Haiku
by “Clear Dew” Ibuse
By pale brick eaves,
the white crepe myrtle’s green leaves
have turned gold and red.
“Clear Dew” Ibuse is a poet of haiku.
~~~
Haiku
by “Wired Clues” Abe
He saw the firemen
place ladders against the house,
put up Christmas lights.
“Wired Clues” Abe is a NewMillennial haiku writer.
~~~
A Sage in an Old Age
by Lu “Reed ABCs” Wei
He was a sage, in an old age, who followed wuwei’s way,
endowed with but a paradox of spontaneity.
Although he did not act, there was no thing he wouldn’t do,
if it was dense, and it made sense, and he was able to.
Then in late autumn, at time’s bottom, when he was alive,
organic’lly existing where he most could be and thrive.
He tried to manage his affairs; but that was hard indeed,
so hard, in fact, he wondered could he teach without song-speech?
The path that he went down, he went by following his dao,
and ended up, so many times, there in kowtowing now,
not striving to attain…arriving…yet to harmonize…
while yielding to the immovable, unchanging lies.
Lu “Reed ABCs” Wei is a poet of China.
~~~
Meditation in B-Sharp
by Sri Wele Cebuda
He got into the lotus pose. The sunlight fell on him.
He longed to do a meditation—ten to twenty min.
He stretched his head up to the ceiling, reeling with life’s flow;
the purpose of his mentalation—focus and control.
He sat upon his chair, up in the air, so high and wide.
He loved to get into position, bone up and abide.
He lifted up his spine; the feeling was divine, o, yes.
Now he could contemplate his situation; he was set.
He opened up…his mind…was running; he was in full gear;
his temples charged, his chest enlarged, his tackle, trim and…sear.
Sri Wele Cebuda is a poet of meditation. According to Beau Lecsi Werd, “min” is a trunc.
~~~
Newsreel:
Al Gore said, [COP-28 in UAE] abused
its “prepatory meetings to sell more gas and oil” spew.
~~~
Among the Oldest Living Things on Earth
by Ileac Burweeds
Among the oldest living things on Earth
are bristlecone pine trees, which can reach up,
in age, to almost fifty-hundred years.
Analysis of rings within their trunks
can possibly reveal the isotopes
that they ingested centuries ago.
Ileac Burweeds is a poet of plants.
~~~
Behemoth
by Israel W. Ebecud
Look at Behemoth, which I made the same time I made you,
which feeds on grass, like as an ox, beneath the aether blue.
What strength it has within its loins, like lions well-to-do.
What power it possesses in its belly muscles too.
Its tail sways like cedar, its thigh-sinews are close-knit,
its bones are tubes of bronze, its limbs, with iron rods are fit.
It ranks the first among the works of the Almighty Lord,
and yet its Maker can approach it with his sturdy sword.
The hills bring it their produce, while wild animals play by.
Among marsh reeds it hides, and under lotuses it lies.
The lotus plants conceal it in their shadowy dark dreams,
surrounded by the poplars, popular within stark streams.
A raging river won’t alarm it, since it is secure;
although the Jordan surge against its mouth, loud and impure.
In short, can any on the Earth catch it while it looks on,
or capture it with pierced nose ring, hooked in night’s eve, or dawn?
Israel W. Ebecud is a poet of Gentiles, like Job from Uz.
~~~
Their Way
by Crise de Abu Wel
Once they had listened to King Herod, they went on their way.
The eastern star they’d seen went on before them, night and day.
It shined above the place where lay the little baby boy;
and seeing that star, they rejoiced, intensely with great joy.
On coming to his house, they saw the child with his mom,
his mother Mary. They fell to the ground, and worshipped him,
presenting him with opened gifts—gold, frankinsence and myrrh.
One wonders what they thought these treasures were—both him
and her.
And since they had been warned within a dream to not remain,
the magi left for their own country by another way.
Crise de Abu Wel is a poet of the Gospel. Herod (c. 72 BC – c. 4 BC) was a Jewish king of Judea.
~~~
The African Soldier
by Dicase Lebweru
He was a soldier dressed in desert camo in the heat.
Although he had been recently attacked, he wasn’t beat.
He’d keep on fighting for as long as he was able to,
on pale, drab green grasses underneath behemoth blue.
Dicase Lebweru is a poet of East Africa.
~~~
The Forgotten Soldier
by Radice Lebewsu
Far, far away, there at a distant gate, he paused.
The sun, always above, shone on incessantly.
He touched the iron skeleton. Beneath white gauze
he sweated, not profusely, but unceasingly.
The dust was everywhere, on hands, on face, in eyes.
So pleasantly he dreamed of peace that will not be.
Tears streamed down his cheeks as he looked into the skies.
Dead bodies were strewn all about. War is not done;
the battles do not stop. Nearby a dead corpse lies.
The dust upon that dead man makes his red blood dun.
He fought hard for a cause most noble, but lost;
and now his thoughts are for forever gone. It’s won—
the afternoon, but no one stops to count the cost.
None casts a shadow on the dusty, dry road. How
much pain must poor humanity endure? He tossed
aside the gun. He gazed around and took a bow.
It’s time for him to leave the stage. He has not crossed
this place; and that was all the time he was allowed.
Radice Lebewsu is a poet of Ukraine.
~~~
JewsReel:
A brand new nasty CommuNaziSocialism nears;
a 1930s nightmare in America appears:
diversity, inclusion, kill-the-Jews, and equity,
occurring all across the land—from sea to poisoned sea.
~~~
Danish
by Ib Claus Weeder
Some worship a god at a temple, a pagoda shrine;
while others go to other places seeking the divine.
Some people not from Copenhagen like rich pastries warm;
but Hamlet found the Danish far too hot for hell to form.
Ib Claus Weeder is a poet of Denmark. Copenhagen, Denmark, is a city of around 660,000.
~~~
A Monotone Connecticut Executive
by Cadwel E. Bruise
Materialism is a pure fiction, sir.
If you withdraw the moral law, you have
an empty nave. It takes an engineer
to build a conscience out of raw truth, Av,
but to make hymns takes more. It requires faith,
and quires of choirs, without which hot air plods,
and flails like a fish striving for a breath.
Beyond the planets, the only palms are God’s.
It’s not a saxophone He’s playing, nor
can your high-cost insurance plans deal with
the horrors happening at Elsinore,
which, in the end, are more than fictive myth.
They are indeed as real as Avalon,
the appled isle King Arthur vanished on.
Cadwel E. Bruise is a poet of New England. The above sonnet touches Ancient Hebrews, Celts, William Shakespeare, and Wallace Stevens.
~~~
Newsreal:
How interesting all the tapes of January 6th
have disappeared! With co-conspiritors, DC is thick.
The DOJ—Dishonesty Of Judging—paves the way
for falsity on falsity—Dark City on display.
Demonic Rats have taken over Ham’lin town. O, spite!
O come together, ever vigilant, to set it right.
~~~
In the Carolinas
by Cause Bewilder
“He has not mother. He has no skates.”
—Marjorie Kinnan Rawlings
He was there only once, and that was long ago.
He passed through quickly on his way to Germany.
All that he remembered was Southern charm and show;
and then he left the place. He never got to see
the laurel in the mountains, cabins in the hills,
the children with no mothers, orphan purity,
the clarity, simplicity of mountain rills,
and mountain folk, in short, integrity. He had
a journey he needed to take. Such duty fulfills.
He looked forward to it, though ‘t did not make him glad.
He said good-bye to the pines. It was time to go.
He hoped he would find maples in vermillion clad.
Cause Bewilder is a poet of the South. Marjorie Kinnan Rawlings (1896-1953) was a Modernist American novelist [“The Yearling”…] and short story writer [A Mother in Manville”…]. L9 in the above bilding strangely nears an anapestic pentameter.
~~~
The Test Facility
by Lud “AI” Webscree
He saw the outdoor meshed rectangle rising from the earth.
It was a test facility for UAV research.
On the horizon it appeared, a giant, tented net,
for flying vehicle autonomous development.
It soared up eighty feet tall, taller than a huge mesquite.
Its footprint was around one-hundred-by-three-hundred feet.
Drones can be flown there, even big ones, in th’ extensive space,
yet still will be considered indoors by the FAA.
Lud “AI” Webscree is a poet of technology.
~~~
Acorn Corner
by Reducible Awes
“The World is at your command.”
Beatles, “Nowhere Man”
He saw the brilliant orange-red leaves of tall Shumard oaks
soak up the sunlight in December’s, crisp, cold airy scope;
and down below beside the concrete, circling cul-de-sac,
a myriad of acorns: kernels, nut-shells, stalks and caps.
He was new to the Universe and ready to inspect
these objects nature opened up to him to play with zest,
these wooden marbles, round and oblong underneath these trees
upon the sidewalk, lawn, and roadway, rolling at his knees.
His awe was re-al, gen-u-ine; he loved good nature’s toys,
a Christmas tree in green and gold, in red and browns, bright joys,
like as a squirrel at the trunk, a treasure chest at hand,
like little boys who dream the world is there at their command.
Reducible Awes is a poet of miraculous moments in life. The Beatles were a PostModernist rock band.
~~~
Urban Sweep
by Urbawel Cidese
Each way one turns one sees tall towers in the urban sweep:
skyscrapers erectangular leap geometric’lly;
large steel distribution poles march over hill and dale,
like mighty titan trolls with wires, at an enormous scale;
colossal radio masts, great broadcasting entities,
antennae altitudinous, like rockets staged at ease;
ginormous water towers too, up cast, so vast, and high,
like alien spacecraft they stand at sunrise in the sky;
and decades worth of spreading trees grow over homes and streets,
umbrellas raining leaves in autumn, covering concrete.
Urbawel Cidese is a poet of urban spaces.
~~~
At Work
by Des Wercebauli
It was another day…up at his monitor again;
in this age of computers, common for most business men.
Though some might lean back in their chairs, their legs upon their desks;
most would not so participate in such flesh arabesques.
He sat up straight, o, yes, as straight as he was able to;
he loved to pull his spine up, stretching out his point of view.
He thought, ‘The pen is not as mighty as a monitor.’
But then his boss explosively ‘Asked are you on it, sir?’
O, hell, his mind was wandering; he’d better focus now
upon his task—no crocus flower—It’s a rose-bush. Ow.
Des Wercebauli is a poet of workaholics.
~~~
That Track
Race Dublewise
O, he was panting, his heart beating harder than before.
He just stepped off of an elliptical…down to the floor.
His arms and legs had just been through an H-I-I-T gun,
that hit him like a fast four-forty-meter charging run.
It roused his memories, when he would do a minute scoot,
around the oval track, between his classes at the school.
Then, he remembered, his heart beating, throbbing hard and fast,
the pumping going on, on, on, on—How long would it last?
He now was warmer, and he took the gray shirt off his back.
Though happy and content, he’d never get back to that track.
Race Dublewise is a poet of running. HIIT is high intensity interval training.
~~~
Morning Exercises
by Rudi E. Welec, “Abs”
It was time for his morning exercises—once again.
The Sun was shining through the window: bright, yes, Sunday gelt.
He leaned back on a mat. A crow was cawing on a roof.
He felt so many feelings, but he didn’t feel aloof.
He saw his shadow on the wall; hair scrag-gl-y at best.
He lifted up his head; he stretched his legs; he heaved his chest.
He squeezed his abdomen each time he sat up—8, 9, 10.
11, 12, and 13 then, an up-down, upward Zen.
What was his moving body’s signal-tó-noise-ratio?
Where would he end up at? O, hów much longer could he go?
Rudi E. Welec, “Abs” is a poet of exercising.
~~~
A Song
by I. Warble Seduce
It is today that matters—not tonight.
Tomorrow never will be quite so bright.
Yesterday was truly something.
It was lovely seeing you.
So much better than just nothing,
being all alone and blue.
Now today is even better.
Here beside the faucet’s spray.
Cloudy skies and sunny weather,
it’s a cold December day.
It is today that matters—not tonight.
Tomorrow never will be quite so bright.
Just a few words from your speaking
and a brief but warm embrace.
And the faucet isn’t leaking
while I’m taking in your face.
Oh, the days continue passing,
and the time keeps flowing on.
But I’m thankful for the last thing
on my mind—that lovely dawn.
It is today that matters—not tonight.
Tomorrow never will be quite so bright.
Cars keep passing by us—sort of,
as we sit beside time’s stream.
You are mine and I am yours, Love,
this is really not a dream.
We have come from other places.
We have come to live our lives.
We are working out our graces,
spaces for all that survives.
It is today that matters—not tonight.
Tomorrow never will be quite so bright.
Mr. I. Warble Seduce is a poet of love.
~~~
Ever an Arranging Fit
by Seer Ablicudew
It is so complicated and ununderstandable;
the World is and always has been inexplicable.
And yet one wants to make sense of it all, despite the mess,
because it’s so intriguing a place, and mysterious.
Unfathomable, eerie, ever an arranging fit;
the ghosts or gods, one never saw, are no less strange than it.
How does one figure out these bigger than existent strains
that ever move in very unexpected ways and veins?
The possibilities beyond the present and the past
are vast…in new and future realms in which they have been cast.
Seer Ablicudew is a poet of prophetic visions.
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