Haiku
by “Clear Dew” Ibuse
Bubbles everywhere,
the butterfly was flapping,
searching for flowers.
“Clear Dew” Ibuse is a traditional English haiku writer.
~~~
The Summer Heat
by Ra Bué Weel Disc
He loved the summer heat in his garage. It felt so good.
It warmed the cockles of his heart, and body head to foot.
He loved the way the heat would penetrate all parts of him.
It took the cool away. He felt new vigour in each limb.
It was as if fresh vim had come into his being’s ess.
His spine curved high; his spirit rose; he felt like Vulcan’s guest.
Here by the parked car and the garbage, he felt truly blessed.
Ra Bué Weel Disc is a poet of the heat.
~~~
Haiku
by “Wired Clues” Abe
Bubbles everywhere,
at the plastic duck fountain,
land on the cement.
Haiku
by “Wired Clues” Abe
Upon planet Earth,
the Moon shines over each one.
How much does one catch?
“Wired Clues” Abe is a NewMillennial haiku composer.
~~~
He Saw the Moon Set Overhead
by Drew U. A. Eclibse
He saw the Moon set overhead, a waning gibbous one,
the greatest light upon the Earth before the rising Sun.
He gazed upon its shining, golden circularity,
He loved its round, rotational, and rough rotundity.
He loved these monthly trips it took, that he could pause to see.
He also loved its simpleness and upright paucity.
He checked on it, when there were no clouds filling up the sky,
like as one checking one’s clothes fit with a discerning eye.
Does its high angular momentum come from some impact
Its hard…to think of its creation…it seems so intact.
But there it is, one of the facts that fills our heavens out,
so big because it is so close, so close it wants to t(out
Drew U. A. Eclibse is a poet of the Moon.
~~~
Newsreel:
Torrential rains and flooding from the monsoon filled up streams.
Typhoon Gaemi hit Taiwan and parts o’ th’ Philippines.
~~~
To Calm His Moving Mind
by Sri Wele Cebuda
He got into a yoga pose to calm his moving mind.
He stretched his legs out to each side. He wanted to unwind.
He lifted up his spine as high as he was able to.
He lifted up his spirit too to find a greater view.
He sat upon a flat mat on the floor—that was his chair—
though he was only seated, going nowhere, staying there;
yet felt like as a tourist at a panoramic sight,
that was so beautiful it brought exciting-streamed delight.
He opened up his being to near cosmic undertows,
imagining a pageantry of pillows, plies and rose.
He turned his head off to the right. He gazed up at the sky.
The wind kissed him—he saw a kite—and he began to fly.
Sri Wele Cebuda is a poet of meditation.
~~~
Like Abbasid Sinbad
by Cid Wa’eeb El Sur
His abs were tight, his shoulders too, as he rose from his bed,
like as a flower or a tree that tries to lift its head.
He longed to reach the Sun; that was his purpose on the Earth,
and had been, though he didn’t know it, from time of his birth.
How strange it was to be so many things, yet also one,
his mitochondria within, that do what must be done.
His hips were taut, though maybe not, as dense as they should be;
in tan and black, he rode the magic carpet fearlessly.
Like Abbasid Sinbad the Sailor, he assailed the seas
on sails in sweet seasons of the passing centuries.
Cid Wa’eeb El Sur is a poet of the realms of Bagdad.
~~~
Puccini’s Nessun dorma
by Ewald E. Eisbruc
Tears well up in his eyes whenever he hears it,
Puccini’s Nessun dorma, th’ aria sung by
Calaf, th’ unknown prince, who sings with such spirit,
deep love for the cold Princess Turandot. It’s night.
The stars are twinkling, trembling with love and hope.
Though no one knows his name, he’ll say it in the light
of dawn. His kiss then will dissolve the silent slope
that keeps her from him. None shall sleep. And then one hears
a women’s choir singing, sighing. Can they cope?
Calaf is certain now, the morning sun appears,
of victory, a B4 followed, he fears it,
an A4 long sustained, that tears him a-
part, as it nears.
Ewald E. Eisbruc (otherwise known as E. E. E.) is a poet on central European music. Giacomo Puccini (1858-1924) was an Italian verismo operatic composer.
~~~
Newsreel:
At present Solar Cycle 25 is at its peak;
most vuln’rable are supernodes Milwaukee and DC.
~~~
Over Each
by B. S. Eliud Acrewe
The Metroplex is calm tonight.
The Moon is full and fair.
Upon the streets the light is fading in the pale air.
One sees the gleams beneath its beams.
America still stands.
France now hosts the Olympic torch,
for many-peopled lands.
O’er the Atlantic, England changes government again,
as wars in Europe, Africa and Asia linger on.
One hears the dull roar of the highways slowly quiet down.
The streets have nearly gone to sleep.
The night is here and now.
We hear of the attempt of the assassination of
a startled former president.
O where is patient love?
Was this another hoped-for coup,
like that of Camelot,
and Hamlet has to clear it up
for little more than nought?
But Crooks—what was his role upon that roof?
Was he a tool,
who strangely played his part,
yet could not flee.
Was he a fool?
One wonders of the World tonight,
as it revolves in space.
One needs a passionate faith living in this time and place.
One thinks of Sophocles,
and his part in the fall of Greece.
What part did Plato play in plays of mad Euripides?
How could one disregard the flow of human misery,
and find, like Newton did, or Leibniz,
new tranquility?
like Armstrong, when he landed on the rocky, lunar sea,
and walked in his space suit,
PostModern grace, and lunacy.
The traffic goes on,
as we head home in one of its cars.
The City wears the beauty of the night beneath the stars.
Sophocles (c. 497 – c. 405 BC) and Euripides (c. 480 BC – c. 406 BC) were noted Ancient Greek tragedians, Plato (c. 428 BC – c. 348 BC) was an ancient Greek philosopher, Gottfried Leibniz (1646-1716) was a German mathematician and philosopher, Isaac Newton (1642-1727) was an English mathematician and physicist, Neil Armstrong (1930-2012) was an PostModern American astronaut, and Thomas Matthew Crooks (2003-2024) was a NewMillennial, American CIA, or FBI, operative, a sacrificial lamb for the American political bureaucracy.
~~~
The Open Window
by B. S. Eliud Acrewe
“SS will be down presently,” the self-possessed man said.
“So in the meantime you’ll have to put up with me instead.”
The listener tried to say something to acknowledge that
he heard the message, not appearing anxious in the least;
but still he doubted if this livestream could quell all his doubts;
his skepticism was full blown and blasting all about.
He had been told, when he was going to this rural town,
that he should go out to a rally on that grassy ground.
But he stayed back, far from the podium. He didn’t think,
despite advice, that it would be a reassuring scene.
“Do you know many of the people round here?” asked the man.
The nervous listener retorted, “Hardly anyone.”
And he continued with regret, and a touch of chagrin,
“I was just told that this could make my spirit shine again.”
The self-possessed man then affirmed, “Then you do not know much
about this place, these people, and this rally, do you, chum?”
He did not like this speaking informality at all.
Regret and dread filled up his head. It started to appall.
“The speaker’s tragedy began more than three years ago.”
The self-possessed man went on keeping up his verbal flow.
“His tragedy?” the fraught man questioned. Somehow, in this space,
a pleasant, sunny spot, such tragedies seemed out of place.
“You may yet wonder why we keep that window open wide,
there in that building…” [Th’ unsure man had turned his head, side-eyed.]
“beside that building underneath the water tower’s height.”
He did indeed find that fact strange. Could this man bring some light?
“It’s warm. But has that open window anything to do
with that three-year-old tragedy?” the vexed man asked askew.
“Out from that window, men were shooting—it was treachery—”
The self-possessed man emphasized, “It was not archery.”
“Three shots rang out, one man was killed, two others badly hurt.
Nearby more shots from other spots. Thank God, the speaker turned.
He would have died if that had not occurred just when it did.
That’s why we keep the window open, Mr. Kennedy.”
B. S. Eliud Acrewe is a poet of Modernism. H. H. Munro (1870-1916) was a Modernist short story writer.
~~~
Newsreel:
He looked so calm while walking round the grounds before the hit.
Did he have handlers telling him what he should do, to wit:
Did Thomas Crooks fly a drone over the Trump rally site?
Was that part of the hidden plan that hasn’t come to light?
~~~
Questions
by Caud Sewer Bile
Are many J6 prison inmates pardon-worthy souls?
Did Congress, FBI, and CIA play covert roles?
Has lawfare been used by the US government against
the former president and various Americans?
Was there a rise in the illegal immigration crowds
that stormed the southern border and the sanctuary towns?
Are more crimes now occurring in the cities of the land
than had occurred before the present time, and since have fanned?
Was 2020 voter fraud much greater than appeared,
th’ election stolen by corruption, worse than has been feared?
Was resident Joe Biden tossed by donors and elites?
Was Kamala brought to the stage for all that she defeats?
~~~
Newsreel:
He left the race, although he said for months he was still in.
Joe Biden has been hounded out. He will not run to win.
What could he do? Rich donors threatened to withhold their cash.
The votes of millions didn’t stack up much against their stash.
~~~
The Park Groundskeeper
by Ileac Burweeds
The Sun was shining in the East, its beaming light in trails
He was the park groundskeeper, cutting, sweeping, hills and dales.
He cleaned the paths, he opened swaths, where brush had grown too much,
while listening to singing birds, pink-cheeked, he checked and chucked.
He loved his job. He could be free from traffic overload.
He loved to be here near to nature, on a quiet road.
O, he would do his very best, if but a bit too slow.
He took his time, so satisfied to dream while on the go.
He loved imagining scenarios where he might be,
a Robinson upon an isle with sweetest company.
Because he knew that life was tough, he tried to be as strong
as he could be, and still feel free, alive, yes, all day long.
Ileac Burweeds is a poet of green spaces.
~~~
A Butterflap
by Earwic Beeduls
He saw a butterfly flap past, so fast it flit unpacked.
Its body was a rosy pink; its wingtips dipped in black.
It was free from its caterpillar stage. It lapped up flips,
in acrobat displays above the Pella tulip kiss.
It was so beautiful; but it would not remain for long;
for it would vanish in a fortnight, or a short-lived month.
Earwic Beeduls is a poet of insects. Pella is a town in south central Iowa of around 10,000.
~~~
He Could Make It Through
by Waudle Burcees
The first time he’d gone hiking in the Goat Rocks Wilderness—
he wondered would it last—his obturator internus?
He wasn’t sure he would be up for this. Could he endure?
He felt beleaguered at the forest edge, like as a deer.
He stood up startled near that truck, upon that rugged road.
He wasn’t sure that he could make it through this episode.
But there they were, those guys were here. Yes, he could count on them.
And if he really needed help, they would be there for him.
And so, he followed their lead and their carefree derring-do.
Somehow, besides the difficulty, he could make it through.
Waudle Burcees is a poet of hiking. The Goat Rocks are remnants of a large extinct volcano in the Cascade Mountain range in southwestern Washington.
~~~
Another Saturday
by Urbawel Cidese
It was another Saturday for getting groceries,
like coffee, butter, milk…desires and necessities.
He went out in to one more summer morning in the Sun,
to purchase veg’tables and meats, as well as fruits and nuts.
It was an ordinary task in typical town life,
that wonderful replenishment of longed-for, lacked supplies.
Of course, he had to watch finances as he made his way,
to get the goods he wanted most, for which he’d have to pay.
He placed filled sacks into his trunk and drove back to his digs;
where then he put them on the pantry shelves and in the fridge.
It was another Saturday; the laundry would be next;
but for the moment he could write and rest and not be vexed.
Urbawel Cidese is a poet of urban spaces.
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