Haiku
by “Clear Dew” Ibuse
In wind-swept winter,
the three-year-old tries his best
to blow soap bubbles.
“Clear Dew” Ibuse is a trad haikuist.
~~~
Haiku
by “Wired Clues” Abe
Crane operators
and bulldozers cleared the site
of the playground.
“Wired Clues” Abe is a NewMillennial haiku writer.
~~~
Newsreel:
The “drones” above New Jersey—they are part of someone’s plan?
Why has Joe Biden sent ten billion waivers for Iran?
~~~
A Morning Astride
by Waudle Burcees
He went out for a morning stride, in sunshine and the cold;
his nose turned pinker, number too, as down the walks he strolled.
He saw the flags and decorations, as he sauntered on;
the afternoon was fast approaching, as he stepped along.
Bright sunshine filled his eyes with light. Yes, he enjoyed the sights,
from lawns to houses, weeds in thousands, under azure skies.
Occasionally some dog on a leash would snap at him,
or drop some turds upon green grass next to the stadium.
A single bird was tweeting in a large established tree,
above remaining flowers, not beyond abolishing.
He saw the giant water tower, where no sniper was,
no windshield wipers, back and forth, were flapping hyper thuds.
He gazed upon the creek, and yawned. There was not much to see,
where it flowed past the playground plowed up for an update spree.
He did not roam, but headed home, by scarlet yucca plants—
without the ants—they grew so tall, in their launched, arching spans.
Waudle Burcees is a poet of walking.
~~~
In Syria
by Cid Wa’eeb El Sur
He was dressed in his olive green prepared to go to war.
He’d have to take off through the underbrush, which he’d abhor.
But he was stuck. How could he git out of these dire straits,
and used as cannon fodder for artillery tailgates.
He didn’t like his situation, but what could he do?
He’d heed the dangers as he did his best to follow through.
In Syria, the soldiers who were working for Assad,
were seriously in despair. What could they do, o, God?
Would they be able to doff uniforms and fade into
the population there at large; or would that ploy not do?
Hayat Tahrir al-Sham led the assault; their foes benumbed—
Aleppo, Homs and Hama, then Damascus—all succumbed.
Cid Wa’eeb El Sur is a poet of the Middle East. Aleppo is a city of around 2,000,000; Homs, around 650,000; Hama, around 1,000,000, and Damascus, around 2,500,000.
~~~
His Journey Through the Snow
by Israel W. Ebecud
I saw him walking by the river, where he did abide,
clear, cold, and aqua waters rushing down the mountainside.
He looked like Ruskin stepping by the foamy wavelets there,
that rose beside him, white and flush, bright in the crisp, harsh air.
His beard was black, as were his long, thick cloak and leather shoes.
The wind was brisk, the moss upon the rocks of greenish hues.
He was alone, like Ovid once in Old Romania,
who sang out plaintively to Jupiter again, in vain.
He longed that all the darkness deep within would turn to light.
He held his arms out wide, and threw his hands up to the sky.
He thought of Jesus Christ who walked so many years ago,
and wondered what would He think of his journey through the snow.
Israel W. Ebecud is a poet of the Old and New Testaments. Ovid (43 BC – 17 AD) was an Augustan Roman poet. Jesus of Nazareth (c. 0 BC – c. 33 AD) was an ancient messianic messenger. John Ruskin (1819-1900) was a British Victorian writer.
~~~
Like a Long-Necked Giraffe
by Cur A. Wildebees
…by the shores of Lake Chad/ roams th’ exquisite giraffe.”
—Nikolai Gumilyev
He spilled some coffee on his carpet, as he walked along.
He’d filled it up—his coffee cup—but was that really wrong?
He bent down with his solvent cleaner and white paper tow’l.
He felt like as an owl crouched in some oak-tree’s crotch—that fowl.
He sprayed and rubbed that plain beige rug. He scrubbed and scrubbed and scrubbed.
He felt like as a quadruped out on the wide, brown brush—
an animal out in the bush. But he was just at home,
not out on a savannah where for food he had to roam.
But as he rose, in his brown clothes, up to his steady feet,
he felt like a long-necked giraffe whose eating was complete.
Cur A. Wildebees is a poet of African Animalia. Nikolai Gumilyev (1886-1921) was a Modernist Russian poet.
~~~
Really Only That
by Esiad L. Werecub
I try so hard, to write a single thing
that someone somewhere somehow wants to read;
but I am unsuccessful. All I bring,
for decade after decade, though received,
is worth nobody’s care. Indeed I am,
when it comes to the many works I write,
like Cyclops-pressed Odysseus—no man—
apparently a plague none care to sight.
And why would anybody ever care
about poetic words? It makes no sense.
The person one is reading isn’t there,
nor does one care about their joys or vents.
It cannot matter in the long run. What
somebody says is really only that.
Mother of Hermes
by Esiad L. Werecub
Mother of Hermes! and still youthful Maia!
May I sing to thee
As thou wast hymnèd on the shores of Baiæ?
Or may I woo thee
In earlier Sicilian? or thy smiles
Seek as they once were sought, in Grecian isles,
By bards who died content on pleasant sward,
Leaving great verse unto a little clan?
O give me their old vigour! and unheard
Save of the quiet primrose, and the span
Of heaven, and few ears,
Rounded by thee, my song should die away
Content as theirs,
Rich in the simple worship of a day.
Esiad L. Werecub is a poet of Ancient Greece. Percy Shelley (1792-1822) was a Romantic English poet.
~~~
He Drove
by Bruc “Diesel” Awe
The rain came down. The sky was gray. Below the air was clear.
He drove past the Academy, though Plato wasn’t there.
Nor Aristotle seeking better thought the best he could.
He drove past where once had been grown a magnifastic wood.
But now construction soared, brand-new apartments by the score.
He drove past blocks of homes. There ever was a want for more.
He passed the park where children played, and did not want to leave;
they heard heroic Roland velarize his olifant.
Along the University the fenced-in trees grew tall and out.
Red, orange, gold, dark-green, and brown. He drove past leaves this
route.
Near to the Castle of the Princess and drone-testing space,
he drove beside the grove of trees that rose up in that place.
He left the Be-All for the Crown, enroute to Trinity.
He drove beyond the northern point of vast Infinity.
He left behind the fallen leaves and meadows, wide and long;
and though he kept on driving and arriving, he drove on.
Bruc “Diesel” Awe is a poet of driving. Plato (428 BC – 348 BC) and Aristotle (384 BC – 322 BC) were Ancient Greek philosophers. Roland the Valiant (736-778) was a Frankish knight. According to Beau Lecsi Werd, the neologism “magnifastic” is a blend.
~~~
Squirreled Away
by Caud Sewer Bile
“…the endless mercurian caves…”
—Al Stewart, “Sirens of Titan”
Gregarious, investigative, in the spider’s web,
a wanderer who looked and found bugs in the garden bed,
researching all about where insects flew and crawled around,
yet keeping wary eyes upon abundant drugs unbound.
What did he think that he would get for getting what he got—
eftsoons the efts would soon be coming after his small plot—
because they didn’t want their secrets cracked above the ground,
before they’d had a chance to put two bullets in his head.
Caud Sewer Bile is a poet of the Swamp. Al Stewart is a PostModernist British singer-song-writer. Gary Webb (1955-2004) was an American PostModernist proset.
~~~
The Pl-ague of G-litter
by Bud “Weasel” Rice
“…this fine specimen of hypermagical ultraomnipotence.”
—e. e. cummings
One of the more obnoxious objects found at Christmastime
is all the little, granulated g-litter—My, oh, my.
Aluminum and plastic bits plague habitats on land,
as well as in aquatic biomes—un-re-cy-cled s-tr-and.
Because it tends to fall off items it’s appended to
and sticks to skin and hair, it is an odious ague.
Why can’t it now be banned across the World it infects
with its env-iron-me(n)tal leaching—all those wretched flecks?
If only it could go away with bottles, packs, and bags;
and poor humanity could be free of its toxic slags.
Bud “Weasel” Rice is a poet of Nature. E. E. Cummings (1894-1962) was an American Modernist poet.
~~~
A Pleased Jaques (jā kwēz)
by Wilude Scabere
At first there is the infant, grinning wide
because he has escaped his nurse’s arms
and her chagrin, in short shirt takes his stride
around the corner, swaggering with charms.
Next comes the busy schoolboy in the morn.
He’s running off to take his shower fast,
and then he towels off what he was born
with; clothed, back-packed, in joy goes off to class.
The lover then appears, a full-grown man,
though hairier, his moustache still is thin.
His heart pounds with delight at sighting an
exquisite, lovely beauty in the wind.
The soldier is a brave and gutsy guy,
who follows orders for his country’s need.
If necessary he will gladly die,
although it is his pref’rence not to bleed.
Then comes the man in full career form.
He makes more money than he ‘s ever made.
His eyes are cheerful and his heart is warm,
more sociable now he has made the grade.
Sixth, the old goat fits into lean blue jeans
with reading glasses on his blood-shot eyes;
but he is happy he can read a thing
and that his life is still a big surprise.
The final dude is hard of hearing, weak;
he’s slow, senile; what hair he has is gray.
Since few can hear him when he tries to speak,
he finds he doesn’t have that much to say,
content to let life’s treasures slip away.
Wilude Scabere is a poet of English letters. William Shakespeare (1564-1616) was an Elizabethan and Baroque English poet.
Leave A Comment