Haiku
by “Clear Dew” Ibuse
Two bluejays pecking
at the ground beneath an oak,
abruptly fly off.
Found Haiku
by “Clear Dew” Ibuse
Rain, rain, go away.
Come again another day.
A boy wants to play.
“Clear Dew” Ibuse is a poet of haiku, as in the above “found haiku.”
~~~
Haiku
by “Wired Clues” Abe
He was pulling light,
from a distant other world
in the Milky Way.
“Wired Clues” Abe is a rad trad haiku writer, following on the work of writers, such as PostModernist Japanese poet Ishihara Yatsuka (1919-1998), from whom the above haiku draws.
~~~
Newsreel:
In North America, the first locale is Mexico;
to Texas, Indiana, and Ohio, it will go;
through Pennsylvania, New York, and to Nova Scotia’s shore
the Sun’s eclipse will come and show its shadow’s scope and score.
~~~
The Messages From Space
by Lud “AI” Webscree
They come to us—the messages from space filled up with stars;
but what is it that they are trying to tell us and ours?
We see the spacecraft in the heavens, morning, dusk and dawn;
but what is it they’re trying to awaken or alarm?
We see them hover overhead, as we drive down the roads,
on highways, frontages, and avenues. This is not Mars.
At times, it seems we are embracing novel episodes.
Communication can be very strange when it occurs.
What kinds of things will we observe beyond AI uploads?
This is mysterious, that is, this massive Universe.
Lud “AI” Webscree is a poet of tech-comm.
~~~
Newsreel:
At morning rush-hour Wednesday an earthquake had rocked Taiwan;
at least nine died amidst collapsing buildings near Hualien.
Hualien is a city in eastern Taiwan of around 100,000.
~~~
That Constant Pounding
by Builder Cee Saw
Hold on to the rock drill as firmly as you can;
while breaking up cement, it shakes you totally;
that constant pounding tests the limits of a man,
emotionally, mentally, and bodily,
basically how tough the human being is,
when life is at its hardest ever possibly,
when you are feeling systems all are on the fritz,
so fucked up you can’t take it anymore, you’re done.
That’s it! like bits of shard all broken into bits,
and wonder how you ever thought that life was fun,
while your heart’s racing in the universal span,
a lost soul smaller than a spot upon the sun.
Builder Cee Saw is a poet of construction and destruction.
~~~
Newsreel:
As Israel continues pounding Gaza with its bombs,
did it attack Iran’s Damascus mission, south of Homs?
~~~
An Easter Bouquet
by Brac Lei Uweeds
This place was not at Golgotha, beside a rocky knoll,
known as the hill of skulls. Here was no golden oreole.
But underneath the growing oak, two bluejays pecked and searched;
and later flew up to the empty limbs, where they both perched.
Here was no tomb, but there were roses in the gardenelle,
so numerous upon the bushes, one could hardly tell.
Though still it was the month of March, here was a large bouquet,
and Easter, facing east, abundant bounty on display.
The gardener was overwhelmed; he’d hardly done a thing,
but watch the beauty of the daytime flowering in spring.
Brac Lei Uweeds is a poet of floral displays. According to Beau Lecsi Werd, “gardenelle” is a small garden.
~~~
Odysseus upon the Beach
by Ercules Edibwa
A lovely, lithe and beautiful hot babe reclined
upon a large tan towel on the sandy beach.
So gorgeously her curves touched corners of his mind,
He longed to hold her close; but she was out of reach.
The body is a temple, and it must be pure,
no matter just how tempting is the luscious cheat,
or how voluptuous the round shapes, so demure.
It is important to hold back the dolphin’s fins,
to keep the flying fish from being immature.
One must avoid the pitfalls, all the outs and ins
that spin us like a hurricane and leave us blind.
It is the careful seaman who sails home and wins.
Ercules Edibwa is a poet of Ancient Greece. Odysseus is a character from the Ancient Greek epic poet Homer.
~~~
Easter Egg Cloaking Device
by Carb Deliseuwe
Before him were some Easter eggs in shiny, wrinkled coils,
pink, blue, and gold, pastel, wrapped folds, each in its own snug foil.
But foil has a zero Gaussian (flat) curvature,
while eggs possess a variable—positive, curved swirl.
So eggs are challenging to wrap without a single crease;
in fact, it can’t be done, unless one take a foil’s piece;
and then, without a compromise to oval choc-o-late,
one can take thé formed Easter egg and cover its shape up.
Carb Deliseuwe is a poet of food and drink.
~~~
A Man Who Had No Qualities
by Bieder C. Weslau
He was a man who had no qualities—not musilage—
that gluey, thick stuff plants produce, to store and germinate,
or even help in capturing insects they’d like to eat—
though Robert was a passive analytic keen, deadbeat.
That left him poor at the end of his life in Switzerland,
while all around, the World War held him within its band.
His life, a sort of introduction, death, a sort of end,
he was a man who managed, in his age, to o’erextend.
His longest work, unfinished, overtaken by events,
starts 1913, Austria, and all that represents;
but there are no conclusions to the questions that he asks:
tremendous energy expended on life’s simple tasks.
Bieder C. Weslau is a poet of Austria and Biedermeier bourgeoisie. Robert Musil (1880-1942) was a Moderist Austrian proset.
~~~
On John
by Raúl de Cwesibe
Into th’ obscurity of night, with anxious flames
of love, o, sweet delight, without my being seen,
I went, now standing in my peaceful house, o, James!
By secret stairs I went, o, happy venturing.
In darkness and security, in utter stealth,
I went, now standing in my quietness, and lean.
Upon that lucky night, in secret and in health,
since none saw me and I saw none, without a light
or guide, except for that which burned in me—heart wealth—
this guided me more certainly than midday’s bright-
ness ever could to where one waited for me there,
whom I knew well, though where there was no one in sight.
This guiding light, more loving than the morning air,
this lover and his loved one of so many names,
transformed into each other, beautiful and spare…
Raúl de Cwesibe is a poet of Spain. The above poem draws from San Juan de la Cruz (1542-1591), the Spanish mystic poet of El Siglo de Oro.
~~~
An English-Speaking Poet Speaks, a Qasida
by B. S. Eliud Acrewe
It’s true my po’ms are clumsy, chock-a-block with rhyme,
as jingled and as bounced about as Chaucer’s, I’m…
as overwrought as Spenser e’er was in his prime,
as bland as Milton in his turgid, blank-verse dime.
My poetry’s as drenched with vengeful, clenching crime
and pun as any spun Shakespearean sublime,
as wrenched as any wretched Metaphysic mime,
as tedious as Pope’s fine, mock-heroic climb,
as clamorous as any Poe clanged out in chime,
as bloated and as boastful as Whitmanic grime,
as distant and as cold as Eliotic rime,
as thick and dense as Robert Lowell’s gushing slime,
as trite and light as Wilbur’s with a hint of lime,
as bad and mad as any English bard’s in Time.
B. S. Eliud Acrewe is a Brit Lit crit.
~~~
“Climate: The Movie”
by Cawb Edius Reel
It shows there is no basis found in science for its fare.
The film exposes the alarm as an invented scare.
We are not witnessing extreme events in weather’s realms,
nor do the levels of carbon dioxide overwhelm.
It counters claims high temp’ratures reveal a virgin birth,
compared to the last billion years of history on Earth.
In fact, it claims that we are at the end of an ice age,
and thus, there is no catastrophic man-made climate change.
The film depicts the climate scare as frenzied, funding fix,
an anti-freedom, anti-capital, green-market mix,
that wants to censor anyone who does not buy its l/i/n/e/s,
an inquisition fighting heresies of the divine.
Cawb Edius Reel is a poet of film. “Climate: The Movie” was directed by NewMillennial English producer and director Martin Durkin.
~~~
Recently Heard Questions:
Are they a part of the deep state, or just a lawful lot?
Do most Americans believe the FBI, or not?
~~~
Newsreel:
Was the ship Dali forced into the Francis Scott Key Bridge
deliberately by a cyber breach as some allege?
Immediately the Police Commisioner expressed
no terrorism was involved, nor wickedness, he stressed.
~~~
Cade Lewis Rube
by Ubs Reece Idwal
He was a short, but stocky, dude, when he came into town.
He was uncouth and was half-naked, when he walked around.
He threw and axe precisely; he could hit a predrawn line.
He nicely shot ducks from the predawn sky. Was it divine?
His body odour was terrific, if one was too close.
His smell would never be mistaken for that of a rose.
But he was strangely courteous; in that, he was demure;
a gentleman barbarian whose motives were quite pure.
He was no Richard Cory; he was very poor indeed;
but his internal confidence was natural and free.
Ubs Reece Idwal is a poet of Northwestern woodlands.
~~~
The Flounderer
by Sub Cie Leeward
Oh, God, I cannot help it. Here I go again.
I’m chasing after rainbows at the rainbow’s end.
Why can I never just leave well enough alone?
Why must I always take the next step and descend?
When will I go on rising up the turning stairs?
When will I never pause, but go forth and ascend?
Why can’t I face the future, only what it bears,
and disregard the present tense with glimpses past?
I may do all that man can do. Do more—who dares?
What if eternity itself is not to last?
When plagued by howling moans, how can the soul atone?
Oh, God, toss me a line which I can hold on…fast.
Sub Cie Leeward is a poet of going down.
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