Haiku
by “Clear Dew” Ibuse
In the leafless trees,
one sees mistletoe and nests,
hidden in summer.
“Clear Dew” Ibuse is a poet of traditional haiku.
~~~
Haiku
by “Wired Clues” Abe
A mourning dove coos
on the roof at morn; at eve
a squirrel scampers.
“Wired Clues” Abe is a NewMillennial haikuist.
~~~
Newsreel:
A Chinese AI company called DeepSeek sent shock waves
for its cheap keys, its awkward lacks, and CCP prop saves.
~~~
The Wide-Winged Messenger
by Cwee Sberidual
He saw the wide-winged messenger, appearing in the night,
that spirit-angel flying high, aloft without delight.
Where was he going to? Pray, tell, what was he doing there?
What was the purpose of his visitation in that air?
He was not so spectacular, displaying majesty;
in fact, he seemed quite ordinary, lacking pedigree.
But as he passed him up, he wondered who he longed to see.
What good news did he have for one as adamant as he?
Yet, as he moved on through the darkness, leaving him behind,
he did not go ecstatic’lly. Was he himself purblind?
Cwee Sberidual is a poet of spirits.
~~~
Newsreel:
At Mahakumbh Mela in Prayagraj, a deadly crush,
more than two dozen died in that religious bathing rush.
~~~
Four Ways
by Israel W. Ebecud
The Pharisees upheld the letter of the law;
the Sadducees denied the resurrection of the dead;
th’ Essenes believed in separation from it all;
the Zealots fought the Roman power, heart and head.
Go back, go on, go off, go fight: which way is best?
These four, and more, are ways to face life’s constant test.
Israel W. Ebecud is a poet of Ancient Judea.
~~~
Newsreel:
Was Byblos (Bible) a port of the Carthaginians?
Egypt and Jordan state they won’t take Palestinians.
~~~
An Ode of Sorts
by Ercules Edibwa
O, happy ancient Spartans of laconic speech,
and blessed Thessalonians descended from
that royal race and sway, the loins of Hercules:
such sturdy, hardy men to Earth’s crust once did come.
I’ve come to sing of “Crude” Abe Lewis in a race
in which he gave his all, around time’s stadium.
Although that contest happened in much older days
beneath Parnassus, where one Piper played for him,
none but Apollo cared about that time and place,
the starting and the finish line he passed so slim.
His inborn valour followed in his father’s steps,
who twice in Ares’ armour fought so gaunt and grim.
Olympian, beneath Saint Helens’ perfect shape,
he ran upon that earthen track, right at the front.
His mother was amazed to see him at the tape,
a victory of sorts, wind for a wayward son.
In days to come, good fortune followed happiness,
but never in such poetry again. Time’s blunt.
Hellenic shadows then descended, slow to bless.
He was left in the hands of gods and let to go.
Though joyful then, in time he lost contentedness,
for only God is free from pain, as the wise po-
et knows. And yet, the prowess of his feat lived on,
unsung but strong. It gave him something he could sow
in time, an ode of sorts, approaching Pythian.
Although we cannot climb alive bright heaven’s height,
nor make our Sun stand still, alive we still may run,
and reach the splendid lengths that come to human sight;
though not by sea or land can we discover e’er
the road that leads to Hyperborean delight.
Yet once, among them, Perseus the chieftain shared
their gorgeous gorging feasts. On entering their homes,
he found them sacrificing asses strong from wear.
Apollo roared, rejoiced to see famed hecatombs,
and gazed on donkey dongs, erect and growing wide.
He laughed to see such beastly sport and flying foams.
The Muses were not banished, but on every side;
the maidens danced, the lyre was played, and flute notes flew.
Their hair was wreathed with golden bay leaves. Satisfied,
they partied hard beyond ills, palsy, and ague,
free from pain’s ravages and ruinous old age,
like that sweet nightingale John Keats had listened to.
They stood aloof from toil and from conflict’s rage.
The Hyperboreans live far from Nemesis.
Yes, to that glad group came the son of Danaë.
Athena was the guide of bold, brave Perseus.
He slew the Gorgon, bringing back her snaky locks,
and turned to stone the islanders of Seriphus.
However, unbelievable it seems, the gods
do the miraculous despite Lucretius’ moan.
Hey, hold the oar. Let th’ anchor down. Watch for the rocks.
Protect us from the surf and reef of endless groan;
for even hymns of praise will flit from theme to theme,
like honey bees or hummingbirds flap cone to cone.
Inhabitants of Crannon, who upon the stream,
that is, a tributary of the Piniós,
still living in that area, do they still dream?
They won’t know ought of “Crude” Abe Lewis or his goals.
He has no garlands, praising elders, youths or girls;
and people will hold on to what they like the most.
But what may happen in a year, who knows? Time hurls
its spears. We have a Muse-bound, four-horsed chariot,
a kind hand in eternity’s wild, cosmic swirls,
a breastplate and a cuirass, one hard, coarse corselet.
Though one can’t stop Time’s fierce assault; it flies along;
and carries all with it; still we can tarry yet.
We still can praise with joy the upright mind and strong.
Though it may not endure as long as purest gold,
it is as true, yea, more so. Let us sing in song
of Pindar, Thessaly, Aeolia of old,
and think on them as we go through the centuries,
for they left us a touchstone shimmering and bold.
Ercules Edibwa is a poet of Ancient Greece.
~~~
A Roman Soldier
by Aedile Cwerbus
In dark blue light of deepest night’s depths, he arose.
He had a premonition some [bad] thing would occur.
He shook, then woke, and there in briefest underclothes,
he tossed aside his blanket of animal fur.
An eagle dangled from his neck, a candle burned.
Once [his] torso was upright, his legs began to stir.
Head, shoulders, arms, thighs and legs, as one unit turned.
He left the bed he had been comfortable in.
The mystery of life’s existence thus discerned.
He had a strong and powerful desire to win,
but victory then hardly seemed an ultimate,
and striving to improve not worth the smallest pin.
Aedile Cwerbus is a poet of Ancient Rome.
~~~
Newsreel:
At least eleven Baltic cables have been compromised.
Was it by Russians or by Chinese, as some have surmised?
~~~
A Doodle
by Wilude Scabere
It’s due to you that I do argue thus.
I do not think that what I do is crude.
The dew drops in the crease and you do cuss.
Why dost thou, dude, decry song so endued?
You do despise my dooby, dooby, doo.
I am not Frank enough, I do assume.
My duty is to be, but not to do.
Oh, dunes, they do stretch to the crack of doom!
Damned if I do, damned if I don’t, I don’t
know what to do. Do I dare drop a doo?
Though you do neigh, I cannot say I won’t.
Besides, I do not gentle go into
a dukedom where you do not do what’s fun.
Against my Will, I never could be Donne.
Wilude Scabere is a poet of the Baroque.
~~~
A Ramsey Number
by Euclidrew Base
The fewest number of vertices, so needed to ensure
all undirected simple graphs contain a certain clique,
or independent set of certain order, is known as
a Ramsey number R(m,n)…in combinatorics.
Euclidrew Base is a poet of mathematics, Frank Ramsey (1903-1930) was an English Modernist mathematician. In 1989 Exoo proved that R(5,5) ≥ 43, and 2024, Angeltveit and McKay proved that R(5,5) ≤ 46. Geoffrey Exoo is a contemporary American mathematician, Vigleik Angeltveit, a contemporary Norwegian mathematician, and Brendan McKay, an Australian computer scientist and mathematician.
~~~
Newsreel:
Trump’s tariff gambit with Colombia occurred so fast,
Gustavo Petro rather quickly caved and changed his stance.
~~~
Por Jorge Luis Borges
by Wibele Escudar
…always pale, faint, relazed, painting a picture for who knows whom of whom knows who, always painting a picture of who knows whom for Jorge Luis Borges, always painting a picture of Jorge Luis Borges for who knows whom. The lines fall to the canvas like rays from the Sun, thin golden trails of what has been, what must be, or what will be true. Over and over again they fall over each other, like Autumn’s straw harvests, or near the blue reaches of the open sea, like logs on the beach: that is, the lines—the undulating lines of Jorge Luis Borges spreading to all corners of the Earth.
Wibele Escudar is a poet of Argentina. In the above prosem, according to Beau Lecsi Werd, “relazed” is a neologism meaning a little more easy and lazy than released or relaxed. Jorge Luis Borges (1899-1986) was a Modernist Argentinian poet and proset.
~~~
A Young Walt Whitman
by Usa W. Celebride
He stands upon the road in plain, but textured, pants
and long-sleeved, loose-fitting shirt open at the top,
attempting to affect an unromantic stance.
His hair, mustache, goatee, are kempt, do neatly drop
below dark, broad-brimmed hat, turned at a killing cant,
his right arm bent, akimbo, right fist on his hip,
his left hand in his pocket, wrinkled cheeks aslant.
The eyes above skin-sags, set deep beneath large brows,
do browse upon the world. He is about to chant
an unrelenting song of self no one can douse.
All those who dare come near that voice will hear his rants;
and they will raise the stakes of any in the house.
Usa W. Celebride is a poet of America.
~~~
On the Spectrum
by Caud Sewer Bile
He sent his love enthusiastic’lly out to the crowd,
from his heart to his audience; his joy could not be cowed;
but cor-prate media sees nazis everywhere they go;
and Elon Musk is on the spectrum in their rainbowed show.
He did this too in Butler, Pennsylvania—he jumped—
so high for joy, unrumpled froy, he was so glad, and pumped;
but cor-prate media could not accept his happiness;
for Elon Musk there’s no response but utter crappiness.
Caud Sewer Bile is a poet of the deep state.
~~~
At the Forest Edge
by Dewie Arbuscle
He stood up at the forest edge, and took a long hard look.
It could be arduous to hike into that wooded nook.
He took a deep, long breath before he entered on this hike.
He hoped it would be something he enjoyed, that he could like.
There would be difficulties; he knew that; the brush was dense;
but he would do his very best, o, yes, his very best.
He smelled decaying leaves and fallen needles near the pines.
He looked about where he was at, and stretched his curving spine.
He carefully stepped in his hard black shoes upon the dirt.
He wanted this trip to be good, and he would not be hurt.
He ducked the wanton tree limbs, and the sticks and logs about.
He felt like as an animal who had to face a bout.
Dewie Arbuscle is a poet of the forest.
~~~
To Regard the Frost
by Lars U. Ice Bedew
One has to have a mind of winter to regard the frost,
the boughs of pine trees flush with snow, a cold snap tempest-tossed.
One must have been cold for a time, beholding junipers,
to feel icicles on the eaves, like moons of Jupiter’s.
Rough spruce is silver, glittering in January sun.
Keep faucets dripping, heat on too. We’re all ways on the run.
A cup of some turmeric-ginger tea brings all one’s ease.
The wind is freezing, numbing ears; grey trunks are shorn of leaves.
The place is bare, not anywhere where one would like to be.
Yet here I am. The world is treating me bad—misery.
Lars U. Ice Bedew is a poet of the cold. William Shakespeare (1564-1616) was an English poet and playwrite. Wallace Stevens (1879-1955) was an American Modernist poet. The Beatles were a PostModernist musical quartet.
~~~
Like the Stalks of a Flower
by I Warble Seduce
like the stalks of a flower
like the stalking jaguar—
black—
beautiful and lovely,
over the open and seemingly endless, o, endlessly splaying plains
and then like the stalk Jack climbed
out into the eternal voids
out into the nebular clouds
winding
like an artery of blood
like an aorta
into the heart of the cosmos,
sweet mother of delight!
the umbilical unwinding,
spiraling through reason to the stars,
to the stars
and darkness.
Do I love You? Yes.
Will I love You forever? No.
Have you given Me a new power,
a new purpose,
a new feeling,
a new belief,
a new love for life?
Yes. Yes. Yes. Yes. Yes.
Do You understand Me? No.
O, my darling,
if We be but friends,
still We are such friends
the World has never seen
nor has awaited for.
Give Me Your hand.
Still, though the prairie is wide and open,
thunder clouds loom enormously on the horizon
and flashing lighting crashes through the eav.
We must move slowly,
slowly,
cautiously
lest we become fooled,
fools,
merely bags of wind
hopelessly attempting to hold back the heaving floods,
o, my darling.
White Lilies
by I Warble Seduce
Here white lilies in this wide lake float peacefully on on
aquamarine green waves, bob up to the lift of the water,
down to the dip’s drawn drop, smooth blue ululations expanding
moving to newer positions, a setting of saucers and cups, yes,
fit for a keen mind’s eye, I, drinking the scenery’s meaning
deeply and breathing the air in, a gaggle of geese in the wet mists,
huge clouds passing above, walk slowly alone, sad,
glad for the hope of a union, a fusion of beautiful lives—love.
I Warble Seduce is a poet of lovesong, strains and refrains. According to Beau Lecsi Werd, “eav” is a neologism suggesting heaven’s eave.
Leave A Comment