by “Clear Dew” Ibuse
from the Sanskrit naranga-s,
the infant chortles.
“Clear Dew” Ibuse is a haikuist of the natural world.
by “Wired Clues” Abe
Nylon, stainless steel,
it blocks harmful UV rays:
the meshed umbrella.
“Wired Clues” Abe is a trad haiku writer, 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).
The Chinese Communists have banned the Japanese seafood.
The Chinese then in millions thought it wasn’t any good.
So they bought hand-held geiger-counters, measuring their fish,
and found the microSieverts soared not only in the dish;
but all throughout Shanghai and countless other Chinese sites,
outside their air was bad, but even in their homes inside.
Immediately Communists have banned such netizens;
they do not want such questioning or thoughtful citizens.
O, even Xi Jinping had to put down his wife’s concerns
about home data found when she recorded the returns.
And now their seafood industry has taken such a hit,
one wonders how long it will be till they come out of it.
Rolf Sievert (1896-1966) was a Modernist Swedish medical physicist.
In Sanskrit, it was Sindhu, Indus River—India—
to ancient Greeks, before the reign of Alexander Great;
the name Bhārata was from the Rigveda Vedic tribe,
victorious in the great Battle of Ten Kings, by scribe.
by Israel W. Ebecud
And when they came upon the place they called the “Skull,” the Roman soldiers crucified him on some cross [Who knows the form?] with the two other criminals, one on the right, one on the left. [What was the loss? Was Jesus saying, Father, do forgive them, for they do not know what they are doing?] They drew lots, dividing up his clothing [loathing him and more]. The people stood and watched and mocked, [He is the Son?] “He has saved others. Let him save himself, [The poor?] if this one is the Christ of God, the chosen one.” Authorities and soldiers ridiculed him too. They offered vinegar. [What’s done can’t be undone?] “If you are the King of the Jew, [Was this not true?] then save yourself,” said some. [Who were all these people?] A sign placed over him read thus: “King of the Jew.”
Israel W. Ebecud is a poet of Israel. This prosem comes from Luke (1st century AD) 23: 33-38, a doctor of the Christian Church.
An Experiment on Light
by I. E. Sbace Weruld
When Michelson and Morley tried
their hardest to detect,
in an experiment on light,
they failed. They could not find it there.
O, could that be a fact?
They could not find it anywhere;
for that was what space lacked.
But Einstein, in this emptiness,
then filled it with a glow,
and turned it in to a success,
or relatively so.
Mr. I. E. Sbace Weruld is a poet of Outer Space. Albert Michelson (1852-1931), Edward Morley (1838-1923), and Albert Einstein (1879-1955) were noted Realist and Modernist physicists.
by Lucas Eberewid
“…the whole ear of Denmark/ Is by a forgèd process of
my death/ rankly abused.”
William Shakespeare, “Hamlet”
He was the king of nothing in particular, it seems.
His robe was but a short, white towel—measly, meager, mean.
His crown was just a graying pate, no shiny diamonds there;
his boots were hardly beautiful; o, it’s designs were bare.
He was no emperor of cream; his new clothes were streamlined;
in fact, one wondered by whom they had really been designed.
He was like as a Danish spectre; he was pale brown.
He had no scepter in his hand, nor golden orb renowned.
He was a ghostly figure stalking nighttime’s lower bound;
and didn’t even live within a hamlet or a town.
Lucas Eberewid is a poet of Denmark. William Shakespeare (1564-1616) is noted as the greatest poetic dramatist of the English language. “No modern English poet comes near his dramatic artistry,” says Wilude Scabere.
by Wibele Escudar
The buildings, blue and white, stand rigid and upright, but they seem small seen from the waters touched with brown, el Rio de la Plata in unreal sunlight. The masted boats fill a marina up; and down along the coast are larger ships—just over there. The trees that punctuate the sentence as a noun are round and green, like nothing else in th’ arid air, in Buenos Aires. People are not visible
here from this vantage point. The sky is gray and bare. It does not give of bird or man. It is a bowl, inverted and inevitable, concrete, bright, the roof above no town of Ferdinand and Isabel.
Wibele Escudar is a poet of Argentina. This prosem leans on American Modernist Wallace Stevens (1879-1955).
The Dynamic Duo
by Icee Blues Ward
Though they were known by other names within the galaxy,
he knew them as the team, “dynamic duo” affably.
One was a zany kook who had a sidekick editor;
Gadzooks! each was an oddball and a crazy character.
Eccentric, yes, concentric, no, these biocentric forms,
defining and developing their own new set of norms.
The first dude had lived for a whi-le north in Somerville,
the editor and f-l-ounder now a Norton residile,
not Horton finding Whoville in the tangled jungle Nool,
but like a jaybird flying in the sun, aright, at noon.
I met him at a poolhall, shooting red ball number 3,
and since, I’ve seen him banking acrobatic poetry.
And then there is this other dude, his partner fighting crhyme,
who is more reticent about ab-using the sublime,
Woonsocket born, moon-rocket bound, a poet pr-editor,
not like bush elephants around Lake Chad’s apparent flow.
You may find him moonlighting in a hospital’s stone soup,
homogenizing madness, imitating destitutes.
But both of them are healers, so-to-speak of, in that ilk,
by championing important things, like drinking lots of milk,
that is, of course, unless one is lactose intolerant,
then drinking lots of water, yes, is clearly operant.
They advocated seat-belt use, and eating vegetables,
as well as doing homework, munching tasty edibles.
Icee Blues Ward is a poet of cool jazzy bays. Somerville, Massachusetts is a city of about 80,000, Norton, 20,000, and Woonsocket, Rhode Island, 43,000. Theodore Seuss Geisel (1904-1991) was a PostModernist American poet. According to Beau Lecsi Werd, “residile” is a neologistic blend.
On the 60th Anniversary of the Killing of JFK
by Caud Sewer Bile
“ruthless men seek my life”
—King David, “Psalm 54”
Does anybody still believe, in ode or threnody,
Lee Harvey Oswald murdered John Fitzgerald Kennedy?
There was so much corruption in that so-called Camelot,
and false analysis done on the body that was shot.
Which members of the militant industrial complex
joined with police and secret service for such vile effects?
Which judges and which politicians were complicitous?
How many people in the world were duplicitous?
How many had to die to keep the cover-up in tact?
How much fake news flew through the mainstream media, in fact?
Who in the mafia, the FBI, and CIA,
were at the beck and call of ruthless men and LBJ?
Caud Sewer Bile is a poet of the DC Swamp. Lee Harvey Oswald (1939-1963) was falsely accused in the demise of JFK.
Another suicide from January 6th show trials,
Nejourde Meachum, 22, has taken his own life.
Because He Would Not Stop For Death
by Wilbur Dee Case
Because he would not stop for death, he’d have to wait for it;
for it would come in its sweet time, and he was all for that.
He drove his car about this Star, and patiently would drive,
till he’d arrive, as mesmerized as any etherized.
He knew no haste, he placed his labour in another spot,
as immortality was not in sight where he had stopped.
No dews drew quivering and chill; the heat was off the chart.
In tee-shirt and blue jeans, no tippet needed for his heart.
He passed cars on the freeway that were going very fast.
He passed black cattle in a field munching on the grass.
He passed the mall where roads were crumbling, turning to the East.
Low on the highway, up ahead he saw the Solar Beast.
He passed the University—discovery had parked—
He passed the road sign indicating where the turn-off arced.
He passed new houses being built, like that he now lived in,
and saw the Garden up ahead before the Glaring Spin.
He paused before a house, and pressed the hangar opener,
to a garage with plastic garbage cans, spaced locular.
Since then, it has been days, since he has faced the Ernest One,
and life’s lipidic edicts, like a benedick in Sun.
Wilbur Dee Case is a poet of American literature. Emily Dickinson (1830-1886) was an American Realist poet.
by Brac Lei Uweeds
The feathery-leafed, healing arrowroot Achilles used
for battle wounds in war, where human bodies are abused,
appeared—white yarrow—Achillea millefolium,
with flavanoids, like rutin, quercetin, luteolin,
hesperidin, widespread kaempferol, and apigenin,
as well as many acids, sterols, and asparagine.
Fine, fern-like leaves adorn this natural terrestrial,
attractive, hardy, aromatic and perennial.
There in September’s meadows it’s a nice addition to
a massive, grassy emptiness beneath a brilliant blue.
Brac Lei Uweeds is a poet of flowers.
The Big Cross Country Meet
by Rudi E. Welec, “Abs”
He saw the massive crowded field at the local park.
It was the big cross country meet: teams, busses, vans and cars.
The hundreds all around in varied coloured uniforms,
like as a carnival unwinding, racing, tents, and more.
It was a universe of people, students, coaches, fans,
like as a grand medieval fair, breathtaking scans and pans.
The girls and the boys, the gents and ladies, in their zones,
bright animated banners, in this tournament of bones.
He gazed upon the crowded field of runners in the queue,
and wished them well, within time’s hell, that they were running through;
for what was needed certainly included heart and strength,
this lesson in endurance, this event for life’s lean lengths.
Rudi E. Welec “Abs”, is a poet of sport. When he was a teenager, he would run a circuit of around three or four miles, up and down forested hill roads and trails, past houses and fields.