Haiku
by “Clear Dew” Ibuse
The light of the Moon—
so lonely, it makes me sigh;
but I will not cry.
“Clear Dew” Ibuse is a poet of traditional haiku. Matsuo Bashō (1644-1694) was a Japanese Edo poet.
~~~
Haiku
by “Wired Clues” Abe
Above lit lamp posts
and the strings of Christmas lights,
shines the full, cold Moon.
“Wired Clues” Abe is a NewMillennial haiku writer.
~~~
December’s Full, Cold Moon
by Drew U. A. Eclibse
“The Moon gravitates towards the Earth,
and by the force of gravity is continually drawn off
from a rectilinear motion and retained in its orbit.”
—Isaac Newton
Although it was still dark, he heard a soaring giant plane.
He also heard the early morning airhorn of a train.
The cold, full Moon had not set yet, as it went bright and by,
its beauty lit up by the Sun in starry, cosmic sky.
But though it was a single object in the heavens there,
it gladdened him to see it move beyond the stratosphere.
Here in this herd on Earth, it filled his heart with joy and peace,
and he was pleased it had not ceased to be in orbit, yes.
It made him happy on this planet in this traffic’s roar;
and so he was content to see it…always wanting more.
Drew U. A. Eclibse is a poet of the Moon. Isaac Newton (1642-1727) was an NeoClassical English mathematician, physicist and astronomer.
~~~
Haiku
by “Wired Clues” Abe
He saw them flying—
the ghost riders in the sky—
jet planes through the clouds.
“Wired Clues” Abe is a NewMillennial haiku poet. Stan Jones (1914-1963), the author of “Ghost Riders in the Sky”, was an American Modernist songwriter born in Douglas, Arizona.
~~~
Newsreel:
John Ferguson suggests the drones above New Jersey are
intelligence reconnaissance surveilling from afar.
Could it be radioactivity or some gas leak,
or practice military exercises that they seek?
John Ferguson is a NewMillennial drone manufacturer in Kansas.
~~~
Though Moved by Fu
by Wu “Sacred Bee” Li
I have spent in the city an eternity,
without a clarity of vision or purpose.
In vain, I looked upon that stream for swimming fish,
and never saw those waters running undisturbed.
Though moved by fu by Zhang Heng, written during Han,
who followed after sage ethicist Confucius,
removing doubts along the way, not Qu Yuan,
because the ways of heaven, subtle and obscure,
do follow after nets thrown by the Fisherman,
it seems I won’t be getting soon a sinecure.
I leave the world’s uncertainty, and wish for an
okay from God, so that I gladly can endure.
Wu “Sacred Bee” Li is a poet of Ancient China.
~~~
Newsreel:
“What’s happening in Syria is…major, dangerous,
and new change…” said Hassan Fadlallah at a funeral—
a Lebanese lawmaker representing Hezbollah—
for militants who had been killed by Israel’s a-gents.
~~~
A Father’s Warning
by Esiad L. Werecub
Neocles, Themistocles’ father, warned his son,
beneath the open skies over the Saronic
Gulf, while walking at the beach at Phaleron,
with a tone that was sincere, and not sardonic,
“Observe those old, rotting, and abandoned triremes.”
He was both prophetic, as well as laconic.
“That is how the Athenians treat their leaders
when they have no more use for them.” His alarm is
recorded by Plutarch, one of time’s greatest readers.
And though he may have heard his father’s ominous
words, and, in his heart, known them a true prediction,
still he could also see just beyond—Salamis.
Esiad L. Werecub is a poet of Ancient Greece. In the above bilding [sic], Themistocles (c. 524 BC – 460 BC) was an Athenian naval strategist and Plutarch (c. 46 – c. 120) was an Ancient Greek Platonist and biographer.
~~~
In The Madonna in the Meadow
by Buceli da Werse
In The Madonna in the Meadow, Raphael
presents serenity. The beautiful Mary
is overlooking John and Jesus, little chil-
dren, long before the coming horror and nightmare,
beheading and a crucifixion. All is calm
and all is bright, the children’s faces, and th’ airy
surroundings. It is peaceful, a sweet, soothing balm,
two children holding up a crossed stave, quite content,
and Mary holding Jesus in her tender palms,
the three, a stable, staid triangle, innocent
and knowing, grounded, heart-felt joy, far from the hills,
beyond the distant trees and waters, heaven-sent.
Buceli da Werse is a poet of Renaissance painting. Raphael (1483-1520) was an Italian Classical painter. Josef Mohr (1792-1848) was an Austrian Romantic poet.
~~~
This Blast
by Lars U. Ice Bedew
He felt the winter cold snap; it was nippy—this air mass.
intensifying by midweek—O, how long would it last?
He did not want to take his socks off, even in his house.
Was this the dreaded polar vortex? Hear that windstorm sound.
Did this harsh blast come from Siberia, or somewhere else?
Did it cross Canada, east of the Rockies here to us?
Is this front elongated, from the stratosphere above,
down to the lower levels of the atmosphere we love?
Does this mean Christmas will be white, and snow fill up the land,
or will this Arctic blast fade fast and end up being bland?
Lars U. Ice Bedew is a poet of Winter Worlds.
~~~
The Snowman
by Walice Du Beers
“…beholds nothing that is not there and the nothing that is.”
—Wallace Stevens, “The Snow Man”
He was a jolly happy soul on 1950’s page.
The battles in Korea raged—why had they thus been staged?
He had a pipe, a carrot nose, two eyes made out of rocks.
He had a mind of moistened ice, and arms of frosty sticks.
The spruce and pines were crusted with the cold December snow.
The children laughed to see what they had made as they played, oh.
He felt the emptiness aloft. He saw three black crows jump.
He heard the wind against dry, crisp leaves—thumpety thump thump.
Let’s run and have some fun before the Sun melts him away.
But don’t you cry, he will be back again some winter day.
Walice du Beers is a poet of winter. Wallace Stevens (1879-1955) was a Modernist American poet. Walter Rollins (1906-1973) was a PostModern lyricist, as in “Frosty the Snowman.”
~~~
Newsreel:
The USA Dark Eagle launched from Cape Canaveral,
precision, hypersonic, and successful overall.
~~~
The Ornamental Pear Tree
by “Blue Cedar” Siew
How colourful the ornamental pear tree is this fall.
Ironic’lly its shiny hues come when leaves start to fall.
Bright yellow, orange, red and violet, upon the limbs
against the blue—so beautiful—like beaming, sparkling gems.
More than six meters, wide and high, above the rich-brown fence;
light-green leaves, at the bottom branches, cling in th’ opulence.
In morning’s dew, the whole is like a giant diadem,
spectacular and dense, a sight to easily commend.
Though nothing gold can stay, gold still can come, and come again;
and, in this life, that is a blessing, every now and then.
“Blue Cedar” Siew is a poet of trees. Robert Frost (1874-1963) was an American Modernist poet.
~~~
In the Kaua’i Night Sky
by Cruse Wadibele
“If we could travel to a distant star in space,
constellations would be unrecognizable.
We could not interface.”
—Lew Icarus Bede
In the Kaua’i night sky in December, we
leaned back, observing the Great Square of Pegasus,
in th’ heated swimming pool, a sweet, warm memory.
I know the constellations are not real as such,
and are th’ imaginings of poets, farmers and
astronomers; they are mnemonics, vague as suds.
Still, from the pool, I saw the horse kick up its grand,
front heels against the vast, black backdrop of the night,
as if it were an equine to ride and command.
There Maia saw the Pleaides, those pinpoints of light,
and I, I saw the Winged Horse in eternity,
splash past, oh, momentarily, within my sight.
No Land Grab in Lahaina
Cruse Wadibele
There is no evidence it was intentionally set—
the Maui Fire that killed more than one-hundred citizens.
Though some think that Lahaina’s fire was not natural,
or even normal, in its burn, like common chaparral,
there is no proof from journalists, who were kept out of it,
arrested, or kept from the area-burn for one month.
There was no cover-up, but for the dust screen miles long,
protecting people from “asbestos” and the “toxin lawn”;
and gravel has been placed on properties throughout the town,
protecting people from their properties on burnt-out ground.
Though cars were melted, one wood house, no metal on its sides,
was safe, like palm trees, due to water. Strong trees did not die.
Thanks to good luck, Lahaina got the expertise of those,
like Pelletier, who came from Vegas, helping to dispose
of many bodies, signing off as acting coroner;
he was right careful of expense, unlike some foreigner.
This was no land grab for a fifteen-minute city there,
no homes have been rebuilt as yet, within that gritty air.
Cruse Wadibele is a poet of Hawaii. Geoffrey Chaucer (c. 1342 – 1400) was a Middle English poet.
~~~
Tires
Bruc “Diesel” Awe
Out of his back right tire was a wire’s random bane;
and since his tires overall were old he’d have them changed.
He’s set up an appointment for the maintenance he sought.
Then drove off down the highway to the tire-service shop.
The tires stacked up to the ceiling’s corrugated gray;
black circles p-i-l-e-d in red metal bars, in storage lay.
Each serviced vehicle was driven in to each freed bay,
where tires were removed, replaced, and sent upon their way.
The wait was long—it’s busy on a Friday afternoon;
and if someone has somewhere to go, it will not be soon.
What kinds of tires will be purchased? See the orange cones?
Will they be Michelins, Pirellis, or perhaps Bridgestones?
Bruc “Diesel” Awe is a poet of transportation.
~~~
Flabby As He Was
by Rudi E. Welec, “Abs”
He was not vexed to exercise. He knew it must be done.
He had a cup of coffee, but not with a sweet-roll bun.
He first did stretches—front, back, edges, tensing torso turns.
He lifted up his spine and worked on bodily concerns.
He limbered up his limbs. He worked on cir-cl-ing his hips;
Because he started panting, his tongue waggled in his lips.
He tightened abs and pecs; he moved his shoulders, forth and back.
He tenses his glutes—no army boots—there was so much to pack.
He stood up straight and moved his weight around, about, abound.
He kept upright and tall. He did not get down on the ground.
He did knee bends—o, such distends—extending this and that;
until, at last, he sat still, flabby as he was, and fat.
Rudi E. Welec, “Abs”, is a poet of exercise.