chest tensed up;
his shoulders locked;
his legs stretched some;
the gun was cocked.
All prepped and set
upon the bull;
his plate was filled;
his cup was full.
The wooden gate
then opened wide;
the bull went mad;
he took a ride.
The seconds ticked,
one, two, and three;
each jolt, each bolt,
Four, five, and six,
the bull’s back bucked;
he rode the storm,
shipped, shocked, and shucked.
The seconds clicked,
seven and eight.
Off was he thrown.
Man, that was great!
He scored so high
he won the match;
next week he’ll try
“Wild” E. S. Bucaree is a poet of the rodeo.
Oceanic Cocaine, Meth, and Fentanyl Haul
by Dr. Weslie Ubeca
Two major fentanyl busts in Nogales recently
occurred this month by steadfast agents of the CBP.
The bust resulted in more than 200,000 pills,
along with many pounds of meth and cócaine in the spill.
Not long ago, before All Hallow’s Eve, Phoenix police
found multi-coloured speckled pills, like candied trick-or-treats.
yet opioid deaths still climb up in the Grand Canyon state
about five individuals there dying every d-a-t-e.
One wonders if the US border is out of control,
when it’s so easy getting Chinese drugs, like fentanyl.
Dr. Weslie Ubeca, a poet on medical topics, is not a medical doctor. Nogales, Arizona, has a population of about 20,000. CBP (Customs and Border Protection) Commissioner Chris Magnus was forced to “resign” this month from the Biden Administration. Was he a scapegoat for the record-shattering millions of migrants crossing the southern border?
To Look Upon Death
by Cal Wes Ubideer
He wanted to look upon death as with a large yawn,
the vast, grassy greens going on long, wide and square,
the creator of the cemetery Forest Lawn,
a huge cross of Christ high on a hill, as if there
one was in heaven, a modern Elysium,
out in the open sunny Californian air,
a fine, refined space, purer than Byzantium
or Jerusalem, a spectacular vision,
no trace of despair, just joyous delirium,
infinite wisdom, glorious empyrean,
a sheer happiness that goes on and on and on
forever, right at the moment of decision.
Cal Wes Ubideer is a poet of California. Modernist American Hubert Eaton (1881-1966) was a businessman who created Forest Lawn Memorial-Parks and Mortuaries of California.
The Raw Recruit
by E. E. “Scuba” Wilder
He held his breath continuously, ah, the raw recruit
He was a scuba diver standing in a black wetsuit,
providing thermal insulation, of foamed neoprene,
so shiny and so spiny in the briny, wine-dark sea.
How long could he last down beneath that aqueous surf’s face
till he would have to come up for some air, some air, some place.
But still, his lips were sealed tightly, as he swam along.
He would not let life go. His grip was firm. His arms were strong.
What would he do when he arrived upon that sandy shore,
that merman riding on the back of length-thin albacore?
E. E. “Scuba” Wilder is a poet of sea depths.