Haiku
by “Clear Dew” Ibuse
The infant pointing
his finger to the carpet,
awaits the word “rug”.
Haiku
by “Clear Dew” Ibuse
Lazing lazily,
the tabby cat stretches on
the sunlit carpet.
Haiku
by “Clear Dew” Ibuse
In tiger lilies,
bright orange and black spotted,
a hummingbird darts.
“Clear Dew” Ibuse is a poet fond of Japanese haiku.
~~~
Haiku
by “Wired Clues” Abe
The city at night
is resting with its lights on.
It is not sleeping.
“Wired Clues” Abe is a poet of trad haiku.
~~~
Flashback:
How many thousands were there killed upon that day in spring—
the June 4th Incident at Tiananmen Square, Beijing?
~~~
Newsreel:
More than two-hundred people perished in Odisha state,
when the express train from Kolkata crashed along its way,
colliding with a stationary train in Balasore,
not all that far off from the Bay of Bengal’s western shore.
“The clocks stand still, and all that’s left to come plays victim to a theft.”
—Satyananda Sarangi, a contemporary resident of Odisha,
India.
Balasore, India, is a city of around 144,000, Odisha, a state of around 40,000,000.
~~~
Couplets from Kings
by Crise de Abu Wel
“…behold something greater than Solomon is here.”
—Jesus of Nazareth
When the Queen of Sheba heard of the fame
of Solomon, concerning the Lord’s name,
she came to test him with hard questions, to
Jerusalem with a large retinue,
with camels bearing spices, precious stones,
and very much gold; and to Solomon’s
ears, she told him all that was on her mind,
while he answered all her questions in kind.
There was not a thing hidden from the king
he could not explain to this lovely queen;
and when she had seen all of his wisdom,
the great house he had built in his kingdom,
his table’s food, his officials seated,
how his servants in fine clothing greeted
her, his cupbearers and burnt offerings,
her spirit was overwhelmed by these things.
She said to the king, “The report was true
which I heard in my own country of you
and your wisdom; but I did not believe
the reports, till I came to perceive
them with my own eyes; and, behold, the half
was not told to me me. Oh, it is to laugh.
Your wisdom and wealth surpass the reports;
your wives are happy; servants stand before
you happy to hear your wisdom. Blessed
be the Lord your God, you whom I tested.
He has delighted in you and set you
upon the throne of Israel that you
may execute justice and righteousness.”
She then gave the king more gold and spices;
never again came such an abundance
of spices, and one hundred twenty talents.
King Solomon gave the Queen of Sheba
too, all she desired and all that she sought;
whatever she asked from his great bounty;
and then she returned to her own country.
A Postcard from Saint Barnabas
by Crise de Abu Wel
The opulent Sun smears gold on crisscrossing city streets,
its brilliant gleaming streams of light, translucent spreading sheets,
white buildings climbing past the eye, a spirit borne of life,
that tower high above the honey-locust’s buzzing flies.
He stands in awe at all the architecture where he is,
so peaceful, it seems heavenly, so quiet, it seems bliss.
He coapplies caprice and hermeneutics biblical,
amidst admiscible epistles, the episcopal.
Here budding aureoles are woven from the tangible,
where angels travel in such places, frail and frangible.
Here spring clouds move across the heavens, where he meditates
upon existence; on a trunk a squirrel hesitates.
Some children picking bones up, quick as foxes on these hills,
will know why he was far from the volcano and its thrills;
although he fondly thought of poet-sage Empedocles,
embedded here, where he came to…God’s grace within these trees.
Crise de Abu Wel is a poet of the Good Father. The Queen of Sheba (flourished 10th century BC) was a noted monarch in the area of Yemen, Eritrea, and Ethiopia. Solomon (c. 990 BC – 931 BC) was a noted Monarch of Ancient Israel. Empedocles (c. 494 BC – c. 434 BC) was a noted Ancient Greek poet-philosopher. Wallace Stevens (1879-1955) was a Modernist American poet. According to Beau Lecsi Werd, “admiscible” is a neologism.
~~~
Newsreel:
According to a proverb of the tribal kikuyu,
it is the grass that suffers when two elephants do feud.
Prince Faisal bin Farhan Al Saud made calls to end the war
between the followers of both Burhan and Dagalo
to stop the violence now in Sudan—more so, lives spent—
and to resume transition to civilian government.
~~~
Communion with the Divine
by Duc Blaise Were
“He reclaims miracles.”
—Crise de Abu Wel
Pascal was an interesting fellow
on many levels. On one level, he
seems to go backwards: he leaves the mellow
for the intense and he leaves geometry
for letters. That seems the wrong way around.
On another level, he’s so upset
with skepticism, he makes faith profound,
belief in an eternal life a bet.
And his arguments are not deductive,
but inductive, practical, lived fully,
laden with emotion and seductive,
his prose meandering beautifully,
while the elegance of his thoughts reminds
one of the truth he so frequently finds.
Duc Blaise Were is a poet of French classicism. Blaise Pascal (1623-1662) was a French mathematician, physicist, philosopher, and literary figure.
~~~
Newsreel:
The Nova Kakhovka hydroelectric dam was breached,
unleashing floods in south Ukraine within its gushing reach.
The blast, on the Dnieper River in Kherson Oblast,
continues the destruction—Russia’s dead hand of the past.
~~~
Berth 44, at the White Star Line Dock, Southampton, 10 April, 1912
by Cruise de la Bew
I, at the dock, in the presence of something grand,
my heart racing, my very soul’s essence bracing,
stood, seeming tiny and insignificant
against the luxury liner’s metallic tracing.
There were so many passengers, they getting aboard,
and they all seemed so happy. It was amazing.
But I wouldn’t get on. I couldn’t cut the cord.
I stood there facing the ocean-going vessel
of gigantic proportions, and I kept on shore.
Why not just get on? Why did my soul so wrestle?
It was all too much. I just didn’t understand.
So I stood, and watched its gigantic form set sail.
Cruise de la Bew is a poet of ships.
~~~
Newsreel:
Canadian wildfire smoke spreads o’er the USA,
the hazardous air sent forth is a thick, unhealthy haze.
The Sun looks like a giant scarlet fitness Pezzi ball,
swathed in a gray polluted mist that’s hardly mystical.
~~~
A Pale Lyre
by Clear Wude Bise
“The thing that turns up after sunset is the night.”
—Waldeci Erebus
“Here comes the night.”
—Bert Berns, sung by Them
The clouds scud by. They’re gray against the faded blue and white.
On high, it is a water-colour’s spreading, dusky sky.
All is so faint and darkening. A mockingbird’s nearby.
The swallows and the dragonflies eat insects, bite by bite.
Mosquitoes target skin uncovered in the summer heat.
The many undertakings of the day are now complete.
It’s time to go inside, and sleep. One hears the whining train.
It makes one glad to hear its grumbling, rumbling once again.
The Earth turns from the blazing Sun for but a little while.
The Dominie in black stares back through th’ airy, starry stile.
Clear Wude Bise is a poet of heavenly and evening scenes. One of his early favourite tunes was “Here Comes the Night” sung by Them, a Northern Irish rock band featuring Van Morrison.
~~~
Antepenultimate Paragraph of Faulkner’s Barn Burning
by Cause Bewilder
“Titles don’t suggest themselves. Gradually the least obnoxious
one comes out.”
—Cormac McCarthy
He ran on, his blood and his breath roaring,
unable to hear the galloping mare
almost upon him, in wild grief soaring
to hurl himself through th’ early summer air
into the weed-choked, roadside ditch, the horse
thundering past and on, for an instance in
furious silhouette against the stars—
the fierce rider! before vanishing, and
then springing up into the road, running
again, knowing it was too late, hearing
the shots, crying out loud, “Pap! Pap!” stumbling,
the glare of the fire at his back, searing,
running among the invisible trees,
panting, sobbing, “Father! Father!” bent knees.
Cause Bewilder is a poet of the South. William Faulkner (1897-1962) was a Modernist American proset. Cormac McCarthy is a contemporary PostModernist American proset.
~~~
Off the Grid
by Caleb Wuri Seed
I had not heard a single word. You live a life forbid.
Amidst the skid into this ditch, you went off-grid—you did.
Away from the insanity, this crazy whirled faze;
you think it is the best place to be in these wretched days.
Ah, disconnected to this hectic wrenching, you are free
to keep clear…of the madding crowd’s irrationality.
O, if such were a possibility, I’d be so glad.
I can not even dream of such a heaven to be had.
Instead I am here in this horrid, boiling, roiling spot,
continuing to fight this plight of blight, and rued root rot,
unfortunately like a Don Quixote on his quest
of neverending battles and unsettling, restless stress.
Caleb Wuri Seed is a poet of farming. Don Quixote is a novel by Spanish, El Siglo de Oro writer Miguel de Cervantes (1547-1616).
~~~
Revolover
by Educable Wires
I still remember waiting at the bus stop back in school,
while animated voices spoke with varied attitudes.
Some were excited, speaking of a latest album made,
while others spoke with force on getting high or getting laid.
It made no sense at all to me; I did not understand.
It was so far from my existence, I tuned out…of hand.
It wasn’t till much later that I figured out such speech,
that world I couldn’t comprehend that was so out of reach.
And when I did, I was so glad I never followed them.
Sometimes it seems that ignorance is a good stratagem.
Educable Wires is a poet of rock and roll. According to Beau Lecsi Werd, “revolover” is a strange neologism that plays with the possibiliities of its meanings.