Haiku
by “Clear Dew” Ibuse
He stood in Stuttgart,
at the beer festival,
and yelled out, “Deutschland.”
Haiku
by “Clear Dew” Ibuse
She poured a bourbon,
but splashed the bitters on him,
The stars were shining.
“Clear Dew” Ibuse is a haikuist of alcohol.
~~~
Haiku
by “Wired Clues” Abe
The cat on its back,
relaxing in the sunlight,
ignores the sirens.
“Wired Clues” Abe is a NewMillennial haikuist.
~~~
Day Turns
by R. Lee Ubicwedas
Day turns to night, while orbiting the Sun,
unraveling along the Milky Way,
here in the Local Cluster, moving on
toward Virgo and the Cosmos going gray.
In Tel Aviv
by R. Lee Ubicwedas
In Tel Aviv the mood is somber, as in Amsterdam,
though no less so in Gaza, Lebanon, or South Sudan,
in Congo, Ethiopia, Myanmar and Vietnam,
Somalia, Mali, Myanmar, North Korea, or Sudan…
The list goes on around the Globe, from Haiti to Hong Kong;
there are so many countries where unhappiness is strong.
Yes, even in the richest countries there is some malaise,
Malaysia to Ukraine, UK, South Africa and Spain,
in India, in China, even in the USA;
and yet despite it all, we all should strive for better days.
R. Lee Ubicwedas is a poet of Global languages.
~~~
Newsreel:
A driver in Zhuhai crashed in to people in a square,
at a sports complex exercising in the open air.
He managed to kill thirty-five, and injured even more;
the city hosting an exhibit of aircraft; and so,
what happened has been censored by the Chinese government,
that wants to do their very best to hide this incident.
Zhuhai, China, is a prefecture city that has a population of around 2,400,000.
~~~
Enlightened Vertebrae
by Sri Wele Cebuda
He got into the lotus pose again; he wanted peace.
He longed to feel at one with living’s ever-flowing sea.
He lifted up his neck and head, his chest, his pecs, and spine,
extending knees and legs, he did not want to be supine.
He stretched his abs up from his ass, to meditate upon
the new day coming on, o, yes, before time’s awesome yawn.
It was another chance to orient one’s self once more;
it was a thing he loved to do, not that which he’d abhor.
He focused on tranquility within the cosmic storm,
believing it was only there he could be cozy warm.
He stretched his arms, he tightened shoulders, on this mighty way,
amazed that he could see and be enlightened vertebrae.
New Day Rising
by Sri Wele Cebuda
The water is so blue, the leaves of grass are dry
as twigs beneath the similar-hued elephant,
so huge, beige brown and firm, beside the azure sky
and branching trees, big, rugged, clumsy. elegant,
not in a china shop, but in the wide outdoors,
important and magnificent, significant.
Right at the forefront of the scene, one sees forms—scores—
large ears, eyes spread, long trunk past tusks of ivory,
thick legs, splayed feet, on one of nature’s many floors,
and ambling, like nothing else in Tennessee,
or India. I wonder where this is. I sigh…
my sight—a new day rising, free. Where can it be?
Sri Wele Cebuda is a poet of India. Anand PKC is a contemporary painter from India.
~~~
Kant
by Erisbawdle Cue
Kant wrote the thing in itself, Ding an sich,
really exists, but cannot be perceived
without the mind, not can I myself, Ich,
or Gott, be perceived, though they be believed.
For me the difficulty of that thought
is that I end up not believing Kant.
Erisbawdle Cue is a poet of philosophy. Immanuel Kant (1724-1804) was a German Enlightenment philosopher.
~~~
At the Tourist Site
by Urbawel Cidese
It was a long, long time ago when he was there—
a tourist soaking up the local scenery:
He looked out over tree tops in the open air,
upon a vast paved stage—cement and greenery.
The tourist guide then took us to a nearby Inn,
where we could pause to get a load off of our feet,
perhaps a bite to eat, away from all the din.
He showered us with his enthusiasm for
the place, so much so that my mind began to spin
with his acute perceptive, penetrating pour;
but it was way too much, much more than I could bear;
so it was some relief then, when that tour was o’er.
Urbawel Cidese is a poet of tourism.
~~~
Alexander Pope, Self-Portrait, Oil
by Wilude Scabere
How like a greaser he sits upon broken blocks,
and leans against sharp and shattered stone statues,
draped in gauche colours, not unlike some starving ox,
clad in ebony pants, dark leggings, and black shoes.
How a listless and bony a creature is he there
mocking his smocks and himself with a vacuous,
knowing gaze, resting on some ancient chiseled square.
Where has that emperor or soldier fallen to?
In the distance, among ruins, is another,
a toga-clod figure, perhaps piping a tune,
and past the columns and all the coarse, scattered rocks
is a sky covered in clouds and stretches of blue.
Wilude Scabere is a poet of British literature. Alexander Pope (1688-1744) was a NeoClassical British poet.
~~~
He Stood…at the Intersection
by Bruc “Diesel” Awe
In dark-blue cap, red-orange shades, brown pants, black socks and shoes,
he stood out in the Sun upon the city avenue.
What did he plan to do? Where was he going to, and why?
He stood there upright on the sidewalk, waiting for the light.
The traffic flowed around him, on the corner where he stood.
He looked like he was tying his shoe laces tight and good.
Beyond a patch of trees, a path was winding through the shade;
but he was waiting at the highway crossing on that day.
Astride that passerby, the cloudless sky was blue and bright.
He stood for quite a while; cars and trucks went speeding by.
Beside him, also waiting, was a driver in a car;
and then the light changed green; and both crossed o’er hard, concrete…
rock.
The Beauty of the Afternoon
by Bruc “Diesel” Awe
He was not a hitch hiker as he strode on down the streets,
up spanning hills, across dirt trails, beside high spreading trees,
past honey locusts, cedar elms, loblolly pines and oaks,
past houses, vehicles, landscapes—o, their amazing scope.
He paced alone, around high poles, beneath both jets and hawk.
He traipsed along. He felt as strong as needed for his walk.
He caught a multitude of smells, of near and distant sounds,
as he continued on the varied neighbourhoods and grounds.
He took it in—that gorgeous spin of people, place and time—
that mighty pounding heart alive, awake, astir, upright.
Bruc “Diesel” Awe is a poet of transportation.
~~~
Baling Hay
Caleb Wuri Seed
He was so hot he tossed his shirt off of his torso’s span,
and only wore his trunks and shoes; that rough, hard-working man.
Yet he was sweating still; the Sun was blazing over him.
Sometimes the weather was intense, like summer’s hovering.
Sometimes he felt reptilian, a billion swirling cells,
his mighty mitochondria all charging, arching hells.
He tried to keep upstanding after bending down so much
to pick up this and pick up that. He felt like as a chump.
But still he had to keeping on working. He was thirsty too.
O, what he wouldn’t give to have a strong refreshing brew.
No, baling hay was not that fun; and yet it must be done;
if he could git it over with and git out of the Sun.
Caleb Wuri Seed is a poet of farming.
~~~
Newsreel:
In the White House’s Oval Office, Biden met with Trump;
they spoke about a smooth transition in the DC Dump.
~~~
Working for the Deep State
by SubCIA Weedler
“From my mother’s sleep I fell into the State…”
—Randall Jarrell
Kept in the dark of the deep state’s see-ing-eye-a-gen-cy,
ex-wife and children suffered physic’lly and mentally,
vexed by the house they lived at with bacteria and mold,
inside a strain of stachybotrys, government controlled—
no chance to fight the lies and bloody noses they received.
Sores, rashes, bad nerves, and lungs burning would not be believed,
headaches, and liver damage plagued them—sheer toxicity;
immediately they should move; a doctor said to leave;
pressed to get out, they were evicted, filing bankruptcy,
purged all then in the name of national security.
SubCIA is a poet of espionage. Did FDR know that the Japanese planned Pearl Harbor, and let it happen, so America would go to war?
~~~
The All-Unseeing Eyeball
by Waldeci Erebus
The All-Unseeing Eyeball glinting from behind the shrouds,
his blind and mindless Orb that shines through day’s stark, dark-gray
clouds.
The street lights have come on, although it’s only just past three.
here on the light-gray streets of Trinity and Calvary.
There are some people who are being censored in this land.
One sees that segregation rears its ugly head again.
The rhetoric is violent: “They don’t deserve to live,
if they dare call themselves religious or conservative.”
He is the Necromancer drooling over Middle-Earth,
the Gray Tyranno-Soros, Sauron’s own aborted birth.
Waldeci Erebus is a poet of darkness.
~~~
A Little Engine Who Could
by Cu Ebide Aswerl
“…full of improbable lies, and I hardly believe a word of it.”
—A. W. Decius, “Rebel”
There was a little engine who thought that he could
pull trains. He’d back up to a line of cars and link
himself to them; and then with all his might he would
pull, pull, pull, smuttering, ‘I-think-I-can, I-think-
I-can, I think I can do it, o, take this load.”
Decked out in coal-black zinc, his armour had a chink;
but he would work and work, until the rooster crowed;
and then he’d go some more—up hills, down hills, through hills.
When he was done, he’d start another episode,
and deal with hard hauls, close calls, waterfalls, and thrills.
And yet, despite it all, he thought that it was good,
because he had one of the pluckiest of wills.
Over the Moon
by Cu Ebide Aswerl
He draped that massive duvet cover over the large couch,
and then proceeded to pounce on its warmth and lovely flounce.
It was so beautiful, he loved its contours and its hues;
and so he leapt upon its form, which he could not re-fuse.
He focused on the movie on the screen before his eyes;
but could he rest his back and chest upon its fine designs.
He sighed to see such sport, cavorting on the football field.
He chortled seeing the ball flying o’er the moon annealed .
Hey, diddle diddle, a good fiddler could play a sweet tune,
that would send us all over—cotton and clover—the Moon.
Cu Ebide Aswerl is a poet of leisure.
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