by “Clear Dew” Ibuse
Upon the sidewalk,
ants march in a line to the
“Clear Dew” Ibuse is a poet fond of Japanese haiku.
by “Wired Clues” Abe
In sunshine and shade,
going along the sidewalk,
he changes his steps.
by “Wired Clues” Abe
my house and staring and me—
by “Wired Clues” Abe
Parasols and tents
provide a respite upon
“Wired Clues” Abe is a poet of trad haiku. Shirahama is a town of around 20,000.
It seems that ever grander debt is plaguing Evergrande,
despite the panicked CCP restructuring command.
In 2021 and 2022, it lost
some eighty billion dollars. Will the Party bear the cost?
A Chinese biolab in Reedley, California, has found,
unlicensed and illegal—What the hell was going down?
It harboured vile vials, streptococcus, HIV,
coronavirus, hepatitis, a whole potpourri,
malaria, pneumonia, a whole bunch of pathogens,
chlamydia, rubella, herpes, deadly packages.
Reedley, California, in Fresno County, is a city of around 25,000.
by Israel W. Ebecud
The Pharises upheld the letter of the law;
the Sadducees denied the resurrection of the dead;
th’ Essenes believed in separation from it all;
the Zealots fought the Roman power, heart and head.
Go back, go on, go off, go fight; which way is best.
These four, and more, are ways to face life’s constant test.
Israel E. Ebecud is a poet of Israel.
The drones that hit the Moscow buildings, like mosquito bites,
were irritating to the ordinary Muscovites;
yet much worse were attacks in cities all across Ukraine,
where drone attacks across the nation were like deadly rain.
by Ercules Edibwa
Pheidippides ran one hundred and forty miles
in just two days. He ran from Athens to Sparta
for aid. The aid was giv’n; but, due to Spartan wiles,
would not be sent until the full moon had started,
which was too late. Nevertheless, th’ Athenians
won the battle of Marathon. Against the odds,
the Persians were defeated.
Ercules Edibwa is a poet of Ancient Grecian feats. Pheidippides was a 5th century BC hemerodrome.
Giorgione’s The Adoration of the Shepherds
by Buceli da Werse
The little baby lying on a small, white spread
reclines before his father on a rock, gold wrapped,
his mother dressed in red and robed in blue, with head
bent, draped in white, neat cloth, in contemplation rapt,
and two men staring; while one kneels down, th’ other stands.
The four adults observe the child, as folks are apt.
It is their color and regard that most commands
attention, mainly in the lower corner right.
At left, the scene expands to buildings, water, lands,
all bathed in an unreal, amost ideal light,
a still and silent world removed from noise or dread,
wherein the hush of peace fills all up with delight.
Buceli da Werse is a poet of the Italian Renaissance. Giogione (c. 1474-1510) was a Venetian painter of the High Renaissance.
Forever…It Is Our Destiny
The world is passing me by. I see it fly.
There’s nothing I can do about it. It is fate.
And it don’t care. If it cared, I could say good-bye.
I can’t. It can’t. There is nobody who can wait.
We are all rushing to an unknown area.
O, I wonder what we all can anticipate.
Laura Pausini is singing Primavera…
Where are you going? Where am I at? Where are we?
We are on a fantastic ride—varie-
gated—I’m falling through another verity.
I saw you turn. I was amazed. You caught my eye,
and then you passed away into eternity.
Luwese Becardi is a poet of contemporary Italian pop culture. Laura Pausini is a PostModernist Italian singer.
The Man in Uniform: After Robert Walser
by Wederic Eubals
We all wear uniforms, which humiliates
us and exalts. We look like unfree people in
them, and that is, undoubetedly, a real disgrace.
But we look nice in them as well; thus we can win
the satisfaction of the ones who wear their own
delapidated clothes (which is just short of sin).
To me, for instance, putting on a uniform
is very pleasant, since I never knew before
what clothes to wear. And it’s nice not to be alone.
On th’ other hand, ironically, it’s a bore
to be the same as all the rest, but still feel strange,
a mystery to me
down to my very core.
Wederic Eubals is a poet of sensibilities. Robert Walser (1878-1956) was a Modernist Swiss poet and proset unappreciated in his lifetime.
Words Overheard by a Stoodge on Cloudy Goodge Street
by Educable Wires
Just one day after Hunter Biden and his father were
both implicated in influence ped-dl-ing, er, er,
Trump was indicted by the DOJ for a third time,
and Fitch downgraded US credit. How they sigh, “My, my.”
Educable Wires is a poet of guitar music.
Henry James: 1913
by E. Ducabe Wisler
Cool, debonair, and formal, elderly and grand,
James slightly slouches in the dark of the background.
He’s seventy, and near the end of life. The bland
expression on his face is arrogance profound,
American and cosmopolitan, although
he’d turned into an Englishman, aloof and towned.
When Sargent had been offered knighthood, he said no;
American and cosmopolitan, he stayed.
James’ left thumb rests in his vest pocket, fingers curled.
What little hair he has is grayed and slightly frayed.
A gold chain hangs around expanded belly’s round.
This is how an old man of that world is portrayed.
E. Ducabe Wisler is a poet of Realism.
What Could He Know?
by Basil Drew Eceu
He was still in his teenage years: What could he know back then?
and his prof had assigned “What Maisie Knew” by Henry James.
There was no way he could discern that crisp, descriptive prose
that moved incredibly, so intricately in quick flows.
His understanding of young childhood was limited,
o, primitive, in fact—and what about the feminine?
And yet, here was a book that traversed labyrinthine schemes,
sophisticated, complicated sets behind the scenes.
Much later now, he reads the prose of that observant gent,
receptive to its mettle and unique intelligence;
and though he could not now accept all of that author’s aims,
he could admire that man’s art, while still remaining him.
Basil Drew Eceu is a poet of 19th century literature. Henry James (1843-1916) was a Realist American novelist, who became a British subject.
“I want some wine.”
—Bud “Weasel” Rice
He was a connoisseur of wine. He loved to sip.
He could spend hours testing, tasting a bouquet
at his suburban home or on a business trip.
He loved to drink wine, whether it was night or day,
but he especially liked night, slumped in a chair
or on the floor, the ruby liquid on display.
He’d turn the glass up to his lips to drink it there
and savored every drop as it passed by his beard.
He loved night’s black straps closing in beyond his hair
upon head, face, chin, arms, wherever it appeared.
He could not help himself. He had to take a nip.
It was the closest to perfection he had neared.
Cale Budweiser is a poet of drink.
A Brief Refleck
by B. S. Eliud Acrewe
Let us go for a drive then, when the sun is on th’ hori-
zon—nets are thrown to catch the eastern rising of the sky—
the gleaming. giant orange-yellow orb, like some kid’s ball,
appearing over filling highways after gloaming’s fall.
One sees the overnight hotels begin their emptying
to tempting restaurants and interesting sightseeing,
exploring streets that follow past gas stations, stores and more,
where eons long ago there walked the ancient dinosaur;
which leads one to an overwhelming question: Where are they?
An asteroid hit Earth. They are not here. They’ve passed away.
One sees the eerie amber light cross over trees and plains.
the air pollution rubbing up against the window-panes;
the breathed-in air, more than 3,000 gallons in a day,
a subtle smog that lingers round the morning’s bright display.
Let it be blown away from these rooftops and chimney stacks,
swept from the patios, a sudden sweep up to the max.
Another jetflies past this hot dawn yawning in July.
O, let us drive. The time goes by. Indeed, the time goes by.
Come seek out visions and revisions of eternity,
and afterwards there will be time to take a cup of tea.
B. S. Eliud Acrewe is a poet of revisions. According to Beau Lecsi Werd, “refleck” is a trunc. T. S. Eliot (1888-1965) was a Modernist American-British poet and proset.
Three Modernist Americans
by Wilbur Dee Case
Each tried to write an epic—Williams, Pound, and Crane—
but failed. Though Paterson, the Cantos, and the Bridge
were failures—in that sense, they’re easy to disdain—
their authors showed like vision in that fertile age.
They strove to put and pitch th’ excitement of their times,
that entrepreneurial spirit on the page.
They wanted to capture life, t’ express in thrilling lines
its essence, beauties, wonders, joys and tragedies,
its daring and adventures, its horr’r and its crimes,
its sordidness, its magic and its ecstasies.
And they got some! as they were going down the drain,
reflected memories and distant agonies.
Wilbur Dee Case is a poet and literary critic of Middle America.
On Sunday Mornings
by Walice de Beers
“Usque in hanc horam et esurimus, et sitimus…”
—Paul, the Apostle, “First Epistle to the Corinthians”
He generated his green tea, the boiling water key,
combined with matcha and turmeric, finished peppery,
some chamomile, dandelion root, and fennel seed,
as well as nettle, in his kettle, not un-set-tl-ing.
He felt that set-tl-ing for less would not be debonair.
He wanted flavour, savoury, and smooth beyond compare.
Its sweet aroma put him in a coma of delight,
like eating licorice when he was only nine or ten,
on Sundays, when with mom and sibs, he traveled to a store
for paper, comics, and delicious licorice encore.
Walice de Beers is a poet of debonair settings.
In New York City, San Francisco, deaths are on the rise;
lithium ion batteries are blowing up in fires.
At the Stop Sign
by Bruc “Diesel” Awe
He stopped at the red octagon on a u-channel post,
protected by a rust-proof zinc, and silver-frost foremost,
S T O P, in white on red, a slender-rimmed ogdode,
it stood there unobtrusively, along the bright grey road.
Reflective sheeting there applied on the aluminum,
by automated laminater illuminating sum
the silk-screened legend stenciled in to make the image mesh,
fine inks and thinners formulated, manufactured fresh.
Aligned and centered for the flood-bar to back of the screen,
and squeegee-pressed when it can be removed from the machine.
And here he paused beneath the arching bright-white colonnade,
approximately thirty-five degrees in centigrade.
Bruc “Diesel” Awe is a poet of traffic signs.
A Northern Mockingbird
by E. Birdcaws Eule
Perched on the parked, white car’s ski-rack, a northern mockingbird,
emphatic in what he declares, so easily is heard.
Of overall gray-brown, and paler on his belly’s breast,
two white wingbars upon each wing, he sings with zeal and zest.
Conspicuous, assertively he makes his presence known;
he wants to make sure passersby know this place is his own;
and he will chase off brash intruders, recognized or not,
with his chirs, jeers, and chups—that chiming, miming polyglot—
the Cherokees called cencontlatolly—four hundred tongues—
that bardic bird, embracing many soungs that can be sung.
E. Birdcaws Eule is a poet of birds.
There won’t be secret service for Joe Biden’s challenger—
protection for RFK, Jr. “is not warranted”,
that is, according to Mayorkas. But why is this so?
Is two-tiered justice now on steroids? learned at Quantico?
by Caud Sewer Bile
“I am half-sick of shadows, said the Lady of Shalott.”
“We’ll know our disinformation is complete
when everything the US public believes is false.”
—William J. Casey
Does anybody still believe, in ode or threnody,
Lee Harvey Oswald murdered John Fitzgerald Kennedy?
Was there so much corruption in that so-called Camelot,
and false analysis done on the body that was shot?
Did many have to die to keep some cover-up in tact?
How much fake news flew through the Mainstream Media, in fact?
Were bosses of the Mafia involved in any way?
and working with them were there members of the CIA?
Were two or three hit men home-grown or brought from Italy?
And what about the changing guns—Was it two shots times three?
So much was hushed up, even now, from sixty years ago,
one wonders how much of the truth we’ll ever come to know…
Caud Sewer Bile is a poet of Machiavellian politics. Was a surprised, wide-eyed Lee Harvey Oswald (1939-1963) a “patsy” of the US government, as he claimed on November 22, 1963, two days before his death? Was John Fitzgerald Kennedy (1917-1963), the son of an inside trader, stock manipulator, and basic overall “thief”, as described by FDR? According to Evelyn Lincoln, JFK’s favourite poem was “Ulysses” by Alfred Tennyson (1809-1892). William J Casey (1913-1987) was Director of the CIA in the 1980s.
X-100 Lincoln 1961
by Bruc “Diesel” Awe
“A man died in this car.”
—Grover B. Proctor, Jr., “Crimson Fall”
It was a limosine tooled with the very latest tech,
which did not help protect, defend, or spare the president.
It was a blue convertible in the bright Dallas sun;
but now the postcard isn’t offered to the tourist run—
the roped-off X-100 Lincoln 1961—
with windows that were bullet-proof, sides of titanium.
Bruc “Diesel” Awe is a poet of autos. Grover Belmont. Proctor, Jr., is a contemporary proset.