by “Clear Dew” Ibuse
is not spilling the clear dew
in the wind-swept day.
by “Clear Dew” Ibuse
On a hilly path,
a coyote eats the air
of chilly winter.
“Clear Dew” Ibuse is a haiku poet. The first haiku draws from Matsuo Bashō (1644-1694). The above poem and the following poem draw from Koneko Tôta (1919-2018), a Japanese PostModernist haikuist.
by E “Blue Screw” Dai
Above the garden,
throughout the cloudy skies, are
shadowless blue sharks.
E “Blue Screw” Dai is a haikuist of surreal spaces.
by “Wired Clues” Abe
In the bath water,
the splashing infant grapples
with a plastic whale.
“Wired Clues” Abe is a poet of modern haiku.
A Million Raindrops
by Eber L Aucidew
A million raindrops fall in shallow pools
and puddles. Misty graying covers all.
The waterwheels display their splaying jew’ls
and splash around, about, and over all.
Beneath the downpour people dodge and cringe.
Umbrellas are the only stay against
the wetness. Clothing goes upon a binge,
like washing does, before it’s ever rinsed.
Eber L. Aucsidew is a poet of water and air.
The Tragic Fate of the Right Whale
by W. S. “Eel” Bericuda
The sea is cold, and yet contains the hottest blood of all,
the wildest, most urgent, found near berg and port of call.
The North Atlantic right whales, which are an endangered group,
some of which have been stranded on bleak strands are turning up.
With but at most three-hundred-fifty members in their pods,
why are these filter feeders dying out around Cape Cod?
Is it because they are so docile, surface skimming beasts,
and long-range, go-fast boats do hit them as they swim the sea?
Is it because of ships and fishing-gear entanglements,
these grand baleen, krill-eaters face fierce angling intent?
Is it because surveying for wind-power turbine farms,
in the last seven years, with sonar, hassles, h-i-t-s, and harms?
W. S. “Eel” Bericuda is a poet of sea life. The opening line draws from British Modernist proset and poet D. H. Lawrence (1885-1930).
The Dingo’s Main Diet
by Sbede Cawlie Ru
The dingo is a dog in the Australian continent,
that preys on ten main animals, at eighty some percent.
It eats swamp wallabies, as well as large red kangaroos.
Its fav’rite bird is black-and-white, the wetland magpie goose.
It eats the European rabbit and the dusky rat,
and common, coarse-haired critters, like the burrowing wombat.
It’s not averse to long-haired rats or agile wallabies,
and likes the common brushtail possum too, with all of these.
But where it rubs the human herders hard is when it eats
their cattle in their fields, instead of fish, crabs, frogs and seeds.
Sbede Cawlie Ru is a poet of Australian fauna.
A US fighter aircraft shot a Chinese spy balloon
down o’er South Carolina’s coastline in the afternoon.
Its sleek sidewinder missile, blitzed from án F-22,
blew up the huge, white orb with its surveillance payload too.
Collection efforts soon began inspecting its debris.
Was it the highest air-to-air kill e’er done in history?
Upon the Thin Black Mat
by Sri Wele Cebuda
He got into the lotus pose upon the thin black mat.
He spread his legs out wide…uplifting…from whereat he sat.
His desk and chair were over there behind him where he was.
He concentrated on his inner eye because…because…
He wondered at each passing wonder that he felt within.
He felt like as an airplane in a maelstrom tailspin.
He held on for dear life. Could he endure this reckoning?
How had that driving gravity become so beckoning?
He soared along there on that mat, not far up off the floor,
and then took off for other shores, a flying pterosaur.
Sri Wele Cebuda is a poet of yoga. The Italian Enlightenment naturalist Cosimo Alessandro Collini (1727-1806) discovered the first wing lizards in Bavaria.
A 7.8 Magnitude Earth-Quake: February 6, 2023
by Curdise Belawe
“Her husband’s to Aleppo gone…”
William Shakespeare, Macbeth
A 7.8 magnitude Earth-Quake hit Turkey’s south
and northern Syria—its toll was deadly in its path.
It rocked wide swaths along the Anatolian Plate fault,
there killing more than twenty thousand, with its crushing JOLTs.
From Hama and Aleppo northeast to Diyarbakir
it knocked down buildings, leaving rubble piles and debris.
The locals and life rescuers searched for survivors through
cold, concrete-metal wreckage mounds, with muscles, cranes and crew.
Its quakes were felt in Lebanon—across the Middle East—
in Egypt, Jordan, Israel, and the Aegean Sea.
Curdise Belawe is a poet of the Kurds. The first quake’s epicenter happened near Gazientep, a city of around 1,800,000, the second quake near Ekinözü, a town of 6,000. Hama, about 850,000, and Aleppo, 2,000,000, are in Syria, and Diyarbakir, 1,100,000, the largest Kurdish-majority city in Turkey.
So Many Voices
by Erisbawdle Cue
There are so many voices in the modern world, it’s hard not to be
overwhelmed by their display.
In olden days there weren’t as many people swirled together on this
planet whirling on its way;
so it was easier to differentiate between competing voices and what they
had to say.
But now, it’s trying, first, to carry all that freight, and second,
simultaneously speak out too.
It’s hard to heed the thousands when the billions prate. Somehow one has to organize this hullaballoo, and then deal with it all no matter what is hurled, to find good principles, then hold them fast, like glue.
Writing Things Down
by Erisbawdle Cue
Socrates said writing things down weakens the mind; but if it weren’t for Plato’s words, we’d still be blind about what Socrates thought and what he opined.
Erisbawdle Cue is a poet of philosophy.
A NeoRoman Rhap
by Aedile Cwerbus
Beneath the Colisseum’s oval O, I saw him there—
Phil Rosen at the World’s largest amphitheatre.
What he was doing, other than just sitting on a rail
I did not know as I sought out an epic Latin hale.
He wore sunglasses and a shirt, the long grey sleeves pulled up.
His pants were black as was his watch. I sipped my coffee cup.
Apparently he had stopped by, so many years ago
to read some passing poems, though I really didn’t know.
But now I thought to drop some lines between his moments as
an overseas life traveller, a neoRoman rhap.
Aedile Cwerbus is a poet of Ancient Rome. Phil Rosen is a contemporary proset.
by Euclidrew Base
A fractal is a geometric shape that is self-similar and has a fract(ion)al dimension, like perhaps a crepe, a crispy, curled pancake turned on its back. It can be used to measure broccoli, describe a coastline, and explain a fern, for fluid dynamic technology and brain analysis or forest burn.
Euclidrew Base is a poet of mathematics. Though German Baroque mathematician and philosopher Gottfried Leibniz contemplated recursive self-similarity, French Modernist mathematicians Pierre Fatou (1878-1929) and Gaston Julia (1893-1978) related their studies of dynamics, attractors, repellors and the complex number plane. According to Beau Lecsi Werd, the word “fractal” in the title of this prosem was coined by French PostModernist mathematician Benoit Mandelbrot (1924-2010).
The College Student
by Ira “Dweeb” Scule
He still remembers when he was in college in the dorms.
But he was glad he never had to wear firm uniforms.
Occasionally he would have to deal with some doubt,
like when he had a panic-tack that knocked down and out.
He breathed so hard, but couldn’t get deep breaths. He was so close
to passing out, he nearly fainted from the stairs he’d climbed.
Yet he went on, to classes, passing them and going on,
though frequently, sequentially, he often got slapped down.
Though in the end he managed to get his BA degree,
and later on, a BS, rounding philosophic’lly.
Ira “Dweeb” Scule is a poet of school.
Mount Washington Observatory in New Hampshire set,
a windchill record minus one-o-nine degrees (-109° F), US.
This Winter Scene
by Uclis “Wee Beard”
He was dressed all in red, but was he Santa Claus, or not?
One could not really tell; the weather seemed too warm for that.
But there he was in his red suit and carrying some gifts,
like the three wise men with their presence—spiritual lifts.
With pale rosy cheeks and beard he paused outside the house.
No mouse was stirring, nor was anybody else aroused.
He stood beside the evergreens; he studied their contours.
he thought they were so beautiful—those rising conifers.
He did not know who might see him stop by this winter scene—
some Frosty fellow from the East, or West, or in between.
Uclis “Wee Beard” is a poet of winter scenes.
by Brice U. Lawseed
Across the land, he saw them stand, the double standards flapped,
thOse biased principles, uploaded and applauded, c-l-apped.
Brice U. Lawseed is a poet of law and justice.
Beneath a Fan
by B. S. Eliud Acrewe
“Old men ought to be explorers…”
—T. S. Eliot, “East Coker”
He sat beneath the five-blade, vintage, wooden, ceiling fan,
like as he was in some old western building. It was grand.
He had a thick-brewed cup of coffee on his nearby seat.
With stevia and MCT, he made it nice and sweet.
Outside the Sun was shining; as such, he was satisfied.
O, it was morning. He was getting ready for a ride.
It would not be a bronco, no, but his automobile,
that he would drive into the sunrise, steady at the wheel.
Behind him was a solid, white, six-paneled, moulded door,
he was prepared to open, yes, and go out to explore.
B. S. Eliud Acrewe is a British literary critic.
by “Wild” E. S. Bucaree
He went out to his hunting cabin in the desert pines.
He wanted so to leave behind the spineless and supine.
O, there beside the cow skull hanging on the wooden wall,
and that mad plaid he had upon his bed, he stood up tall.
He loved the vigour and the rigour, all that, in the main.
O, yes, it was so wonderful. He felt it was a gain.
Again, again, against the grain, he loved just being there,
ah, balancing upon his feet up in the freshest air.
O, when he came to that place far away and down the road,
he was content to set upon another episode.
What would he do? What could he shoot? What creature should he
o, out there in that barren land, that arid desert stretch…
by “Wild” E. S. Bucaree
He didn’t look that good; he had a condescending sneer.
His disposition too; one wouldn’t want to get too near.
In cowboy hat upon his head, he was a nasty guy.
Enclosed within a room with him would not be a delight.
I only saw him from the distance, both in time and place;
but he possessed a face, most disagreeable and braced.
So I was glad I never had to be around him long.
To be so, I imagined that one had to be quite strong.
He was like as a bronco seen within a rodeo,
who’d throw off anyone who dared approach his bungalow.
The Man Beside the Swimming Pool
by “Wild” E. S. Bucaree
He stood beside the swimming pool, its colour aqua blue.
It was so beautiful, he longed to jump into its cool.
Around it rose green shrubbery, pink blossoms flowering
there at the bottom of that gorgeous concrete bowery.
Above it were huge craggy hills, gray, jagged, climbing rock,
that towered powerf’lly on high. One saw a hunting hawk.
The azure sky stretched far beyond the man in dark-blue pants,
who stared down at the diving board with a stern countenance.
O, would he reach those lovely waters, when he leaped out up?
Would he succumb to their wet kiss, their sleepy, peaceful cup?
“Wild” E. S. Bucaree is a poet of Texas and the Southwest.
by Rudi E. Welec, “Abs”
The light was brilliant, white and green. He stood against the wall.
He did some exercises, careful that he wouldn’t fall.
He lifted up his left leg, just as high as it would go,
and held it while he fought against the whirl of vertigo.
He pressed his head against the wall, his right hand balancing,
he dreaded being overwhelmed by this hard challenging.
He stretched his arms, he stretched his legs, he stretched his torso too,
there panting, slanting, cantilevering that force in view.
He felt like as an aircraft soaring through that airy realm,
held by the thinnest of a threadbare pilot at the helm.
Preparing for a Race
by Rudi E. Welec, “Abs”
I saw him in his uniform, preparing for a race.
He sat there stretching, yes. No, he was not from Samothrace.
He didn’t have a marathon that he had to race in;
but he would have to pace himself; his shoes were thick, not thin.
He moved his legs, both back and forth; he needed to do that,
while kneading thighs and calves. He had to warm up, firm and pat.
He felt like as a puma searching for his latest prey,
some livestock, sheep or deer who happened, o, to come his way.
He didn’t look that happy, so one wondered why he ran.
Perhaps it was exhilarating when the race began.
Rudi E. Welec, “Abs” is a poet of exercise.
From a Nightmare
by Bruc “Diesel” Awe
Last night I had a nightmare. It went like this.
I dreamed that I was driving down a road,
when up ahead a giant semi was
passing another semi. Oh, my God!
I drove right through, between the two huge trucks.
Gigantic metal pieces flew by me.
It was a miracle I was not struck,
crushed in my tracks by such machinery.
I was so thankful my old, little car
was not destroyed. I made it out alive.
But so horrific was the pictured charge
of hurling heaps, I thought I wouldn’t survive.
When I awoke I was unnerved, for I,
I took the road most traveled by last night,
and I thought that I was going to die.
Bruc “Diesel” Awe is a poet of transportation.
From a Dream
by Bud “Weasel” Rice
It may look cute and fuzzy, but it’s mean.
No. No. No. No. Don’t touch the wolverine.
Bud “Weasel” Rice is a poet of wildlife.
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