by “Clear Dew” Ibuse
They startle. We see
pink cherry blossoms blossom,
“Clear Dew” Ibuse is a haiku poet. He shares with Uejima Onitsura (1661-1738), the Middle Edo haikuist, an emphasis upon makoto, and imitating masters to develop one’s own style.
by Lude Biwa Reeds
From each compass-rose,
pink cherry petals rise to
Lude Biwa Reeds.
Lude Biwa Reeds is a poet of Cross Timbers. The above haiku is a modulation on one by Early Edo haikuist Matsuo Bashō (1644-1694).
by “Wired Clues” Abe
The baby can’t read,
but he can scroll so quickly
through text messages.
“Wired Clues” Abe is a poet combining tradition Japanese haiku standards with Modernist and PostModernist techniques, following on the work of writers, such as Nakamura Kusatao (1901-1983), Kaneko Tôta (1919-2018), Nagata Kôi (1900-1997), Nakamura Sonoko (1911-2001), and Akao Tôshi (1925-1981).
When She Went to Hangzhou
by Aw “Curbside” Lee
When she went to Hangzhou, did she spend time around West Lake,
at temples or pagodas and a water voyage take?
Did she meander on the streets where neon buildings shine,
or did she wander ancient streets, that open markets line.
Did she go to the Longjing Tea Plantation for a drink?
Did she cruise through a wetland park where she could pause and think?
Did she walk past the Golden Egg or pass Grand Theater,
gaze on the Global Center or the Fortune Finance curves?
Did she observe skyscrapers in New City’s pretty view,
and visit Hello Kitty Park or trek to Hangzhou Zoo?
Did she enjoy the high-tech atmosphere? Did she love it?
Where did she go, when she was there? What did she think of it?
Aw “Curbside” Lee is a poet of Chinese industry. Hangzhou, a city in Eastern China, is a city of around 12,000,000.
Behind the Lotus Pose
by Sri Wele Cebuda
He raised his head while leaning up against the sofa’s back.
He meditated on his L-shaped sacroiliac.
Bilateral contraction brought his trunk from the supine,
a slow but synergistic flexion of the lumbar spine.
His zygapophyseal joints in proper functioning
made him feel momentarily quite good and unction sweet.
Sri Wele Cebuda is a poet of body meditation.
A Russian jet collided with a drone from the US,
above the Black Sea’s bowl, says thé Department of Defense.
A Drop-Dead Picture
by War di Belecuse
He stood up tall against against the wall, his shirt was olive green.
A Russian executioner was nowhere to be seen.
It looked like as he was a soldier, dog tags round his neck,
his shoulders square beneath his hair, immobile and erect.
He seemed to be a prisoner awaiting a forced fate;
his arms were bent and taped, his shirt around his torso draped.
One heard some words, subdued, absurd, o, ready, set, and aim.
There was a drop-dead picture hanging in a golden frame.
His head drew back. There was a crack. It fell pastel at will;
and down it went to thé cement, the body tense, and still.
War di Belecuse is a poet of conflict. The War in Ukraine continues on with its horrors.
Behind the Marinated One
Upon the golden waves lit by the sun,
how glorious is it to ride, to roll,
to leave behind the marinated one
upon the shore, and there unwind God’s scroll,
the fish-filled, wish-full net that settles there
beyond the sandy reaches of the beach.
How wonderful is it—the sky, the air,
the mermaids swimming, singing each to each.
So grand is it to float upon this sea
astride arenas, areas so fresh,
beside the dreams of Greece and Italy,
between such purity and love’s sweet mesh.
How ever can one flow upon that tide
and never bless such life—so deep and wide?
Uberde Ascweli is a poet of Italy. Giambattista Marino (1569-1625) was an Italian Baroque poet.
A U-Boat of the Cold North Sea
by War di Belecuse
Where is that ship of steel, no poet’s feint,
6.2 meters straight,
near 16 knots of speed.
upon the surface of the cold North Sea,
a sihouette, in sunshine, shadowy,
along the deep sea bed,
about to take some Royal Oak down, make some dead?
A naked weapon striding o’er the waves,
and many wat’ry graves,
it was a chambered bore,
a prison cell for forty four or more,
electric, diesel, at its iron core.
No cowards dare go forth.
Jump off this boat while we’re afloat in the North Sea.
This messenger of death proceeds unseen,
Commander Günther Prien,
now watches splashes splurge
before it’s necessary to submerge.
Time follows on his fate, its pressing urge,
while phalanxes of clouds
form high misshapen forms, white foamy shrouds.
Then, when they are down deep and far below,
and come to Scapa Flow,
they are about to send
833 lives to their end.
The same to you—how low can man descend?
Upon my ear it rings—
the countless cries of intermittent shudderings.
Though fate is certain, and the fires are lit
upon the altar spit,
cast from this life forlorn,
the ship of steel has from life’s pages torn
another chapter to another morn
on which the sun’s rays shine,
as on October 13, 1939.
War di Belecuse is a poet of war. Günther Prien (1908-1941) was a German U-Boat commander. Gabriele D’Annunzio (1863-1938) was an Italian Modernist poet and proset.
This Is Coffee, 2023
by Carb Deliseuwe
“Beethoven counted out sixty coffee beans per cup.”
—Ewald E. Eisbruc
The clock is ticking, faucet’s dripping, as the sleeper sleeps.
The ‘LARM goes OFF. She rises, robes, and shuffles down steep steps.
She carefully fills pot with water, deep-brown grounds on top,
and heats the coffee in the maker, dripping drop by drop.
She hears the coffee percolating, waiting till its hot,
adjusting hair with automatic hand. She smells a lot.
She turns and takes a moment in a nearby looking glass.
Half-unaware, her brain allows one half-formed thought to pass.
She opens up a rustic alder cabinet above,
and pulls the white mug from the shelf, that she was thinking of.
She puts her hand upon the handle, lifts the fresh brew up,
and pours the caffeine liquid down into her shiny cup.
Carb Deliseuwe is a poet of food and drink. Ludwig Beethoven (1770-1827) was a noted German Romantic composer.
Ian Fleming’s Casino Royale
by B. S. Eliud Acrewe
Ian Fleming’s Casino Royale, of
seventy years back, reminds one how harsh
was the world into which one was born. Love
was rare in this vile and violent marsh.
The book reveals just how rampant murder
and torture really were. It is fiction,
but was a true reflection of that tur-
bulent era, which, after all, isn’t
so different from our very own time,
because it was part of this period.
There is little in the book that was sublime,
except perhaps James Bond, the book’s hero,
who inhabited that immoral realm,
spydom’s overwheming relativism.
B. S. Eliud Acrewe is a poet and literary critic of British Literature. Ian Fleming (1908-1964) was a Modernist British proset. This year, it was announced new printings of James Bond books will change words and passages that are deemed “troubling” and “offensive”, altering Fleming’s literary creation, reminiscent of Orwell’s 1984, where Winston Smith rewrites various works, conforming to the ever-changing narratives of Ing Soc (English Socialism).
by Esca Webuilder
It wás not thé eleventh hour; it was just a tick
in the great overwhelming, evermoving, cosmic day.
Yet there was Astijake…again. He kept on traveling,
through spacetime, in his own way, as life was unraveling.
Esca Webuilder is a poet of the Internet. Astijake John is a contemporary British Internet blogger.
As Silvergate and Silicon V. Bank erupt and c-r-ash.
One wonders if some other bankrupt’s cache is out of cash.
One wonders if this is an epixplode… And will it cease?
Who borrowed 50,000,000,000 Swiss francs? Was it Credit Suisse?
According to Beau Lecsi Werd, “epixplode” is a trunc of epic explode.
by Urbawel Cidese
It was a city that was plotted, planned,
with a long view in mind. There were broad streets,
with planted trees that would beautif’lly stand
along them, wide enough for trucks, taxies
and automobiles. Sidewalks too, where feet
could happily saunter along, were made
with generous amounts of slabbed concrete.
It was a perfect place for a parade.
All was displayed so neatly. But it was
soulless. All modern things must decompose.
And so, though it was modern, just because
it overlooked the old, I don’t suppose
there ever was a chance that it would work.
It would have to be jerked out of its peace.
In even pretty scenes, dark things do lurk;
and that which starts in loveliness must cease.
This is nature’s unalterable law.
Still, it seems worth the effort to try for
the best, for every single thing will fall,
including falling, with no striving more.
Urbawel Cidese is a poet of cities.
Pop, Pop, Fizz, Fizz
by Educable Wires
“I’ve got me and all your reasons.”
—Morgan Wallen, et. al., from “One Thing at a Time”
What is one reason Morgan Wallen has so many hits
on Billboard’s Top One Hundred Pop? Is it his gritty fizz?
Is he a country blend of hip-hop and alternative,
a genre-blending, unpretending, co-operative?
Educable Wires is a poet of contemp music.
The End of Winter
by Ileac Burweeds
Across the meadow edge, flap yellow sulphur butterflies,
above the daisies and the henbit, under azure skies.
It is the end of winter, grasses grow and thistles thrive.
Although the air is cool the area has come alive.
White chickweed chokes the lawns with bluegreen poa annua,
where mockingbirds do hang about, and busy rabbits pause.
Amidst the roadside asters, golden dandelions too,
wood sorrel’s tiny yellow flowerets spread hearts and rue.
Ah, nature’s garden blooms with blossoms, awesome shades and hues,
though human beings may refuse the beautiful abuse.
Ileac Burweeds is a poet of plant life.
Ah, Vulture Capitalists
by Brad Lee Suciew
Apollo Global Management, Incorporated, and
Blackstone, Incorporated, were seen over arid sand.
It seemed that they were cir-cl-ing around an empty tank,
in that bare valley filled with silicon. Their stares were blank.
This is the cactus land, the dead land other souls forsake.
These scavengers clean up the messes managers create.
O, we can thank them for their greed, these bald naturalists,
who come to clean up the debris, ah, vulture cap-i-tal-ists.
Brad Lee Suciew is a poet of business.
That Smiling, Lying Snake
by Bud “Weasel” Rice
He was like as the subtlest beast of all the field indeed,
a slithering and sniveling one of that eely breed;
and when he reared, a selfish light, fell off in hoary flakes,
there waking up beside a fire, that smiling, lying snake.
Upright upon his tail, he saw the beauty of the Eve,
and spoke of eating fruit from off that prime, primeval tree.
Deceiving elf, from ancient Delph, seen traveling uncoiled,
unraveling and groveling on gravelly subsoil,
did He who made the Lamb make thee, Lord of the Flies, thou grub,
to drive out demons with the power of Beelzebub?
by Bud “Weasel” Rice
He paused upon the hiking trail for a little wrest
he wished to take from that bright day. O, yes. O, yes. O, yes.
In his sunglasses, gazing on the nearly plantless earth,
and olive-drab cap, he had stopped upon the dry-brown dirt.
O, would this not be a good place to think, beside these rocks,
where hardly any bun-ny walks, or wild co-yo-te stalks?
Bud “Weasel” Rice is a poet of Animalia.
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