Haiku
by “Clear Dew” Ibuse
A blast of hot air
passes over new cut grass—
cicadas voices.
“Clear Dew” Ibuse is a traditional English haiku writer.
~~~
The Grass Smells of His Youth
by Ileac Burweeds
He still remembers well the grass smells of his youth,
the newly-mown lawn wafting in his nostrils, fresh.
Back then, as now, there was the record of a truth;
those early, sunny, summer evening smells enmesh.
His father, dead two decades now, once tried to mow
his lawn; and yet he had to pay a pound of flesh.
What was he thinking when he tried to push and tow
a self-propelled lawn mower? What chance did he have?
And yet, the truth be told, for all there is a toll.
All strive against all, like that Conrad bureaucrat.
The stay against confusion, simply pulling through,
is hard, when witless time has always the last laugh.
Ileac Burweeds is a poet of (the blades of) grass. Joseph Conrad (1857-1924) was a Modernist British proset.
~~~
Haiku
by “Wired Clues” Abe
About the auto
i-dl-ing-in-the-traff-ic,
a dragonfly flies.
“Wired Clues” Abe is a NewMillennial haiku composer.
~~~
At the Crack of Dawn
by Ra Bué Weel Disc
He stood up at the crack of dawn—the Sun was coming up.
He took a sip of caffeine from his coffee cup.
He felt content as he looked out upon the rolling hills,
but he still felt some slight distress, avoiding coffee spills.
He saw the grasses blowing in the breezes passing by.
He saw the gorgeous colouring o’ th’ evermoving sky.
He longed to pause before he had to get on with his day,
though it be only momentarily, he loved to stay.
He scanned the broad horizon, his eyes on the open fields,
and wondered what would be the possibilities and yield.
Ra Bué Weel Disc is a poet of the Sun.
~~~
Newsreel:
The Monday Nikkei Index in Japan fell twelve percent;
since 1987, it’s its very worst descent.
~~~
Into the Lotus Pose Again
by Sri Wele Cebuda
He got into the lotus pose, as he had so many times.
He was in search of peace of mind and reels of the sublime.
But where he got to always altered; it was not the same;
and yet he was amazed what came—o, come what may his aim.
A panorama passed his consciousness—a splendid view—
so wide and high, so broad, yet nigh, Platonic, through and through.
He saw so much by mental touch, it truly blew his soul;
his spirit reign showed untold worlds that past him were unrolled.
He tried to take it in, as much as he was able to,
but it was all too much, too true, and he had things to do.
Sri Wele Cebuda is a poet of meditation.
~~~
Newsreel:
She flew to Hindon Airbase, near New Delhi, India;
Prime Minister of Bangladesh, Hasina quit and fled;
she thought that would be better than remaining there instead,
along with hundreds of minorities left there and dead.
~~~
Upon the Destruction of the Tomb of Jonah
by Cid Wa’eeb El Sur
I called out to the Lord. Out of distress I called.
I cried out of the belly of Sheol, Mosul.
The city is transformed, diversity made bald,
with thousands fleeing the Islamic State’s cru’l rule.
I’m cast out of His presence. How’ll I look again
upon His holy temple served up with this gruel?
But I remember then, this is the world of men.
Deliverance belongs unto the Lord. Some will
forsake those who have paid regard to idols vain.
In balaclavas and black coats they’ve come to film
sledge hammer vengeance on this tomb of mine. It’s mauled.
O, Ninevah, I wail, what else must be killed?
Cid Wa’eeb El Sur is a poet of Western Asia. Mosul, Iraq, is a city of around 1,800,000.
~~~
Eternal Roma: an Update
by Aedile Cwerbus
Eternal Roma, goddess of Amor,
near Mars and Venus orbiting the Sun,
here where large lions roar…dive albacore…fowl soar,
creation teems, perhaps with everyone
alive and human, in the whirling dance
of matter-energy phenomena,
the interactive kinemas advance
gauge bosons, fermions, and the Higgs too:
quarks, leptons, gluons, in wild elegance,
and more, Z, photon, and the W.
Great Earth sends forth its flowered plants and more.
The waters from the seas, such happy dew,
from which arise the massive clouds that pour,
and emptied skies so blue with radiance.
Aedile Cwerbus is a poet of Eternal Roma. Roma, Italia, is a city of around 2,860,000. Lucretius (c. 99 BC – c. 55 BC) was a didactic philosophical poet of the Golden Age of Latin literature. Peter Higgs (1929-2024) was a PostModernist British theoretical physicist.
~~~
That Lively Opening of Eine Kleine Nachtmusik
by Ewald E. Eisbruc
It leapt into his mind, the Mozart Serenade in G,
that lively opening of Eine Kleine Nachtmusik,
that starts with an ascending theme, so cheerfully and free,
the movement in sonata form, repeated happily.
Its light and entertaining notes leap from his century
to bring a note of joyous fun and sweet adventuring.
It was a break from writing the Don Giovanni score.
He wondered if it left Mozart relief and something more.
So bright and brilliant, and yes, intricate, it seems to be,
the thing of dreams and magic schemes, that stirs the memory.
Ewald E. Eisbruc is a poet of musical composition. Wolfgang Mozart (1756-1791) was an Austrian composer at the height of the great Classical period in music: 1770-1800), which included figures, like Haydn and Beethoven.
~~~
The Struggler, Straggler
by Durable Cwiese
He saw the struggler, straggler, trying to git up and go.
He felt as if he was a mastiff in a kennel show.
He did not feel he was the equal of four elephants,
with bulk, like as a giant farmer’s dog in Brobdingnag.
But there he was, stuck on that piece of furniture betides.
The sea was roiling, waves uncoiling. O, what wild rides.
He wished that he could have again, another pleasing day.
The World is hard for everyone. There is no easy way.
Life ever is a shock, from birth, until the mind is formed.
One comes out of the gate to face storm after storm and more.
Durable Cwiese is a poet of the hard. Brobdingnag was one of four main voyages that Gulliver took in the NeoClassical satire of British writer Jonathan Swift (1667-1745).
~~~
An Actor Leaves the Stage
by Earl Dolan Page
“Things standing thus unknown, shall live behind me!”
—William Shakespeare, Hamlet
Who is the man within the Poem who is yet
the man within the Poet? How could he exist…
long, fellow that he was? But I will not forget,
as long as I’m alive, his histrionic jest,
the long forgotten dive, October 7th, he
in 1849, in Baltimore. May he rest
in peace—in pace requiescat—R. I. P.
ripped from this earth by cooping, cholera—who knows?
perhaps not Doctor John Moran. Befittingly,
his end was as ununderstood as he was show,
and so his soul remains as such a silhouette,
a shadow whose departing bow is long, and slow.
Earl Dolan Page is a NewMillennial poet and proset. Baltimore, Maryland, is a city of around 585,000.
~~~
The Governmental Hit
by Caud Sewer Bile
There was no sound of water, shadows under the black rock.
He wondered just how many were those handlers of crooks.
A heap of broken images, here where he took his perch.
What was his job there at the bottle building glass research?
He stood beside the grassy knoll. Who was that on the roof?
The governmental hit—was there one-hundred-percent proof?
The mainstream media was in on it—the cover up—
but it was visible. He saw the plot’s short-selling puts.
Caud Sewer Bile is a poet of the Deep State.
~~~
California Underside
Cal Wes Ubideer
I dream of California, beaches, mounts and palms,
its houses hovering together on its hills.
There’s something in it that inspires and becalms;
its filled with satisfaction, energy and thrills.
And yet, it has a seedy, seamy side as well.
There is destruction too amidst its gorgeous build.
In fact, at times it seems a scene right out of hell,
where evil devils with their screams infect the night.
What horrible scenario they’ll try to sell.
Those ministers of wickedness and dark delight
will try to chain you up, like wild animals,
and force you into cages of despair and blight.
Cal Wes Ubideer is a poet of California.
~~~
A Marathon in Medias Res
by Rudi E. Welec, “Abs”
He felt like he had joined a marathon in medias res,
this race that had been going on some time in cosmic space.
The clocks were ticking all the time, but every now and then,
one heard the rooster’s cock-a-doodle-do time and again,
when in the East, Dawn’s rosy fingers drew back black night’s drapes;
then one could see such gorgeous panoramas and landscapes.
He thought of Greek Pheidippides, and took heart on his way,
as he continued on and on and on in beau jolais:
those passing grassy hills—so beautiful, so grand and wide—
joy in his soul through his whole being on his pacing stride,
an instant in eternity, a designated leg,
no gelt or trophy—hypertrophy, thé most he could get.
Rudi E. Welec, “Abs”, is a poet of running.
~~~
An Office Aide-de-Camp
by Des Wercebauli
He sat upright, a bit uptight, before the monitor;
he was the office help when he was not the janitor.
He answered and directed call when they came in to him.
He organized the pressing messages when they came in.
Maintaining schedules, organizing documents and files,
he also greeted business guests and clients all the while.
He documented information, ordering supplies,
and set up meetings, so as to prepare and customize.
Assisting the executives, in ever-present tasks;
he likewise implemented acts and supervised the staff.
In short, he did all things an office aide-de-camp would do,
in Heilbronn, while healing well, well under its purview.
Des Wercebauli is a poet of working. Heilbronn is a city in southern Germany of around 125,000.
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