Katuata
by “Lice Brews” Ueda
The infant STOPs at
a dwarf-burford-holly hedge,
licking fingered berry dew.
“Lice Brews” Ueda is a poet of the small, including dewy drinks. The form of the katuata is 5-7-7 sound-units or syllables, dating back to the 8th century AD, and can be found in the Manyõshú, 万葉集, the Anthology of Ten-Thousand Leaves.
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Haiku
by “Wired Clues” Abe
The infant points out
wood slats in the concrete walk,
nails in the wood wall.
“Wired Clues” Abe is a NewMillennial haiku writer.
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Constant Flux
by Ra Bué Weel Disc
“Man, how fast his firedint, his mark on mind, is gone!”
—Gerard Manley Hopkins
Pink light fills up the sky, where purple clouds go sailing by,
that float aloft and fill the eye with awe, they are so high;
and where the Sun appears the sky is orange, bright, and gold,
the radiating light intense, as hues fuse and unfold.
It is another passing daze that passes through these days,
and dazzles like a blazing fire, burning through its rays;
but quickly goes away, unlike a copper braze applied
the durability on which its alloy is allied.
Ra Bué Weel Disc is a poet of the Sun.
~~~
Newsreel:
More than one-hundred died at an event inside Iran;
two bomb blasts celebrating Soleimani in Kerman.
Kerman, Iran, is a city of around 530,000.
~~~
Twenty Minute Meditation
by Sri Wele Cebuda
The Sun was shining, as his shadow came to greet his soul;
the morning shadow striding there behind him, hi, o, lo!
He stretched his neck, pecs, chest and head, as high as they could go,
the Sun around him brilliant, bright, a gleaming, bright white glow.
He took deep breaths, and raised his spine; he loved to meditate.
He laughed to think upon the common phrase, ‘It will be great’.
He lifted up his shoulders and his spirit with this pose—
the lotus blossom floating on a pond, the w-i-l-d rose,
both rolling in eternity, a going, golden goal,
while focused on homeostasis, peace, and self-control.
Sri Wele Cebuda is a poet of meditation.
~~~
Newsreel:
At Christmas in Nigeria, one-hundred-sixty died.
Fulani terrorists are killing souls with deadly pride.
~~~
One More Russian Rocket
by Radice Lebewsu
The singers buried side by side, Kristina Spitsyna,
and her co-vocalist, Svitlana Siemieikina,
at thé edge of a cemetery overgrown with graves,
filled up with flowers and a banner—all that could be saved—
when suddenly it came, from one more Russian rocket—смертъ—
young women on a playground bench near to a shadowed church.
It was in August underneath a lovely, clear blue sky.
How many thousands in this wretched war have had to die?
And when the wind blows, you think this is your child’s hugging soul,
while putting yellow flowers in a vase—chrysanthemums.
Radice Lebewsu is a poet of Ukraine. “смертъ” is death in Russian.
~~~
To Hoe One’s Gunk
by Des Wercebauli
It’s best to be a workaholic when one is still young,
so when one’s older, and much bolder, one can hoe one’s gunk.
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He Loved To Kick Back
by Des Wercebauli
He loved to kick back in his chair, his feet upon his desk,
the grey computer, hardly beautiful or arabesque.
It was so nice to leave its letters, lying flat and pat.
There would be time to type and write, to tap when it was apt.
He saw the shadows on the wall, the highways all around.
He wondered what was next to do, to where would he be bound.
He lifted up a buttercup; his daydream mode began.
A buzzing bee dropped by to see what pollen was at hand.
And then he heard the buzzer, irking sudden with its jerk.
Stung by the bell, he had to chill, and get back to his work.
Des Wercebauli was a poet of workaholics and colics.
~~~
The Formalist Farmer
by Caleb Wuri Seed
“Labor omnia vicit improbus et duris urgens in rebus egestas.”
—Vergil, “Georgica, Book I, L145-146”
He felt he had to hurry up and get dressed for his chores.
He felt like as a farmer needing to go feed the horse.
He loved his horse, especi’lly when it galloped o’er the mead;
but now in winter it was necessary to go deep.
So he put on his pants, his beige hat and his tight tan belt.
He knew he needed to be glad, so that his how he felt.
He went out to the field, where the tractor had been parked,
and stood up by the giant tires. He was prepped to start.
O, it was time to turn the earth, get dirty and get on;
for it was now already dawn. Again? O, Lord, how long?
Caleb Wuri Seed is a poet of farming.
~~~
The Golden Mean
by Aedile Cwerbus
Right living’s hard: the ever-urgent, prow-pursuing storms;
or pressing up against life’s dangers, tricky shoals and shore.
The golden mean is perfect, but hard to achieve. It lies
between th’ abode exciting envy and those men despise.
O, oft it’s pine or tower, shaken to its very core,
that falls; or mountain tops attracting striking lightning’s bore.
Be brave in hard times, apprehensive in prosperity;
for he who crushes winter will bring back asperity.
If things are bad right now though, they won’t always just be so;
Apollo plays his lyre’s strings, as well as shoots his bow.
When straits you sail narrow, show yourself undaunted, bold;
but be wise too, and take in sails when fierce winds are unrolled.
Aedile Cwerbus is a poet of Ancient Rome. The above dodeca draws primarily from “Ode, Book II, Poem X” by Latin poet Horace (65 BC – 8 BC).
~~~
Last Night’s New Year’s Eve in the Metro
by We Celebradius
Above, within his room, the toddler rested in his crib,
free from the world of water-bottle, toasted-cheese, and bib.
In Ancient Greece, a child was carried in a basket round
to honor Dionysus, god of wine and joys unbound.
Below, adults were playing and/or watching a board game;
refreshments eaten and/or drunk, by all, one and the same.
Completing Terraforming Mars, amidst fun, friends, and change,
imbibing down the year with doce uvas and champagne.
We clinked our glasses, made our wishes, watching the TV:
the sky there filled with fireworks, three-hundred drones to see.
We chatted happily for half-an-hour, and then began
departing to our Earthly residences, as we planned.
We Celebradius is a first-person poet of gatherings and celebrations. Doce Uvas (Twelve Grapes) is a tradition of Iberian, as well as, North and South American revelers.
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At the Circus Show
by Sirc de Wee Balu
“…ist wie ein Tanz von Kraft um eine Mitte
in der betäubt ein grosser Wille steht.”
—Rainer Maria Rilke, “Der Panther”
He saw the grizzly bear performing in the circus show.
He sat up in a chair and stretched his head up, nice and slow.
The trainer stood by keeping watch upon that furry frame,
lest he would cause some mayhem, maybe mutilate, or maim.
The audience observed his human-like capacity,
but wondered seriously of this act’s sagacity.
What did it gain the bear—control, or strange agility?
No one believed it had attained a true docility.
Undoubtedly it was to show the man’s competency,
his strength in such a situation of intensity.
It seemed so silly, willy-nilly, really little more
than picking up the chair itself to make a lion roar.
Sirc de Wee Balu is a poet of rolls and circuses. Rainer Maria Rilke (1875-1926) was a German Modernist poet.
~~~
In Giverny
by Claude I. S. Weber
In Giverny, Claude Monet painted them from the pond he maintained—water lilies—in picture after picture, each a gem of scintillating subtlety. The ease of his realism, a reflection of his vision, was more than a mirror; it was the quite credible suggestion that a clearer world awaits a peerer, whenever he or she dares penetrate what Paul Claudel called the “airy azure” in the liquid. There ripples generate the image of the sky, and reassure us that the world of the spirit is, and we can see it in what we understand.
Claude I. S. Weber is a poet of French painting. Claude Monet (1840-1926) was a French Realist Impressionist. Paul Claudel (1868-1955) was a Modernist French poet responsible for the verset claudélien, long, luxurient, unrhymed lines of free verse. According to literary critic Lew Icraus Bede, in the above prosem, Weber was searching for linear clarity in a prosaic idiom.
~~~
Reflection in a Lake
by Beau Ecs Wilder
I saw him seated…at the edge…reflected in a lake—
chiaroscuro, drawing one in past the play of Blake,
in a black hat. O, see how much of him is missing there
in that white-and-bleak picture, out in the midAugust air.
He’s gazing down into the water. What does he observe?
What was the status of his nerves? How well…was he…well versed?
His shoe soles dang-ling under his pants, his face dark and flecked,
him decked before vague scenery, perhaps upon a dock,
which Landow thought was strangely wrought and “oddly accurate”,
as he stared in depths of chagrin, so strangely saturate.
Beau Ecs Wilder is a poet of 19th century British artistry. William Blake (1757-1827) was an English Romantic poet, painter, and print maker. Gerard Manley Hopkins (1844-1889), this inspiration for this sketch, was a English Victorian poet and Jesuit priest. George Paul Landow (1940-2023) was a PostModernist American critic of Victorian art, literature and culture.
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Heard on the Radio
by Beadle Crew USI
If the rain comes, we run and hide our heads. We aren’t yet dead.
We do not want pneumonia; we like being dry instead.
When the sun shines, we shift into the shade, with ice-cold lemonade.
We do not want the UV rays to make a deadly raid.
Beadle Crew USI is a poet of British pOp music, in this case touched by “Rain” by the Beatles.
~~~
Queries:
Was money sent from China to somebody’s residence?
Did DOJ give someone else a treatment preference?
Was interference done for someone by the IRS?
Did someone get a bribe of millions? Is there evidence?
~~~
On the Seigenthaler Bridge
by Alec Subre Wide
I saw him on the Seigenthaler Bridge a year ago.
What was he doing on that truss so high, he was so low?
That bridge was closed to vehicles in 1998;
and yet was there a car back there in 2015? Wait.
Pedestrian, yes, sir, in downtown Nashville, Tennessee.
The city rises up to it and all around it. See.
It spans the River—Cumberland—surrounding slovenly,
escaping lush green lawns and fields—astounding, heavenly.
Alec Subre Wide is a poet of bridges. Nashville, Tennessee, has a population of around 690,000.
~~~
Like as a Lizard
by Scale Wil Brude
“…under a sky that never cared less.”
—William Stafford
He felt like as a lizard lounging in the early dawn,
just warming up to radiating light beams pouring down,
absorbing golden sunrays, raising chest and back off of
the place where he was at, the azure sky, blue and above.
There was no love here; he was merely waking up alone
to stone and plants, to own the dance of skinny flesh and bone.
He saw no bomb exploding in the nearby neighbourhood,
and that was good; he didn’t want the misery of blood.
And so he simply savoured moments passing by and through,
like as a lizard lounging in the morning fresh and new.
Brude Scale Wil is a poet of lizardry. William Stafford (1914-1993) was a PostModernist American poet.
~~~
Newsreel:
A cargo ship of lithium, in ion batteries,
was anchored off Alaska’s coast there burning for a week.
Such fires burn much longer, hotter, than do other fires,
which fire-fighters aren’t prepared to deal with and fight.
~~~
Gr-oses
by Brac Lei Uweeds
“& youth goes / right on / gr / owing old.”
—E. E. Cummings, “old age sticks”
Outside, flung roses linger on despite the freezing cold.
They fall apart, the petals are departing merry fold.
Yet, still their pink keeps hanging on despite their sinking, o.
You, too, are happy and content, though you are growing old.
To Winter’s Parallax
by Brac Lei Uweeds
One flower’s ever fading in our garden plot,
as one is rising up to add its loveliness.
In winter’s bleakness comes the crocus, orange, taut,
that quickly wilts besides the daffodil’s gold yes,
which drops when tulips lap the air labially
before they too collapse by rhododendron dress,
whose large, pink blooms begin to droop radially,
replaced by pale-red-violet, vibrant lilacs.
Spring turns to summer, slowly and casually,
while pansies in the window boxes wane and wax,
and other hidden ones call out, ‘forget-me-not.’
Then autumn passes on to winter’s parallax.
Brac Lei Uweeds is a poet of flowers. The above bilding [sic] is an overview of a floral year.
~~~
Six-Minute Workout
by Rudi E. Welec, “Abs”
“Was mich nich umbringt, macht mich stärker.”
—Friedrich Nietzsche
O, it was time for exercises, in his smooth grey trunks,
that hung down past his knees, around his hips and upper buns.
He got on the elliptical and started stepping some:
up-down, up-down, up-down, up-down. He wasn’t feeling plumb.
He looked up at the corners where the ceiling hit the walls,
and kept on back and forth, a sideways, rocking carousel;
his left leg followed by his right, pushed on the giant steps;
his legs got tighter, sorer; luckily he had some pep.
He stretched his torso, more or less so, as he moved along.
Could this help him get stronger, strong, or simply knock him down?
Rudi E. Welec, “Abs” is a poet of exercise.
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