Haiku
by “Clear Dew” Ibuse
Across the water,
fly flat stones through the air—
the sound of infants.
Haiku
by “Clear Dew” Ibuse
Behind clouds, branches,
and a wired telephone pole,
the gibbous moon shines.
“Clear Dew” Ibuse is an haikuist.
~~~
Haiku
by “Wired Clues” Abe
I am awakened
by the coffee pot perking.
It’s time to git up.
“Wired Clues” Abe is a rad 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), Sugimura Seirinshi (1912-1990), and Akao Tôshi (1925-1981).
~~~
The People of the Dragon: 2024
by Lu “Reed ABCs” Wei
A golden, winding, Pooh-faced dragon on red—background green;
gold letters indicate this year, and too, Tiananmen.
The song is by Namewee. He enters with the Emperor,
dressed in a panda mask and dragon robe upon a horse.
The people of the dragon love so spreading everywhere.
O, everyone is a descendent, breathing in its air,
including CCP god Xi Jinping, and Western shills.
Cockroaches bow before 5000 years of silks and s-kills.
Why would they lie? Tik-Tok can clean all minds; brainwashing works.
Again, again, the leeks are cut down by the scythes of jerks.
Lu “Reed ABCs” Wei is a poet of contemporary China. Namewee is a NewMillennial Malaysian hip hop recording singer, whose “The People of the Dragon” is a recent reference-rich song.
~~~
Qin Gong
bu Lu “Reed ABCs” Wei
Mysteriously China’s foreign minister Qin Gang,
rose through the ranks so rapidly, and now appears is gone—
abruptly stripped of his position, his life data purged;
“when wild bird perches in the hall, the master soon departs.”
He asked, and importuned the owl, where is it he must go?
Continuing, he asked, do you bring him good luck, or no?
Must he depart so swiftly? O, speak to him of the hour.
It breathed a sigh, it raised its head, and beat its wings—the owl.
Its beak could utter nothing, nought. What did it try to say?
As everything must change, one may be driven far away.
There never is a moment ceasing; all goes, dusk and dawn.
Like the mutations of cicadas, form and breath pass on.
The final lines comes from “On the Owl [鵩鳥賦]” by Jia Yi (c. 200 BC – c. 169 BC).
~~~
Newsreel:
Shehbaz Sharif was sworn in as the Pakistan PM,
elected in a parliamentary symposium.
But were elections rigged, as some of his opponents claimed,
or were they handled perfectly, and no one was to blame?
~~~
The Statue of a Lion
by Cur A. Wildebees
A lion statue lying in a public space
moved suddenly to my amazement on all fours.
His tail flew up high; around he turned his face.
Some dude had jumped on him, and rode him like a horse.
But he stayed put. He was a statue after all.
There was no violent attack. There were no roars.
His rider rode upon his back, and had a ball.
The lion simply took it. What else could he do?
He merely was a statue on a pedestal.
It was a blast, yes, from the rider’s point of view,
but when his fun was done, he left without a trace.
The lion slept and dreamed of zebras at the zoo.
Cur A. Wildebees is a poet of African animals.
~~~
Flashback from March 2, 2014:
Into the jaw
of Crimea,
back from
the mouth
of hell
in Ukraine’s south,
the Russians come,
whom they know
so well.
When will they go?
~~~
The Spring-Man
by Sercei Wladebu
It’s good to have a mind of springtime to regard the breeze,
the blooms of the white, creamy-clustered, flowering pear trees,
and have been cold a long time to appreciate their bounce
against the glossy, yellow-green-leafed, rising, branching boughs.
The March Sun is so bright. New leaves are bursting out in force.
The mourning doves fly underneath the hawks that seek and soar.
It’s hard not to think of the joy that leaps about this peace,
the hastening advance of time, proceding on apace,
the listener who hears the squawking crows and mockingbirds,
like Prague’s, Pérák, part of the flock, who talks and writes down words.
Sercei Wladebu is a poet of the Czech Republic. Prague is a city of around 1,350,000.
~~~
Latin 101
by Aedile Cwerbus
You’re very brave to dare attempt trans-Latin-g 101,
it’s so well known; and yet, what you have done is take it on.
And not without some power of your own to deal with it,
its misery, and its extr’ordinary felt deep pith.
You feel the anguish in hexameter iambic lines,
and simultaneously use a scheme of heartfelt rhymes,
to handle the emotive elegiac couplet’s flow.
Like Jason, in to roiling waters, you have dared to go.
I hope you do not mind it if I ask this question nigh.
What was the reason you took on this task? I wonder why.
Aedile Cwerbus is a poet of Ancient Rome. Bruce Phenix is a contemporary British translator.
~~~
The Deposition by Fra Angelico
by Buceli da Werse
The Deposition by Fra Angelico is grand.
As in a triptych there are three divided parts.
The cross is in the center, where two ladders stand,
as Jesus Christ is taken down by sturdy hearts.
The vivid reds and pinks in gowns and hats entwine
with dark green grass and trees. Wherever the eye darts
one sees contrasts. Around, the golden haloes shine,
while skies of blue are bright with angels, clouds and light.
The kissing of the feet by Mary Magdalene
anchors the left with women; men fill up the right.
At left the castled town; at right are hills and land;
the x holds Jesus’ blood-touched body wrapped in white.
Buceli da Werse id a poet of Italian Renaissance art. Fra Angelico (c. 1395 – c. 1455) was an Early Renaissance Italian painter.
~~~
The Google AI Bard
by Esca Webuilder
While he was simply sipping on his heated green-tea chai,
at his computer he saw news about Sundar PichAI,
the CEO of Alphabet, in ref’rence to his mess,
his Chatbox Bard release, high-powered fraudulent express.
The masses said, its AI tool was really just a joke,
because its texts and images were false, absurd, and woke.
Because of that alone stock valuation plummeted,
Pichai’s position in the firm was hardly coveted.
He took another sip of chai, and left that Chatbox Bard,
producing factual errors, and hoist on its own petard.
Esca Webuilder is a poet of the Internet.
~~~
Newsreel:
Smokehouse Creek Fire started February 26th,
one mile north of Stinnett, Texas, with a weather mix,
un-us-ual-ly warm temps and wind gusts, that contributed,
along with light precip and dry air, to the fire’s spread.
More than 1,000,000 acres burnt, the fire claimed its caualties,
the people, animals, and structures—legion injuries.
The largest fire in Texas history, with fury wroth,
across the hot panhandle, its path cut a massive swath,
the second largest fire in US history, surpassed
but by New Brunswick’s Miramichi flames that were so vast,
they came to Maine, consuming towns and forests in their way,
in 1825, almost 4,000,000 acres turned gray.
~~~
Defiant Bow 2 by Edward Michael Supranowicz
by Red Was Iceblue
It’s brilliant in its swirling in a circle packed and rich,
“Defiant Bow 2” by the artíste E. M. Supranowicz.
Like yin and yang it is divided, though straight at twelve o’clock,
into two abstract sides, too smooth and bright to stop or caulk.
Upon the right, bright red, light blue, that black and white imbues,
and accents, not quite accidental hues, that seem to fuse.
Upon the left, light green and yellow shine in curving lines.
The whole a planetary score of notes and swerving signs.
Is there a hand in vibrant red down at the bottom pole?
What does it hold? an atmosphere of harmony and glow?
Red Was Iceblue is a poet of NewMillennial art, like that of contemporary artist E. M. Supranowicz.
~~~
The Thin King
by Walice du Beers
“He didn’t seem to be that great.”
—Sir Bac de Lueew
He saw the thin king walking by. Who did he think he was?
but there were few around creating an excited buzz.
He was not Aristotle; this was not here Stágirá,
although his bearing and his stature weren’t imaginal.
He wore no crown of diadems, nor rubies on his rings.
Upon his head and fingers were no scintillating things.
He did not seem pharaonic as he sauntered on ahead,
nor did he fill that savvy watcher with a bit of dread.
Instead, he simply ambled by that keen observer’s eyes,
who was not all impressed about that thin king’s stride and size.
And yet, there was this thing in that thin king who strolled along,
a kind of power hard to grasp, not muscular, but strong.
Walice du Beers is a poet of modest means.
~~~
A Bitter Café Noir
by Carb Deliseuwe
He didn’t want to get off of his bed; he longed for sleep.
He wanted so to stay there, warm and cozy in dream’s deeps.
But it was time to go to work, to get off back and butt.
He heard the pot of steeping coffee. That helped him git up.
He filled his mug, and shrugged. He sat up at the breakfast nook.
He hoped caffeine would help him focus. O, yes, he partook.
He’d block adenosine to get an energizing boost,
like as a rooster—cock-a-doodle-do—upon his roost.
O, with his roast, the dopamine increasing in his brain,
helped pick-him-up and made a better mood sing in his veins.
He felt it wasn’t easy to be pleased, yet just to have
homeostasis would be satisfying, gussed and fast.
He opened up his thirsty lips and took another sip,
while set-tl-ing into his seat that held his spreading hips.
But that was it. He didn’t have the time to linger long.
He had to break fast—one last gulp—and he had to move on.
Carb Deliseuwe is a poet of food and drink.
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