That Evening Sun
by Ra Bué Weel Disc
It is so beautiful, I hate to see that evening Sun
go down into these trees so tall against that golden-dun.
It’s done gone from its high points in the sky, descending now,
and ending, o, I hate to see that evening Sun go down.
It means another day is over that I can’t retrieve.
It means the Earth’s rotated round, and I’m left with the eve,
a damn man older than I used to be. It goes away.
And leaves me here among these leaves, so green, now turning gray.
The darkness of the night takes over. Space is vast and void.
I feel so sad; I hate to lose that somethin’ I enjoyed.
Ra Bué Weel Disc is a poet of the Sun.
by “Wired Clues” Abe
The little infant
stares at the giant black tires,
with silver wheels.
by “Wired Clues” Abe
Below the rooftops,
the slow-walking infant sees
“Wired Clues” Abe is a trad haiku writer.
by “Lice Brews” Ueda
Beside the sidewalk,
the infant pauses and picks
“Lice Brews” Ueda is a poet of the small.
The Shadow of Masuji Ibuse
by “Clear Dew” Ibuse
He threw away his youth into the gutter of
Waseda’s ghetto, like a salamander trapped
beneath the water in a cave, Aoki above,
Homei below, a trout who swam past a coy carp.
Then the Great Kanto Earthquake hit Tokyo
in 1923, and fire-flames enwrapped
the city, so he took the train home to Kamo
and comfort from his family. When he went back
to Tokyo’s despair, Tanaka Kotaro
was there to find him work, find him a wife, and drink
beneath plum blossoms in the night, a goose, in love,
he frees, before the coming wars and rain drops black.
“Clear Dew” Ibuse is a poet of Japan. Masuji Ibuse (1898-1993) was a 20th century writer. Tanaka Kotaro (1890-1974) was a Modernist Japanese jurist.
The Cyclone Mocha landed in Myanmar, and blasted forth
throughout Rakhine, and afterwards, to Bangladesh up north.
The Bungee Jumping Joe
by Cu Ebide Aswerl
He was afraid to make the jump, to take the leap in air.
In only bungee jumping harness gear, how did he dare?
He looked for reassurance from the guy who strapped him in;
but all that he could get was hard talk and a sneaky grin.
Why was he up there at that height, so he could fall so far?
He wondered if his nerve could take that bungee jumping jar.
And then he leapt and down he fell; he longed to cry for help;
but he kept quiet all the drop, he didn’t want to yelp.
He held on to naught but his hope, intrepid to the last,
recoiling in the springing rope, ascend, descend, o, jast.
Cu Ebide Aswerl is a poet of leisure. According to Beau Lecsi Werd “jast” is a late 20th century neologism for intense joy.
A Vision of Saint Peter
by Crise de Abu Wel
I saw him kneeling at the gate, his hands upon his hips.
He wore a silver necklace that hung down between his nips.
Saint Peter stood up with his key on those white, puffy clouds,
that looked like pillows on a bed or golden, sunlit shrouds.
I longed to get up to his height, to sit and pass the time;
but seriously doubted I would ever make the climb.
The hair upon his pate and brows was black as jet or coal.
His thoughtful countenance appeared to penetrate my soul,
as if he half-expected me to come up to him there;
but when I made a move to do so, o, he turned to air.
Crise de Abu Wel is a poet of the Good Father. Simon Peter the Apostle (c. 1 BC – c. 66 BC) was an early figure of Christianity.
Did Turks vote for an economic crisis and collapse,
their currency, the lira, falling down a bit perhaps,
as twenty-year income-bent Recep Tayyip Erdogan
was edging out economist, K. Kilicdaroglu?
by Bacweris Udele
They all are made with lithium—the batteries we use—
but little do we know how they are made with such abuse.
A critical ingredient is used in making these—
it’s cobalt—in all smartphones, and computers, and Evs.
It helps the multinationals make millions every day,
from China and Japan, to UK and the USA.
But much of cobalt’s mined in nations, some in Africa,
by unprotected children working in harsh mines and pits,
like thousands at Shabara, near Kolwesi, DRC,
who work their fingers to the bone to make the planet green.
Bacweris Udele is a poet of Central Africa. One who has addressed this issue is contemporary NewMillennial writer Siddharth Kara in his book “Cobalt Red”. Kolwesi is a city of around 550,000 in the Democratic Republic of the Congo.
by Radice Lebewsu
There, in the garden, every shadow is a stream that flows.
The noise that’s coming is a car that rides Odessan roads.
Across Ukraine skies lethal, guided, Russian missiles cruise.
The sirens sing, in Black-Sea waters, horror-riddled tunes.
This clarion is not a clarion of victory;
a thousand drones speed overhead; the Moon’s beyond the sea.
Bombs burst like deadly roses, puncturing our punctured days
Unfinished songs remain unsung; we shudder in the haze.
Radice Lebewsu is a poet of Ukraine. In Kiev, Ukraine reported that its military knocked out six Russian hypersonic Kinzhal missiles in one night with US supplied Patriots.
Did Wagner leader Yevgeny Prighozhin offer to
sell out some Russian troops to spare his soldiers in Bakhmut?
by Cel W. Dauberies
The mighty mitochondria, a micrometer’s size,
might be the mightiest thing in the human enterprise.
They are the powerhouses of the basic human cell,
that turn food into useful energy that can propel.
They generate adenosine triphosphate (ATP),
the vital element of cells—survival’s currency,
and though not in bacteria or archea, they hale
in all eukaryotic cells, from redwoods to blue whales.
They were discovered by the learnèd Swiss histologer,
in 1857, that is, by von Kölliker.
Cel W. Dauberies is a poet of the microbiome. Rudolf Albert von Kölliker (1817-1905) was a pioneering 19th century Swiss anatomist and physiolgist.
On Brueghel’s Icarus
by Cees Walerd Bui
The plowman plows, the fisherman is striving to catch fish.
Aloft, the sailor, in a skein of ropes, feels free and fresh.
Sheep crop the grass; the shepherd lifts his head beyond the dog.
The bright, white isle and cities gleam far off. Where is the fog?
The pageantry of spring is wakened and is tin-gl-ing.
There are so many things to do, there’s little lingering.
The crashing splash went quite unnoticed by most who were there,
where Icarus was drowning, after falling from the air.
What was he doing there in Brueghel’s curved diagonal,
in Auden’s break, or William’s wake, Hamburger’s agonale.
Cees Walerd Bui is a poet of Dutch and Flemish art. Pieter Bruegel (1625-1669) was a noted Baroque Flemish painter. William Carlos Williams (1883-1963) was a Modernist American poet, W. H. Auden (1907-1973) was a Modernist British poet. Michael Hamburger (1924-2007) was a British PostModern poet and critic. According to Beau Lecsi Werd, the neologism “agonale” is a poetic term.
by Cal Wes Ubideer
It spans the strait connecting the Pacific Ocean to
the San Francisco Bay, that is, the Golden Gate Bridge view,
of many buildings climbing up high, on those rolling hills,
those cable cars, those fabled bars, those heights, those sites, those thrills,
so many steps, and stops, dynamic steeps and drops, those stairs,
that seem to go somewhere in light, but not in foggy airs,
and hovering around the dangers of the strangers, cash,
another face, another life, all strewn about like trash.
But there it stands—Chrysopylae—and speaking for itself,
as Joseph Strauss had said, that gorgeous, copper-red-rich pelf,
not needing eulogy, encomium or dreamy praise.
What nature rent some time ago, men joined in Sun-blazed daze.
Cal Wes Ubideer is a poet of California. Captain John C. Frémont (1813-1890) was a noted explorer [“the pathfinder”], military officer, and politician, who named the entrance to San Francisco Bay, the Golden Gate [Chysopylae], two years before the California Gold Rush. Joseph Strauss (1870-1938) was an American Modernist structural engineer, who was the chief engineer of the Golden Gate Bridge, and from whom the final lines of the above dodeca derive.
by “Wild” E. S. Bucaree
In darkness, I was driving to return my rental car.
Disoriented, I departed from the parking lot
at the motel, and started travelling the wrong way, lost.
I did not know the route, and time was ticking by. I paused.
I felt like I was in a labyrinth, but had to fly;
and so I pulled myself together. There’s no alibi.
I got on board the highway ramp, and drove with cautious speed.
I did not dare go slow, I had to move ahead. Proceed.
Amidst the many signs I found the few I needed most.
I had to watch for each new turn and every mile post.
In darkness, I attempted to work with a GPS,
itself disoriented: Google maps became my guess.
Although it was the early morn, the highways were aboil;
a savage greased servility slid by on gas and oil.
I drove as fast as I was able, but not fast enough,
because the slightest hesitancy ended in rebuff;
one trucker honked his horn, impatient with my driving speed,
and when he passed, he felt the need to shake his fist indeed.
I managed getting off the freeway-feeding frenzied race
and then I hit a service road and a much slower pace.
In darkness, I proceeded down the endless service road,
that seemed as if it went forever with no sign or code.
As yet I had not reached my destination, but went on;
the time was rushing by each structure, building, tree and lawn.
The time was passing, as I sped passed each construction site,
each traffic light, each turn-off, each left-right, left-right, left-right.
I saw a car attempt a turn, that pulled back when it found
that way was not the way that driver wanted to be bound.
Then finally, I found the station getting to the place,
where I could catch a bus to reach the airport gate—in haste.
“Wild” E. S. Bucaree is a poet of Texas. Google is a member of the G-Mafia.
by Des Wercebauli
He bought a toilet seat to change the one he had in place,
and put it all together with his wrench set, in close space.
He followed the print-out directions that came with the seat,
a basic interface with screws and bolts, firm tightenings.
The brightening, quite whitening, compared to what was there;
the old one tossed into the garbage—horizontal care.
The bathroom looking cleaner was prepared for visitors,
and other home improvement experts and inquisitors.
There are so many tasks one comes upon in this here world;
one hardly knows what will be next and will at one be hurled.
Des Wercebauli is a poet of work.
These Shumard Red Oaks
by Blue Cedar Siew
These Shumard red oaks in the front yard grow tall, up and free,
large stately and majestic trees with spreading canopies,
as they’re maturing in this narrow, open habitat,
established now with water needs no more than moderate.
Green five-lobed leaves, four inches long, have bristles at their tips,
deflecting insects, wind and rain, and trapping sunlit bits.
Their autumn leaves turn brilliant, flaming red to orange-red,
when ethylene replaces auxin in their stems instead,
beyond their branches up above their smooth and light-gray trunks,
held fast in place by their root systems in their earthly bunks.
Blue Cedar Siew is a poet of trees. Benjamin Franklin Shumard (1820-1869) was an American geologist.
That Infant on the Loose
by Bruce Weasel Id
He stands in awe at what he saw—that infant on the loose—
the rose bush and the rows of houses, sidewalks going blocks.
He grunts, he groans, he cries for joy, he loves the brand new views.
He moves along, and pauses some, in pants, shirt, shoes and socks.
Bruce Weasel Id is a poet of nursery rhymes, and other cursory crimes.
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