Haiku
by “Clear Dew” Ibuse
The sky is chelair.
The large white clouds seem so close.
The air is still…warm.
“Clear Dew” Ibuse is a traditional haikuist. According to Beau Lecsi Werd, “chelair” is s neologism of the early 1980s.
~~~
Haiku
by “Wired Clues” Abe
One hears the jet planes
over the sound of trains
and highway traffic.
“Wired Clues” Abe is a NewMillennial haiku poet.
~~~
For a Burn
Sri Wele Cebuda
The sunlight softly filtered through the curtains to his left.
He sat upon th’ upholstered chair. He had a lot of heft.
He got into the lotus pose, as he had done before,
He didn’t long to git up and go through the open door.
He loved just hangin’ out like this, not going anywhere,
his head up high and breathing deeply the internal air.
He spread his legs out to each side, his spine curved all along.
He looked off to the right. He was so glad. He felt so strong.
His third eye opened nigh; his arms hung at his shoulders sides.
His meditation took him on another gorgeous ride.
He strode upon the universe. He saw an oval turn.
He loved this galaxy, and yearned to stay here for a burn.
Sri Wele Cebuda is a poet of meditation.
~~~
Newsreel:
It has been more than forty years that Hezbollah has sought
to murder all the Jews in Israel. That’s why they’ve fought…
so long and hard, since the Islamic Nation of Iran
established the theocracy—land of the Aryan.
So, it has come as no surprise, as Gaza’s war goes on,
that fighting still continues in their homebase Lebanon.
One wonders just how many people have to fall and die,
until the proxies of the dead will then be satisfied.
Exordium of Ay, Scribe to the King
by “Scribe” El Uwade
O, sole God, like whom there’s no other, let me worship Thee;
for Thou created this Thy Cosmos, for All and for me.
And while Thou wast alone, Thou brought forth cattle, beasts and men,
all on this Earth on belly, feet, or flying to ascend.
From Syria to Nubia, across Egyptian sands,
Thou has supplied necessities to these and other lands.
Our tongues are separate in speech, as are our times of life,
and nature’s too, distinguished skins, feast, famine, and/or strife.
O, Aton, great atomic energy and pageantry,
Thou art the Lord of everyone, so great in majesty.
In Amarna
by “Scribe” El Uwade
“How manifold what you’ve made, hidden from the face of Man.
Sole god, like whom there is no other one. Earth is your plan.”
—Ra Bué Weel Disc
In Amarna, millennia ago, Amenhotep IV changed his name to Ikhnaton in order that he devote
himself to the one and only true god, Aton, the Sun-Disk, which rose each morning between the horns, not of Horus soaring, but, of the horizon, its light pouring o’er himself, his temple, and his aureate city, a rectangular structure, stretching across the Nile architecturally, surrounding striking sculpture, including the remarkable picture of his beautiful queen Nefertiti, a gleam in the stream of eternity.
“Scribe” El Uwade is a poet of Ancient Egypt. The above prosem is a single sentence. Amenhotep IV (c. 1379 BC – c. 1337 BC) was a king of Ancient Egypt, Nefertiti (c. 1370 BC – c. 1336 BC) was his wife.
~~~
The Seeker
by Acwiles Berude
O, he was ever seeking what he could not have,
another person’s life, a certain lofty height,
a certain kind of look, a certain way to laugh.
O, he was ever running after falling light,
the Sun descending in the sky, as Earth turned whole.
O, he was always searching for a new delight,
upon the prowl for that which satisfied his soul.
But it was never lasting; for the moment he would get it,
he would want something else. More lay beyond his goal.
This was the fate that he was relegated to,
a string of joyous moments punctuated by
a constant longing for a new experience.
He was infuriated, like Achilles, caught…
Though He Might Follow Hercules
by Acwiles Berude
He heard the airhorn of the train; he saw wasps in the oaks;
and down below beside the sidewalk, goose-grass growing spokes.
Beside the shade-trees was the only place he could be cool.
He heard the cheering of the baseball fans down at the school.
He thought of how one day their cheers would leave from where they sat.
His shadow was so long it crossed street where he was at.
He thought of how no one would hear his words. They were too soft.
They did not go aloft, or fly in sprays from off the Font.
The flags of Labor Day were gone. Of them there was no trace.
He climbed the meadow slope. The Sun was blazing in his face.
Though he might follow Hercules, the Sun glared in his eyes.
He had to drop them from its glare. As he walked on, he sighed.
Acwiles Berude is a poet of Ancient Greek moments.
~~~
World War II German Soldiers in Africa
by Uwe Carl Diebes
It was a race for freedom, joy and cleanliness.
The soldiers threw their sandy clothing off and ran.
They longed to leap into the sea’s vast emptiness,
and there completely wash themselves, each single man.
They ran together as a group, arms swung, knees bent,
each body showing lines, pale skin against the tan.
For them, this moment to be buff was heaven-sent,
a respite from war. No one knew who would survive,
which body parts would still be functioning, which spent.
But for that moment, each was happy and alive,
evincing sheer comradery and comeliness,
all running in the sun beneath the open sky.
Uwe Carl Diebes is a poet of Germany.
~~~
The Fountain
by Eber L. Aucsidew
A golden spray arcs over to a white
enamel curve beneath a silver flush.
Beneath the sunlight all is brilliant, bright.
Around they run, they ride, the waters rush,
and wading at the edges, stalks a crane.
The fountain gushes, surges with a splash,
and water, water, everywhere, like rain
falls down, but with no drop to drink, or wash.
Eber L. Aucsidew is a poet of air and water.
~~~
Madame Édouard Pailleron: 1879
by Beau Ecs Wilder
She stands before a sloping lawn with crocuses
on her parents’ estate at Ronjoux, Chambéry.
Although one sees swept autumn leaves, the focus is
a woman in a black silk dress with auburn hair,
disheveled slightly, tired eyes, who lifts her hem.
“Il fait penser à une poésie de…Baudelaire.”
She stands upon the edge of naturalism,
elaborately clothed, wearing shiny earrings,
a neckbound white tulle bow, fluffed out, white crinolines,
and bright red flowers on her shoulder flickering.
About her lovely, rough-soft face, one notices
lit grass contrasts with trees detail’d and stone railing.
Beau Ecs Wilder is a poet of 19th Century painting. John Singer Sargent (1856-1925) was an American Realist painter. Madame Édouard Pailleron (1840-1913) was the wife of French poet and dramatist Édouard Pailleron (1834-1899).
~~~
Mr. Memory and…
by Cawb Edius Reel
It was a movie he had seen so many years ago.
His family had gone to the drive-in to watch the show.
They watched it on the giant screen, while they sat in their car.
The drive-in speaker hung upon the window just ajar.
It was The Thirty-Nine Steps remake, 1959,
so colourful and action-packed, it settled in the mind.
But looking back, there was so much, kids couldn’t understand,
all that it ref’renced, effervescence, on time’s sweeping hand.
Remember haying in the field, and all the other things,
like Mr. Memory and various imaginings.
Cawb Edius Reel is a poet of film.
~~~
To Trick and Treat
by Caud Sewer Bile
So much news that he read seemed propaganda and untrue;
the main-stream-media was a brown god, not really blue,
nor clear; in fact, it seemed to tow the fishing line through muck;
but what if I don’t want to follow. I don’t want to come.
Their biases are baseless basins. Flee their horrid flows.
They are controlled by giant forces. Yes, they are our foes.
One must be skeptical of everything that they believe.
The central purpose of the common press is to deceive.
Big government, big food, big pharma—they want people sick,
despising health and freedom, they desire to treat and trick.
Caud Sewer Bile is a poet of the Swamp.
~~~
The Lizard in the Office
by Brad Lee Suciew
I saw him lounging in the office like a lizard on
a shiny slab of polished wood and plastic seat of brown.
He was a monitor, a connoisseur of peacefulness,
alert, but undisturbed, and unperturbed, a beast no less.
He stretched out in the sunshine, glorious, uxorious,
content to be, just as he was, if not luxurious.
His abs were tense, though also dense, he felt no stirring breeze,
just warmth upon his skin, and hardly cooler at the knees.
But he was quite prepared, to at a moment’s notice, move,
as fast as necessary, quickly in a silent vroom.
Brad Lee Suciew is a poet of business.
~~~
The Connoisseur
by Carb Deliseuwe
“I want some wine.”
—Bud “Weasel” Rice
He was a connoisseur of wine. He loved to sip.
He could spend hours testing, tasting a bouquet
at his suburban home or on a business trip.
He loved to drink wine, whether it was night or day,
but he especially liked night, slumped in a chair
or on the floor, the ruby liquid on display.
He’d turn the glass up to his lips to drink it there
and savored every drop as it passed by his beard.
He loved night’s black straps closing in beyond his hair
upon head, face, chin, arms, wherever it appeared.
He could not help himself. He had to take a nip.
It was the closest to perfection he had neared.
The Man Beside the Front Loader
by Bruc “Diesel” Awe
It was a lovely day. The workers stood around
bright black and yellow, newly-made machinery.
Though I couldn’t tell how many stood there, browned
in the sunlight, there were some I could clearly see.
Th’ one closest to the shiny loader stood quite tall.
He must have been too hot because he’d already
removed some clothing he had dropped nearby into a small
pile next to him. What most impressed me as he took
his break was his demeanor, free and casual,
relaxed, and so content. I could not help but look.
I longed to bear the cross that he was bearing round,
it seemed to be so light and easeful, unforsook,
and yet at the same time, strong, lofty and profound.
Bruc “Diesel” Awe is a poet of transportation. According to Beau Lecsi Werd, “unforsook” is an inc [sic].
~~~
A Gratified-Eyed Id
by Bud “Weasel” Rice
He still remembers them—guys going out to hunt some elk.
They’d take their trucks out to the back roads, hoping for a kill.
He loved those warm September days, those lovely-hued displays.
O, it was so much fun for them in animated ways.
They loved those moments far away from concrete streets and urbs,
to be out there in nature’s realms with animals and birds.
They would get so excited. Those woods made them feel alive.
It was a fresh green space and place in which they most could thrive.
Yes, it was so amazing, finding bucks they could shoot at.
It’s what they wanted…when they got it, they were glad at that.
If only they could have such times, more often than they did,
they’d be as happy as a kid, a gratified-eyed Id.
Bud “Weasel” Rice is a poet of Animalia.
~~~
Goosegrass
by Caleb Wuri Seed
Goosegrass is rising all about the warming, summer lawns.
Across bermudagrass, it takes the field. O, it spawns.
It is invasive, not evasive; it loves marching on.
It loves full Sun, and sets its seeds, when even closely mown.
It high-steps over other grasses, when it has a chance.
It loves to sway on windy days, and, in a daze, will dance.
Eleusine indica does C4 photosynthesis,
and can thrive in hot climates, as it climbs through cracks and slits.
And though it is a menace to ongoing maintenance,
in front yards, back yards, and by sidewalks, it will take a stance.
Caleb Wuri Seed is a poet of plant life.
~~~
Opening Life’s Door
by Rudi E. Welec, “Abs”
He stood right up to do his exercises in the morn.
From black cap down to black socks and black shoes his uniform.
It was his norm. And in between, he wore dark brown or wood.
He tried to keep his energy up, as much as he could.
From bending down and touching toes, to stretching up and tall,
and working on ellipticals, he tried to do them all.
But there were times when he lacked stamina and forcefulness,
and wished that he could be more lively and resourceful. Yes.
Still, every little bit he did, he felt was helpful for
achieving mental mightiness and opening life’s door.
This Master Plan
by Rudi E. Welec, “Abs”
He went down to the bottom of his A-part-ment-com-plex
to work on abs, chest, arms and legs, his ass, back, neck and pecs.
He felt like as some hard-arse monster forced him to those stairs
to build his muscle mass with tasks out in the open air.
He did deep squats, high lifts, and anything else he could do;
though there was nought but angled concrete forms in his purview.
He strained and stretched there at the edge of rails and cement;
he worked his biceps, triceps, quads and calves at that descent.
He had no time to think about the troubles he endured;
this master plan was simply what had to be inured—confirmed.
Rudi E. Welec, “Abs”, is a poet of exercise.
Leave A Comment