Haiku
by “Clear Dew” Ibuse
On this winter day,
carrying a plucked flower,
walks a glad toddler.
“Clear Dew” Ibuse is a poet of traditional haiku. Iida Dakotsu (1885-1962) was a Modernist Japanese haiku writer.
~~~
Haiku
by “Wired Clues” Abe
On the sidewalk, marched
a line of ants, to and from,
a potato chip.
“Wired Clues” Abe is a NewMillennial haikuist. What effect does processed food have upon the insect world?
~~~
Matome May Have Been
by W. “Cured Eel” Sabi
On August 15, in 1945, when Emperor Showa conceded loss, Ugaki climbed, while he was still alive, into the back seat of a kamikaze aircraft, saying he was th’ one to blame for failure of his aviators to defeat the enemy. When the time came, he showed bushido. A landing craft crew, on the next morning, from the USA, discovered the remains of a cockpit with three dead bodies in ‘t. Matome may have been the one in a dark green outfit, the right arm missing, the head crushed in, and a short sword nearby…there upon the sand.
W. “Cured Eel” Sabi is a poet of Japan and the sea. Emperor Showa (1926-1989) was the 124th emperor of Japan. In the above prosem, Matome Ugaki (1890-1945) was a Modernist Japanese admiral.
Newsreel:
The Chinese placed new tariffs on American imports,
since the United States imposed new duties—ten percent.
~~~
The Bear
by SubCIA Weedler
“The NSA is spying on us. Does somebody care?”
—Brice U. Lawseed
Surrounded by snow—snow—the bear is sleeping in his den.
No den is too mean for his home—a Russian cave to lend?
Obedient to nature he surveils the land around.
Where has he found a place to stay, in which he can be bound?
Deciding to take one last leak, before he hibernates,
espying where he wants to sleep, his lonely home awaits.
Now he, headward, lies down where he will be snowed in—his lair.
SubCIA Weedler is a poet of deception.
~~~
Underwater Welding
by E. Scuba Wilder
Was he involved in underwater welding for his jobs,
and sometimes went to great depths to perform some boss’s probs?
Was his role critical in varied industries, like gas,
marine construction, civil engineering, and red brass?
Was he involved in solving pipeline troubles in the sea,
adapting specialized equipment and unique techniques?
Was he submerged and using waterproof materials,
electric arcs that melt electrodes and base metal hulls?
If not, what was he doing in a diving suit and gloves,
big boots and helmet, built-in lights, comms, scuba gear—in coves?
E. Scuba Wilder is a poet of underwater realms.
~~~
Hermann Hesse
by Uwe Carl Diebes
He wrote as if it mattered. He was right on this.
What he did write was not by rote, nor some lost rite,
though it might seem a maze, amazing, an abyss.
He had been here, within the halls of time and might.
He was a man who lived without the walls, aloof,
but always on the Eastern edges, and in sight.
He feared few heights; he climbed and walked the Western roof.
He sought new sites and climes, but liked his own home best.
He longed for confirmation’s form; he wanted proof;
and yet he willingly would undergo this test,
and brought to ‘t philosophical seriousness.
He was a thoughtful knight upon a life-long quest.
Uwe Carl Diebes is a poet of German literature. Hermann Hesse (1877-1962) was a noted Modernist German proset and poet. His favourite book is Der Glasperlenspiel.
~~~
A Soldier Stationed in Germany
by War di Belecuse
“Only the dead have seen the end of war.”
—George Santayana
He did not taste ale brewed in dark-tan tankards scooped in burl;
nor all the hops around the Neckar for producing beer.
He did not buy a stein when stationed in West Germany,
while reeling through pale rainy skies of gray and burgundy.
He saw no foxgloves at the edges of the Autobahn.
Where were the bees and butterflies when he was in Heilbronn?
He saw no seraphs wearing snowy hats in winter winds,
nor saints with nectar lecturing the needs of sun, or sin;
but he remembers in the park a giant devil’s head,
and snow around the US Army base. He was not dead.
War di Belecuse is a poet of armies. Emily Dickinson (1830-1886) was a Realist American poet. George Santayana (1863-1952) was a Spanish American philosopher. Heilbronn is a city in Germany of around 125,000.
~~~
Cape Cod
by George Santayana
The low sandy beach and the thin scrub pine,
The long reach of bay and the long sky line,—
O, I am sick for home!
The salt, salt smell of the thick sea air.
And the smooth round stones that the ebbtides wear,—
When will the good ship come?
The wretched stumps all charred and burned,
And the deep soft rut where the cartwheel turned,—
Why is the world so old?
The lapping wave, and the broad gray sky
where the cawing crows and the slow gulls fly,
Where are the dead untold.
The thin slant willows by the flooded bog,
The huge stranded hulk and the floating log,
Sorrow with life began!
And among the dark pines, and along the flat shore,
O the wind, and the wind, forever more!
What will become of man?
The Hunters in the Snow
by Sir Bac de Leuew
“Brueghel the painter concerned with it all…”
—William Carlos Williams
Three hunters are returning from an expedition with
their dogs and one slim corpse. They trudge along. The hounds are thin.
Are those the paw prints of an animal they’re following?
There are some black birds in the leafless trees; one is a-wing.
Off to the left there is a blazing fire’s golden flame;
but all around is snow and ice, a bright white flow’s amaze.
The people outside of the inn are singeing pig to eat.
A broken sign hangs from its hardware: “Dit Is Guten Hert”.
About two-dozen people skate upon a square-like pond;
some kids skid by, there’s curling, hockey, sledding, and beyond…
there are rough peaks not to be found in Holland, but so sharp
they seem to scratch the sky with jagged slopes, so rough and harsh.
Sir Bac de Leuew is a poet of Dutch artistry. Pieter Brueghel the Elder (1526-1569) was a Dutch Renaissance painter. William Carlos Williams (1883-1963) was a Modernist American poet.
~~~
Le Tombeau de Stephane Mallarme
by U. Carew Delibes
O, pure pearl, this orb, this smooth milky-white stone,
like ivory, marble, opal—this crystal ball,
this future vision contained in this slice of cone,
this circle of eternity, this sum, this all,
this appearing image rising within this scene,
this dream of the infinite, this universal,
this reflection on the skim of this water’s sheen,
this primitive, like an orb, round, oval, a disk
orbiting the Cosmos for one moment between
that which is not and that which is not—that which is—
this perfect being, this sweet thing called life, this known,
held at the top of this fountain, high, bright—like this.
U. Carew Delibes is a poet of French music. Stéphane Mallarmé (1842-1898) was a French Symbolist poet in the Realist era.
~~~
Newsreel:
Vice-President Vance went to Paris with his wife and kids
at thé behest of Trump, t’ attend the AI conference.
~~~
Filled with the Revolutionary Feeling of Freedom
by Ablicudew Seer
He was visionary, apocalyptic, dynamic,
filled with the revolutionary fury of freedom,
wild with raging energy and passionate feeling,
alive to inspiration, ecstasy, rapture, and hell—
William Blake, the poet, the painter, and the, yes, seer!
the prophet, the mystic, o, the herald of new song,
the PostMiltonic Kingdom of God in all its splendor,
the divine believer charged with missionary zeal,
reeling from the heights and swells of oceanic tides,
the onrushing waves roaring thru the universal flux.
Ablicudew Seer is a poet of visions. John Milton (1608-1684) was an English poet and proset of the Neoclassical era. William Blake (1757-1827) was a British Romantic poet.
~~~
Philip Larkin
by B. S. Eliud Acrewe
I saw him at the park one day, not any day,
feeding the ducks at the pond’s edge with a few crumbs—
bread, I believe, but I really shouldn’t, well, say
what I didn’t see—old lonely ladies, and bums,
some seemingly soused beneath the cumulus,
nothing plus nothing’s nothing, an afternoon’s sums,
more or less like Hume when he lived, lost, humourless,
in the same symptom, England, less than one percent
pike, kind of like a Vergilian Romulus
verging on the ledge of his high-rise apartment,
incredibly wealthy, but unwilling to pay
the unwanted, but very necessary, rent.
B.S. Eliud Acrewe is a poet of England. Oublius Vergilius Maro (70 BC – 19 BC) was a Roman Golden Age poet. David Hume (1711-1776) was an Enlightenment British philosopher. Philip Larkin (1922-1985) was a PostModern British poet. He remembers distinctly going to the pond, near the royal acres, with Winnie the Pooh and Maia, attempting to feed the ducks, et. al.
~~~
Newsreel:
Is Apple being forced to make a back door for UK,
so they can spy on users with encrypted cloud accounts?
~~~
The Seeker
by Erisbawdle Cue
He sought the violence of purity,
extreme simplicity, the absolute
functional efficient utility,
lines devoid of all but the capsuled truth,
streams of only water—not pollution,
ideas of high, fine purpose and might,
answers, rivers of fluid solution,
the perfect forms—energy, matter, light.
Discomfited
by Erisbawdle Cue
There are some situations one finds oneself in
that are insurmountable, and yet one must attempt
to get through them, no matter to where they may spin
one. And it is important to remain kempt,
if possible; but if you lose it, it’s still good
to ride it out, though you may be discomfited.
What more can anyone do but do what one should
in those dire circumstances? If you don’t make it,
at least you tried; but if you’ve been totally screwed
and have no dignity left at all, just shake it
off. No one knows what it’s like to be in your skin.
One can’t always grin or bear it, stay and take it.
Each Day Is a Brand-New Day
by Erisbawdle Cue
Although we never can live up to our ideals,
it is important to attempt to do just that.
To give it all we’ve got no matter how it feels
gives purpose to our lives and meaning to our acts.
If we will strive to rise up to what comes our way,
then we can bring a ray of hope to where we’re at.
O, yes, to pray for heaven and a brand-new day
makes what we do significant. It gives us strength
to face reality’s rough storms, o, come what may.
And we can be content for all of life’s long length,
enduring all its harshness, all its hard appeals,
until we have no more, and gladly we thank God.
Erisbawdle Cue is a poet of philosophy.
~~~
Newsreel:
The President crossed what he calls Gulf of America,
and then proceeded to attend New Orleans’ Superbowl,
where Kansas City Chiefs were beat by Philadelphia.
The Eagles flew across the field, best year’s team overall.
~~~
The Unknown Man
by Bic Uwel, “Erased”
He turns to see if anyone is looking at
his being; but nobody is, nobody cares.
His brow is furrowed right above his nose, and that
makes him appear a beast at bay. Some unkempt hairs
and an unshaven face make him seem untranquil.
Nobody knows the many burdens that he bears.
He’s discontent. Within his mind hard thought rankles.
His pallor is in dark and bright all touched in blue.
He sees in black and white and gray, and always will.
His head is breaking, aches. He feels forsaken too.
His eyes send messages out in spurts like a gat.
He’s ready for a broil, but he will take a brew.
The Apparition
by Bic Ewel, “Erased”
He stood up in the shallow water on the beach
sands, washing, wading, walking, waiting for the end—
that longed-for peace, oh, sweet release, just out of reach.
He was invisible to everyone, but for a bend.
He seemed to fade in and out of the foam and light,
as if he wasn’t there; still, he seemed to ascend
up from the broad and brilliant bronze into the bright.
Even those nearby looked real close to check his berth,
to see if he was really there and in their sight.
It was as if he had not been on planet Earth
at all, as if he faded faster than a peach
and turned into sunlight and air, and of less girth.
Bic Uwel, “Erased” is a poet of the unknown.
~~~
Donald J. Trump
by Brice U. Lawseed
“red-hot rivets…holding a skyscraper through blue nights into
white stars.”
-Carl Sandburg, “Prayers of Steel”
Like as a ma-fi-a don in the great em-pí-re state,
Don Trump has since become the latest US President.
From his take-down in 2020 by the deep state fraud,
he rose again against the odds. Was he saved twice by God?
The trumpet of new media—the crowing, old, gold, GOAT—
advanced by sheep, fox and muskox to cross the boggy moat.
From breaking ground, and making high skyscrapers in the Weal,
by riveting, and lifting up through thé art of the deal,
he came to take his place amidst this fractious populace,
this man, as we, who never can, esteem such opulence.
Brice U. Lawseed is a poet of DC. Emily Dickinson (1830-1886) was a mid-19th century American poet; Carl Sandburg (1878-1967) was a Modernist American poet and proset.
~~~
The University Student
by Wilee Read Bucs
He wore his black coat and his black shoes; he was off to school.
The sky was gray and cloudy, like the tee shirt he wore too.
The university was gray and grim in its huge halls,
as well as all the sidewalks and the massive parking lots.
He went to the library filled with engineer books,
computers and programming man-u-als. He was thus hooked.
He took his black hat off and slipped his shoes off his black socks,
and sat up at a table, like a toddler with his blocks.
Such data streams—o, there were reams! He hung out patiently.
He longed to get more knowledge, and do so efficiently.
He poured o’er ones and zeroes, symbols, letters, lines and rows.
much complex text, as he then plucked some boogers from his nose.
Wilee Read Bucs is a poet of libraries.
~~~
Touching One’s Toes
by Rudi E. Welec, “Abs”
A lot of exercises are good for vitality,
maintaining flexibility and functionality;
and one of these is touching toes to check one’s fitness state:
Are hips and hamstrings tight? Is balance fine? or too much weight?
But when you’re ready, first stand with your feet hip-width apart.
Then slowly stretch your spine upwards. That’s a good place to start.
With neck in neutral, flatten back, then bend to reach your toes.
Press feet onto the rug or floor for a strong balanced pose.
It will be like as you are viewing thé edge of a cliff;
and from that vista, rise again above that anaglyph.
And so the touching of one’s toes, not touching heartfully,
is still good for the body overall, done artfully.
Rudi E. Welec, “Abs”, is a poet of exercises.
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