Haiku
by “Clear Dew” Ibuse
Crows cry, “Caw, caw, caw.”
Despite distant deadly news,
I fe-el re-lieved…
“Clear Dew” Ibuse is a poet of traditional haiku. Shuntaro Tanikawa (1931-2024) was a PostModernist Japanese poet and proset.
~~~
Haiku
by “Wired Clues” Abe
Jogging down the lane
is a father with his child,
trying to keep fit.
Haiku
by “Wired Clues” Abe
On the lawn, he saw
a Christmas decoration—
the single word JOY.
“Wired Clues” Abe is a NewMillennial haiku poet.
~~~
Newsreel:
The martial law invoked by South Korea’s Yoon Suk Yeol
was overturned by th’ opposition parliament in Seoul.
~~~
With Eight, Earth, Sun and Moon
by Wu “Sacred Bee” Li
One has a destiny.
Two will have a fortune.
Three will bring good fung shui.
Four calls forth karma’s boon.
Five can study Su Shih.
Six perfects a tz’u tune.
Seven is heavenly,
with Eight, Earth, Sun and Moon.
Wu “Sacred Bee” Li is a poet of Ancient China.
~~~
An Urbacodon
by Wild Brecesaur
At times, he felt like as a nasty bastard in the grass,
when he was walking underneath, the jets pass by en masse,
past gawking hawks above the rocks he had to stroll upon,
he felt like an urbacodon, found in Uzbekistan,
by various paleontologists, not Hadian,
by Uzbek, Russian, Brit, American, Canadian,
his teeth and toes, enamel, bone, cementum, dentin, too,
his tissue min’ralized and calcified of derring-do.
Wild Brecesaur is a poet of the dinosaurs.
~~~
Newsreel:
Insurgents swept into Aleppo eastward of Idlib,
as Syrian and Russian jets bombed targets down below.
The population of Aleppo, Syria, is about 2,000,000.
~~~
The War Was Never Nowhere Over Ever Afterwards
by War di Belecuse
The war was over. Millions were relieved.
There was a chance to start to live again.
The very messiness could be believed
by everyone in essence, way back when.
He sensed that, back then in between the rain
and cloudy coldness at the counter drinks,
confusion’s puddles going down the drain.
Sometimes it’s hard to know just what one thinks.
It wasn’t that something was wanted. The brinks
were everywhere. One ever was deceived.
Reality itself, he saw it, sinks;
but he was happy, even when he grieved.
And he knew that though there were the bereaved;
yet there could be that which could be retrieved.
War di Belecuse is a poet of conflict.
~~~
Crouched Beside the Heater
by Lars U. Ice Bedew
He crouched beside the heater in the bathroom where he stood.
Outside the temp’rature was freezing. It did not feel good.
He faced the cold surrounding him, hard ti-le and dark night,
and all he had was but a little lit, and lines of light.
Although he wore his shoes and socks, his feet still chilled a bit.
He felt the nip of winter’s grip, wished he was rid of it.
He was glad to sip coffee; yes, it filled him up with joy,
if not sweet jubilation, or elation, grand and cloyed.
He longed to move along to get his body up and charged,
like as a racer at the start, his back prepared and arched.
The Lightly Traveled Road
by Lars U. Ice Bedew
These woods are beautiful and bright.
The snow has covered them with white.
They sparkle and delight the eye
in morning’s fresh, suffusing light.
They glisten from the sun on high
beneath the pure and azure sky.
In day’s new dawn they undo doom
and cause the soul to give a sigh.
Above a passing car they loom
and chase away the moody gloom.
The lightly traveled road below
is open to enormous room.
This is a lovely scenic show,
to pass the forest’s brilliant glow
enroute to where we’d like to go,
which we would like to reach, and so…
Lars U. Ice Bedew is a poet of the cold. Robert Frost (1874-1963) was a Modernist American poet.
~~~
The Landscape That I See
by “Blue Cedar” Siew
“but no more like my father/ than I to Hercules.”
—William Shakespeare, “Hamlet”
The landscape that I see reminds me of Ralph Emerson:
the cedar elms are turning yellow in December’s Sun;
so too th’ honey mesquite, that spreads its crown out high and wide,
its willowy, low-growing branches s-weeping at my side.
Nobody “owns the landscape”—it’s the horizon’s property—
no one but he whose eyes can integrate its parts will see
its beauty and its grandeur stand along the avenue,
whether it is a Hercules or ordinary Pooh.
“Blue Cedar” Siew is a poet of trees. English Elizabethan William Shakespeare (1564-1616), American Transcendentalist Ralph Waldo Emerson (1803-1882), and British Modernist A. A. Milne (1882-1956), are poets and prosets of English letters.
~~~
Not in the News
by Brice U. Lawseed
The regular concerns of life include:
Will I be treated nicely or like crap?
What will the weather do? Will it be good?
or will it threaten us with some cold snap?
Will everyone around me all keep safe?
Will elder members of my family
remain in health, or will some illness strafe?
Also, what will the entertainment be?
What will we have to eat? Will we say grace?
Will I continue long to keep my job?
What new dilemmas will I have to face?
Will I be disciplined or just a slob?
So, with concerns appearing such as these,
the ordinary is enough, oh, please.
Brice U. Lawseed is a poet of the law.
~~~
Newsreel:
Although he said he would not pardon Hunter countless times,
Joe Biden obviously changed his mind about those crimes.
~~~
In Homeostasis
by Rudi E. Welec, “Abs”
He feels kind of queasy, and a bit uneasy,
as if his equilibrium were on a roll,
a roil of nausea, as if he were asea,
and he must keep its swell well under his control.
He wants to go to sleep, to put it all to rest;
He wants his hale and hearty health to come back whole;
for that is when he feels that he is truly blessed;
so wonderful when he is balanced and serene.
And yet, we all can’t have perfection for each test,
for there are times when there will be some upheaving.
So, for those times when we are out of sorts—dizzy,
reeling—we still must keep our wits about us. See?
Weighing In
by Rudi E. Welec, “Abs”
He got upon the scales once again: Was he too fat?
He stood up tall, the numbers flashed—rat-a-tat-tat, the tab.
The bathroom light lit up his back. He opened up his eyes.
He placed his hands down by his hips. Was he prepared to fight?
He lifted up his spine. He sucked air in between his lips.
He sucked in abs. He stretched head, neck, and shoulders, pecs and hips.
He grabbed his flab, those hanging bags, and flexed his legs and arms.
He did not feel like he was in the army of hard Mars,
nor as triumphalist as Eakins’ boxer at the match—
who carved DEXTRA VICTRICE CONCLAMANTES SALVTAT—
whose raised right hand victorious salutes the lauding age,
approval of the battle won upon the sparring stage.
Rudi E. Welec, “Abs” is a poet of physical enterprises. Thomas Eakins (1844-1916) was an American Realist painter.
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