Haiku
by “Clear Dew” Ibuse
After lawn mowing,
the cardinals came to feast,
on easier prey.
Haiku
by “Wired Clues” Abe
Upon a street sign,
a barn swallow cranks his head,
observing a boy.
“Wired Clues” Abe is a NewMillennial haiku writer.
~~~
Learning English
by Lê Dức Bảệ “Wired”
Back then, when he flew, to America from Vietnam,
he hardly knew a word of English; and he had no mom;
so when the stewardess said “bye” to him, he thought she meant
“by”, as in “fly by”, i. e., Máy bay—airplane—in the wind.
Lê Dức Bảệ “Wired”, is a poet of Vietnam.
~~~
From the Unwalled City
by Urbawel Cidese
He hardly ever wore suits since he donned the casual,
which then became his base line—that became his usual.
Although he didn’t mind a fancy suit and snappy tie,
he tended to be ordinary in his dress—that guy.
He didn’t want to stop in for a cocktail at a bar,
discovering that he was a first person singular.
He didn’t want to write I-novels; that was not his gig;
nor be a total stranger to himself—that was no gift.
He liked to wear tee-shirts, but didn’t want to peddle them,
nor to present new puzzles without any strategem.
Enigmas were a fact of life; they weren’t that in’resting,
unless they were more mystical than merely mysteries.
Urbawel Cidese is a poet of urban life.
~~~
Newsreel:
As all round the Globe, the freedom of the right to speak
is being limited, most recently on Hong Kong’s streets.
“The Glory to Hong Kong” is to be banned, the High Court says,
yet all around the Globe the people march and reach for Yes.
~~~
Peripatetic Ethic
by Erisbawdle Cue
One needs to keep on moving; it’s a central law of life,
and is to be expected as is neverending strife.
How often does one wish it wasn’t like that every day,
and yet it is the way it is: one must move on one’s way.
Erisbawdle Cue is a poet of philosophy.
~~~
A Great Norse Mathematician
by Euclidrew Base
Although he only lived some twenty-six years, Abel proved no formula exists to solve equations of the fifth degree, the general binomial theorem for real and complex exponents works, and introduced the concept of elliptic functions, all those quite rigourously. He was a great Norse mathematician.
Euclidrew Base is a poet of mathematics. In the above prosem, Abel—Niels Henrik Abel (1802-1829)—was a Norwegian mathematician.
~~~
This Heap of Life
by U. Carew Delibes
It was another World—one that truly did exist.
He knew, because he lived in it, but did not enter it.
He was too far away. He didn’t understand. How could
he have? Why would it even matter, but for bones and blood.
And though it seemed deep-seated, like as if it would remain…
just stay among night city streets and never go away—
O, throw it all away. Veau, veau, away. It was too deep.
The mood was jazz—a saxophone. He was about to sleep.
It was a whirlwind of fast-paced actions that he could not keep.
He wished he had, but it was something that he did not seek.
U. Carew Delibes is a poet of France. One of his favourite French writers is the Classical dramatist Pierre Corneille (1606-1684).
~~~
Surprised by Rouse
by Leeb Sercadiuw
I woke up from a dream I had, and tried to write it down;
but I knew I could not do this, because I was dumbfound.
I felt like Coleridge, when he composed his Kubla Khan,
though not exactly like that very great and troubled man.
Within this dream near its completion, I met Eliot,
who had been lecturing to a small group a little bit.
He came up to me, shook my hand. I told him of my awe.
He said he knew. “But how could you?” I answered mouth-in-jaw.
He seemed a very ordinary person in this dream,
who broke his lecture off offhand, so he could talk to me.
Before his talk before this group of six or seven souls,
he spoke of purchasing a boat, one of his oddest goals.
I told him of my writing; but he really didn’t care,
there near that wooded area, out in the open air.
I told him I admired both his poetry and prose,
how plays, to po-ems, and his criticism, my prise rose.
And then we separated; I went off to write lexemes;
then woke and set this down, so I could get back to my sleems.
I listened on my cellphone to his Dryden-homage talk,
circadian disrupted, wanting to amend this pause.
Leeb Sercadiuw is a poet of sleep. John Dryden (1631-1700) was a NeoClassical British poet and critic. Samuel Coleridge (1772-1834) was a Romantic British poet and critic. T. S. Eliot (1888-1965) was a Modernist American-British literary critic, poet, and playwrite. According to Beau Lecsi Werd the neologism sleems seems contextually obvious.
~~~
Encountering Autophagy
by Carb Deliseuwe
“To follow knowledge, like a sinking star
beyond the utmost bound of human thought.”
—Alfred Tennyson, “Ulysses”
He sat up at the kitchen table in the breakfast nook,
He had a coffee cup, from which he cheerily partook.
He loved its liquid warmth, if not its taste so much as that,
and hoped that it would supercharge his body where he sat.
He raised his head, extending neck, and struggled to be stout.
He lifted up his spine, and stretched his pecs and shoulders out.
He pulled his torso from his hips, an elevated boost.
He heard a distant rooster crowing from his own morn roost.
He thought of Tennyson’s “Ulysses” on this cloudy day.
A herniated disk puts pressure on near vertebrae.
Could he endure one more adventure going out to sea—
that ancient mariner encountering autophagy?
He heard the whistle of a train—again, again, again—
mechanical, insistent, in its traveling demegne.
He made himself as comfterble as he was able to.
Another jet flew overhead but it was not in view.
Carb Deliseuwe is a poet of food and drink. Alfred Tennyson (1809-1892) was a British Victorian poet.
~~~
A Funny-Paper Chap
by Cawb Edius Reel
He felt like as a funny-paper charicature chap,
a wide-eyed, cross-eyed, open-mouthed dude in a baseball cap.
Was he a thin, mechanic in Frank Oscar King’s lampoons,
the things he had to say contained in comic strip balloons?
Was that a big bold B on the front panel o’er the bill?
and were his eye brows way up high for an emphatic sill?
Was that an Adam’s apple underneath receding chin?
a prominent nose sticking out above a wide-mouthed grin?
Did that plain jacket he wore place him at an alley way,
where he and friends would talk of cars and gasoline. Say, hey.
Cawb Edius Reel is a poet of the funnies. Frank Oscar King (1883-1969) was a Modernist American cartoonist.
~~~
The Titan
by Walice du Beers
“There will come soft rains…”
—Sara Teasdale
He tightened up his muscles as he walked about the House.
Outside there came soft rains; inside there hardly was a sound.
No techno-artificial noise was beeping from some switch.
Was it in Houston? Plano? neither? How could he tell which?
The words were spoken, like there was no book or open page.
His arms and shoulders tightened, as he strolled about the Age.
The Titan went about his business. He felt calm and true.
This nearby reader in the Spring was contemplating Zeus.
Erect and early in the Dawn, the truce was holding…on…
though jets were flying over, and there was no antiphon.
Walice du Beers is a poet of the House. Wallace Stevens (1879-1955) and Sara Teasdale (1884-1933) were Modernist American poets, Ray Bradbury (1920-2012) was an American PostModern proset.
~~~
Newsreel:
There seem to be more Boeing whistle blowers; but they are
not sure if they will speak out, as two before have bought the farm.
~~~
In All Good Consciousness
by Eber L. Aucsidew
In all good consciousness, he didn’t think that he would change
his car for an electric vehicle—that seemed too strange.
Why would he shift to an electric’s filthy energy,
when most of it was dirtier than oil and gasoline?
Green energy was mucking up the Earth—wind, solar, sea—
contributing to many bad and deadly sorts of things.
The actu’l data, like the skies it leaves is so unclear.
How much coal drives the power grid? and how much nuclear?
What is the plain result of hydropower on the fish?
and what of biomass gasification plants and shit?
Before he ever would do such a thing he would require
a cost analysis in terms of air, earth, wind, and fire.
Eber L. Aucsidew is a poet of air and water.
~~~
The Roadside Meadow
by Brac Lei Uweeds
So beautiful and huge—a w-i-l-d-f-l-o-w-e-r-m-e-a-d-o-w quilt,
that rises high above the catchment recently upfilled.
So many wildflowers, they’re impossible to count,
as they grow up the hill above—a veritable mount.
Pink evening primrose, Indian paintbrush, verbena too,
wine cup and purple basket flowers, many coloured blooms—
blue stem, sideoats, switchgrass, wildrye—so many grasses grow—
and trees as well—mesquite, elm, honey locust, and post oak.
The butterflies take to it all in frenzied zips and flights,
eyes dart from monarchs, sulphurs, skippers, off to checkered whites.
a swirl of hues and scents, so quiet, still, lush, flush, and thick,
beside the busy street—pedestrian, bike, car and truck.
Brac Lei Uweeds is a poet of meadows.
~~~
White-Button Mushrooms
by Ileac Burweeds
“We shall by morning/ Inherit the earth.”
—Sylvia Plath, Mushrooms
Thumbnail-sized, white-button mushrooms, with smooth, rounded caps,
upon their short, truncated stems, take spring-to-autumn naps.
They’re hemispherical at first, and flatten later on.
The narrow, crowded gills, first pink, become a darker brown.
Two-inch cylindrical stipes bear a thick and narrow ring,
which may be streaked upon the upper side while burrowing.
The fleshy and spore-bearing, fruiting fungus body eats
dead and decayed organic matter saprotrophic’lly.
A Pennsylvania farmer back in 1926
observed the clump from which they come, the modern shopper picks.
Ileac Burweeds is a poet of mushrooms. Sylvia Plath (1932-1963) was an American PostModernist poet. Ileac Burweeds enjoys white-button mushrooms in his omelets.
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