Haiku
by “Clear Dew” Ibuse
As December starts,
honeybees still are busy
at the rose bushes.
Haiku
by “Clear Dew” Ibuse
The toddler pauses
underneath the red oak tree
to play with acorns.
“Clear Dew” Ibuse is a haikuist of natural settings.
~~~
Tanka
by “Wired Clues” Abe
The full moon rises
at the same time the sun sets,
above the live oak,
and towering power lines,
ignored by a muching cow.
Haiku
by “Wired Clues” Abe
The door was opened,
he stepped down the concrete steps,
and started running.
Haiku
by “Wired Clues” Abe
Th’ infant scuffs concrete,
crossing striated streets:
grandparents in tow.
“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).
~~~
Newsreel:
What’s one to make of all the problem China’s having with
its aircraft carriers? Is their superiority a myth?
~~~
That Ghostly Spirit
by Sri Wele Cebuda
He saw that ghostly spirit rise up from its sleepy grave.
Though glowing gorgeously, it was intangible and vague.
He wondered through what portal had that kingly figure come,
like as a mighty animation rising from some muck.
This was not Hamlet’s father that he saw—it was too young.
Diaphanous and beauteous—How could it come from gunk?
It was not like Pym’s vision; it was not that tall at all;
though as for that, it seemed much taller than a normal man.
Though like an image seen by any Ancient Mariner,
it was no angel pausing in nocturnal, barren air.
He tried to understand what message this phantasm brought,
which seemed to come from far beyond the realms of Earthly thought.
How could this thing, so insubstantial, be alive and real?
He stood amazed, in awe, in fact. He felt…How could he feel?
There was no conversation. No words came…though there was peace.
And though there was no joy or ecstasy, he was quite pleased.
Sri Wele Cebuda is a poet of visions. William Shakespeare (1564-1616), Samuel Coleridge (1772-1834), and Edgar Poe (1809-1849) were poets who countenanced visions.
~~~
A Transcendental Aspect
by Erisbawdle Cue
He stood up at his window, looking at the landscape there.
He dallied at the sill, the hills and valleyed airy breadth.
He had another cup of coffee with some MCT.
O, yes, the view was beautiful, if but an empty scene.
The brown ground bounded endlessly before his open eyes,
the sunlight touching tips of tops, above the sloping, skies.
He loved to boost his energy, to focus and refine…
his mind…to slow the aging pace of cognitive decline.
He saw depressions disappearing in the distant blue.
He felt less taut, like as a liver full of life and lubed.
His heart was pounding, not unboundingly, but good and sure.
He saw the shadows lengthening…so long… so pure and true.
Erisbawdle Cue is a poet of philosophy.
~~~
Rapture Understood
by “Wild” E. S. Bucaree
He longed to go out hunting with his buddies in the fall.
In camoflage they’d hit the back roads—beauty, valour, gall.
What was the most exciting part was the achievement of,
the mastery, yes, of the thing. O, that’s what he did love.
They’d go for quail, white-tailed deer, and sometimes even bear.
He loved to get out of the house, out in the open air.
Birds, ungulates, or carnivores, affiliated grit;
it was so satisfying he appreciated it.
Such legal, regulated hunting made him feel so good,
so close to nature, yes, in deed, his rapture understood.
“Wild” E. S. Bucaree is a poet of hunters.
~~~
Three Hostages of Hamas
by Israel W. Ebecud
Remember Shiri, Ariel and small Kfir Bibas,
a mother, and her children murdered by hate-filled Hamas.
Israel W. Ebecud is a poet of the land of Israel.
~~~
Sprechstimme
by Ewald E. Eisburc
He had a cup of green tea, cinnamon and ginger root,
with clove bud oil and cardamom. It was so sweet and good.
He loved its taste; it was mature. It had a nuanced punch.
He brought the cup up to his lips, and took another plunge.
It was so hot, his tongue in-wrought, like as a bungie jump,
so thrilling, if subdued a bit; the dude was semi-pumped.
He drank it in—the atmosphere—refilling it again;
each sip a gain, each dip a drain, he could not quit in vain.
He had a cup of green tea; it was wonderful to him.
It was so satisfying that he launched into Sprechstimme.
Ewald E. Eisbruc is a poet of speech-song (Sprechstimme).
~~~
Your Shadow
by Celab Wresidue
An evening of silent, drowsing words—another one—
a third, a spur. Your shadow can’t erase the scarring Sun.
The country under blood now strikes the middle of your soul.
How can one celebrate the thirst, the hunger of the ghoul?
The full Moon leaps at you—long, silver, naked skeleton—
who ‘s thrown among a pack of jackals fighting for a bone.
The rays that you awakened, foaming closer than before,
floats up like fruit you bit so many years ago. O, yore!
Celab Wresidue is a poet of residues. Paul Celan (1920-1970) was a German Modernist poet.
~~~
A Connecticut Yankee Speaks
by Cadwel E. Bruise
It’s very cold, so wear your coat; you’re a eukaryote.
Hey, Charon, you, too, carry on, upon your ferry boat.
Cadwel E. Bruise is a poet of New England. Charon is an Ancient Greek psychopomp.
~~~
A New Roof
by Arcideb Usewel
Because of hail damage, he required a new roof,
from three-tab shingles to dimensional, for greater proof.
The whirl-wind crew pulled off the old and then put in the new;
within a day the work was done; that was a lot to do.
And though they cleaned up very well, he kept on finding nails,
the metal drip edge, and parts of the asphalt underlay…
for months, more than a year; and yet he was so glad to have
a new roof and he was free from those damnèd drying vacs.
But it was not until he saw another roof put in,
whose owner, a contractor, told him of its underpin,
and how to see the difference of how his roof had been,
and now to be more cognizant of artificial skin.
Arcideb Usewel is a poet of building.
~~~
At the Gardens
by Bruc “Diesel” Awe
“…toward the door we never opened, into the rose garden.”
—T. S. Eliot, “Four Quartets”
He chose to live at the Rose-Garden, by the highway’s side.
For him it was a splendid place at which he could reside.
It worked for him, because he drove a semi-trailer truck;
and right there at the on-and-off ramps, he could park, and tuck:
There was a long, wide driveway for such lengthy vehicles,
and room to angle a large tractor’s arcing miracles.
There he could separate his cab and drive on in to town,
no matter what load he was hauling, east or west his route.
Apartment prices were conditional upon the size
one needed to procure for living…in these Zeitgeist times.
Bruc “Diesel” Awe is a poet of trucks. T. S. Eliot (1888-1965) was an English-speaking Modernist poet, dramatist, and literary critic.
~~~
A Certain Slant of Light
by Ra Bué Weel Disc
There is a certain slant of light that comes at autumn dawns,
oppressing like the crash of NewMillennium jaw songs,
that hurts like hell upon one’s head with scarring, blinding curse,
on highways filled with autos, SUVs, trucks, vans, and worse.
Though it be taut, it can be taught—internal difference—
yet one can ken its fierce affliction with experience.
The landscape feels its necessary, beating, greeting heat,
ecstatic for its welcome touch, though as such it can be
too much for some, on the horizon of infinity,
remembering here at one’s desk while sipping herbal tea.
Ra Bué Weel Disc is a poet of the dickin’ Sun.
~~~
A Z-a-p
by Earwic Beeduls
He heard a fly, while still alive, buzz in the house room’s air.
It was between the heaves of storm. It drove him crazier.
He did not see it droning on—How could he have seen her,
especi’lly when she had been living in America,
(not in Milano, Italy, at an academy,
thought-sculpting like one Anna Mosca, flying, passing me)?
So he turned on his mesh-screen zapper to get rid of it,
because he didn’t want to be bugged further in his fit.
And then there interposed a s-n-a-p, a reassuring pop;
and he could see it in the gray tray, where it had been dropped.
Earwic Beeduls is a poet of insects. Anna Mosca is a contemporary Italian artist. Some of the diction comes from American Realist poet Emily Dickinson (1830-1886).
~~~
“He ever was some place else, and that was the gist of it;
yet missed the World as it whirled, not in synch with it.”
—Bic Uwel, “Erased”
~~~
On th’ Elliptical
by Rudi E. Welec, “Abs”
Dressed in his black socks and his black shoes on th’ elliptical.
His feet and legs pushed up and down, his hands went forth and back.
His belt-tight trunks, secure and beige, would not slip off of him,
embarrassing as that would be for someone in the gym.
He wasn’t going back and forth upon that staid machine,
but he was panting, his heart beating, stepping peppily.
He felt like as some god was prodding him to do his best;
he felt he needed badly, o, to meet this pressing test.
His arms and legs were woking out. He was pumped up to go;
and so he went nowhere at all not high, but not too low.
Rudi E. Welec, “Abs”, is a poet of workouts.
~~~
The Boy Tosses a Stone
by Cu Ebide Aswerl
Across the pond the ripples flow in lines,
each one between two others past the first,
before the last. In circles do they go,
until they reach the edge where sedge reclines;
and in the pond’s smooth surface are immersed,
there vanishing beneath the sunlit glow.
A boy picks up a stick, which he aligns,
and tosses out with an enormous thrust.
As straight as any arrow from a bow,
it hits the pond. Each splashing droplet shines
above the place from which they all have burst;
and so new radiating ripples show,
and move in lines back to the rough, curved shore,
whereat the boy prepares for one more soar.
The Crazy Rocket Ride
by Cu Ebide Aswerl
He did not want to take crazy rocket ride again,
remembering just how it felt, when he took it back then.
He was a little kid. O, he was told to hold on tight,
especi’lly at the circle’s top, with nothing safe in sight.
Between the pavement far below, and the thin, wire cage,
there wasn’t anything to stop him from fate’s landing stage.
It was a wild, mad, white-knuckle ride to test one’s strength,
that wasn’t safe for little kids who didn’t ken such angst.
But there he was, up in the air, and rocking back and forth,
his only hope to hold on tightly, with the might of Thor.
Cu Ebide Aswerl is a poet of biding the swirl of crazed, leisure activities. Thor was the powerfu, ancient Norse god of sacred groves and trees.
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