At eighteen meters tall th’ Electron Rocket launched on high,
and took its techno pay-load up through dark Virginian skies.
by “Clear Dew” Ibuse
Glittering frost shines.
O, the Meiji era’s days
are so far away.
by “Clear Dew” Ibuse
The sky is the blue
of the beginning of time.
O, for an apple.
by “Clear Dew” Ibuse
Courage is indeed
the vital salt of the Earth.
Red oak leaves hang…on.
“Clear Dew” Ibuse is a haiku poet.
by “Wired Clues” Abe
Winter clouds cover
the lunatic asylum.
War has been declared.
“Wired Clues” Abe is a poet of modern haiku. All of the above haikus have been influenced by Modernist Japanese haiku poet Nakamura Kusatao (1901-1983).
by E “Birdcaws” Eule
While seeking out food,
the many-tongued mockingbird
E “Birdcaws” Eule is a writer of birds.
The Labour Party of New Zealand has replaced Ardern
with “Chippy” Hipkins, yes, as Wellington’s Prime Minister.
by Lê Dức Bảệ “Wired”
“Waking up this morning, I smile…I vow to live fully in each moment…”
—Thích Nhâ’t Hanh
He heard the rooster’s cock-a-doodle-do as he woke up.
He lay upon the bed next to the lamp that shone above.
He focused on the wall and the fantastic, plastic plant,
that rose beside the window, brilliant, white, and bright, clinquant.
He saw the pictures on the wall, PostModern coloured shapes.
That big, wide window was without accommodating drapes.
He started tensing up. He had to rise from rest, o, yeh.
He slowly lifted up his head and body from the bed.
He had to get up off his back, to get up in the air.
He had to go to work. He couldn’t stay and lay right there.
He wished he had a cup of coffee as he moved his knees.
Ah, yes, that would be, o, so good, to leave his peace in ease.
Thoughts of Thích Nhâ’t Hanh
by Lê Dức Bảệ “Wired”
Rejection was the Singapore/Malaysian policy.
Boat people, o, so many of them, dying in the sea.
Preferring that boat people died out in the ocean waves;
as prisoners, they would not let them land, they would not save.
Each time boat people came they tried to push them back to die;
they didn’t want to host them, no, nor help them by and by.
The fishermen who had compassion, who saved drowning souls,
were punished with huge fines so they would leave them to the sholls.
Then the French embassy, Nhâ’t Hanh and Chân Không—all were caught,
and Singapore authorities tossed that Plum Village lot.
Lê Dức Bảệ “Wired” is a poet of Vietnam. Thích Nhâ’t Hanh (1926-2021) was a Vietnamese Buddhist monk.
As China rings in the Year of the Rabbit with new rules
for easing zero covid: on a field of sable—ghouls.
by Sri Wele Cebuda
He spread his knees out to each side as he sat on the couch,
and got into the lotus pose, upright; he didn’t slouch.
He opened up his inner eye, and sighed at each insight,
that came into his unclosed view, each lovely running light.
He was a bit uptight, he wished he had stretched out some more;
for the position he was in made him a little sore.
Still, he held on…that sofa cushion…with his muscled taut;
for as he did, in this masjid, he was discerning fraught.
O, God, he called out to the walls that squared around him there,
and drank it in that brown chagrin, that study in the air.
Sri Wele Cebuda is a poet of yogi.
The plumes of smoke rise dark and gray outside Ukraine’s Donbas,
as Russia keeps on shelling—helling—that landscape en masse.
by Werdie Bula Esc
He sat up at his monitor upon his work-space desk,
ornate and intertwined with figures, lovely arabesque.
O, yes, he had to write again, new words, new forms, and news.
He had a constant task to do, id est, to reach his Muse.
Although he knew he could not do all that he wished he could,
he did his best to meet the test—the just, the true, and good.
At times he was exasperated, flabbergasted too;
and yet he kept on going forth to meet each point of view.
From Austin, yes, to Boston, yes, and, yes, to Pakistan;
there were so many things he longed to learn and understand.
Coming Thursday Afternoon
by Werdie Bula Esc
He sat up at his working desk beside his monitor.
It was time for some typing. Could that be the janitor?
Or was that some barbarian attacking at the gate?
He wanted so to get away, but he would have to wait.
The deadline for his work was coming—Thursday afternoon.
Though it was early morning yet, he still could see the Moon.
He need to get on it—time was passing endlessly.
How could he not work urgently, o, if not wrecklessly?
The hand of Fate was forcing him to get his labours done.
He heard the drones. He wished he had an antiaircraft gun.
Werdie Bula Esc is a poet of typing.
The Ancient and their Words
by Aedile Cwerbus
Though the world that spawned them has long ago vanished,
relics remain reflective of their existence;
epic tales in dactylics about the banished
and varied metered lyrics are but two instances.
There really was a world in which these were real things,
despite differences, despite the distances.
These truly were the analogs of their feelings,
despite the changing times, despite the atmosphere.
Like us they had their trials and their hard dealings.
Like us they had to face challenges far and near.
And this is what they did; this is how they managed;
and their messages can tell us much if we hear them.
Agrippa’s Grip and Gripe
by Aedile Cwerbus
Agrippa, you left a commentary on the grand geological survey of the Empire, carried out under your supervision. Hardly literary, your contribution was as a purveyor, the right hand man of the Emperor.
You did command the victorious force which beat Anthony and Cleopatra at Actium in Thirty-one BC; and more than even that event, of course, you plagued your peers with your constant mantra: Can’t we make a nation greater than Greece?
Aedile Cwerbus is a poet of Ancient Roma. The above prosem refers to Marcus Agrippa (63 BC – 12 BC) an Ancient Roman general, statesman, and architect, who criticized Vergil (70 BC – 19 BC) for his nova cacozelia, perhaps a combination of affectation, emulation, condensation, bad taste, peculiarity, metaphors, coinages, uncommon grammatical usages, recognizable thefts, all suggested by, inter alia, John Joseph Hannan Savage (1883-1973); which Cwerbus does as well.
by Luwese Becardi
He stood upon the mount of centuries—
Carducci—from the ails of Tuscany,
and fought Romantic sensibilities
with youthful zest and ancient quantity.
He brought out barbarous odes to the fore
with classical ideals and modern force.
He opened up a visionary door,
and from Bologna, turned back to the source.
So much in life that is humane and great
is Roman still, he said, is still within
these beating hearts; it shall not soon abate.
That mythic thick regard is not so thin
that any can dismiss it from these days;
for it will be with us, and for always.
Luwese Becardi is a poet of Modern Italian literature. Giosuè Carducci (1835-1907) was an Italian Realist poet and proset, who often used the classical meters of Vergil and Horace. He won the Nobel Prize for literature in 1906. Bologna is a city of about 400,000 in northern Italy.
by Ewald E. Eisbruc
It was not Bach he saw there at the organ playing hymns;
but it was someone who was very good at metonyms.
He saw the pipes above him where he sat…at his command.
The music notes were placed before him on the music stand.
His fingers rested on the keyboard high above the bench.
O, he was quite extr’ordinary that well-practiced Mensch.
The music resonated; it was strong and filled with zest.
It bellowed in that open room. It was amazing, yes.
The music was so good, so good, and focused on its depth.
It took one’s breath away with all its power and its breadth.
Such pounding and resounding of the sounds upon display:
He wished they could go on and on. They carried him away.
Ewald E. Eisbruc is a poet of Baroque (1600-1750) music. Bach (1685-1750) was a late Baroque composer.
The Germans now are sending Leopard 2s to the Ukraine,
a Kremlin spokesman, saying, “They will burn like all the rest.”
by Abdelucir Swee
He penned the music for Aphra Behn’s “The Moor’s Revenge”,
a tragedy lost in Time’s annals, like the builders of Stonehenge,
the neolithic Windmill Hill group, and the Beaker Folk,
as well as Britain’s Wessex Peop’s millennia ago.
Composer Purcell made th’ incidental music to
“Abdelazer,” unlike the Creedence hit called “Suzie Q”,
or 1960s snack cakes that I loved to eat—so good.
O, it was quite astonishing—the things we’d do, and did.
But now it is the second movement of “Abdelazer”,
that seems to me to be a fine and delicate dessert,
that interrupts with its D-minor rondo, triple time,
and falling triads following its rising triad mine.
Abdelucir Swee is a poet of British music. Henry Purcell (1659-1695) was a late 17th century British Baroque composer. Aphra Behn (1640-1689) was a late 17th century British poet and playwright, whose only tragedy was “Abdelazer”. Suzie Q was a rockabilly hit by Dale Hawkins and Stan Lewis, later a Creedence Clearwater Revival hit, and a reintroduced Hostess cupcake.
by Lew Icarus Bede
His name was John Dos Passos, realist of history,
who drew his striking passages streamed horizontally.
His training both in painting and in architecture, yes,
spurred him through varied realms of contemplating consciousness.
His writing style was formidible; it had such strength,
creatively, invasively, grammatic’lly, with length.
His cinematic focused pictures flowed so easily.
Though harsh at times, his renderings performed, o, beautif’lly.
He stood upright when times were tight, and light was faint and dim.
Dos Passos caught some glimpses of that zeitgeist’s crazy vim.
Lew Icarus Bede is a poet and literary critic. John Dos Passos (1896-1970) was a Modernist American proset.
More documents keep being found at Biden’s residence.
That seems to be a common thread and recent precedence.
by Carb Deliseuwe
The av’rage price that customers paid for a dozen eggs,
on Instacart in last December ranged within these pegs:
Missourians paid four full dollars ánd twen-ty-four-cents;
Hawaiians paid nine-sev-en-ty-three for their recompense.
Carb Deliseuwe is a poet of food and drink. MCT stands for medium chain triglycerides.
He loved to go out swimming in the beautiful blue pool,
the rippling waves of white and aqua shimmering azul.
It made him feel alive to be there in the sunniness.
Yes, it was very good, if not indeed pure happiness.
He loved the warmth, a gorgeous dose of lite vitamin D.
O, he could itemize all of the things that truly pleased.
He loved to lean into the water—it was exquisite.
Yes, he felt bliss beneath the sky within that liquid kiss.
He’d jump about and swim—so stout—beside that concrete frame;
but could he really reach nirvana, or was that a dream?
Cause Bewilder is a poet of the South.
by Ed “Bear” C. U. Lewis
He walked on through the back door of his house out to the grass.
He thought about his power, strength and energy amassed.
He went outside to have a cup of coffee and a smoke.
Beside the wooden fence, he stood, and thence he took a toke.
O he was very satisfied to have this block of time,
to contemplate his empty plate, his grateful grasp of crime.
He thought about the talk of toxic masculinity;
but he knew how far he could go with its ferocity.
He wasn’t horrible; no, he would never be a bull;
but simply stand at his command of not a thing at all.
Ed “Bear” C. U. Lewis is a poet of military equipment.
At the large Lunar New Year celebration near LA,
in Monterrey Park, California, death was on display.
Monterrey Park is a cluster of cities of about 60,000.
Van Dyke Brown
by Carb Deliseuwe
He sat back in his Van Dyck brown arm chair in early morn.
He had a cup of dark brown coffee; it was good and warm.
He loved to drink, o, sink into its rich aroma, yes.
It offered him a soothing moem of sweet happiness.
He felt like as a Viking liking life, but civilized,
not pillaging and plundering, but loved and analyzed.
He took the white-striped mug, by fingers held, up to his mouth,
and then proceeded quenching momentarily his drouth.
O, there be on agreeable gray walls, he though he saw,
a faint and pale scarlet heart, above an auburn bush.
Carb Deliseuwe is a poet of coffee. Van Dyck (1599-1641) was an early Baroque Dutch painter.
Aurora in Orange
by Rudi E. Welec, “Abs”
‘There is no blue without yellow or orange.’
—paraphrase of Vincent Van Gogh
He went down to the gym. He had to work upon his abs.
He longed to trim too many slabs of flab, there where he sat.
He chuckled as he buckled underneath the heavy weights,
those neatly stacked against the wall that stayed there in that place.
As he went up and down upon the bench—with upright arms—
his muscles taut, like as a bot, here where there were no charms,
he strove to make his form improve, but that was very hard.
He felt like as he was within an exercising yard.
He needed to get rid of all the body fat he could,
for only then could he feel that what he had done was good.
Rudi E. Welec, “Abs”, is a poet of exercise.
Although the fox would get the gingerbread man in the end,
he had been made for eating—that sweet thing was subtrahend.
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