Haiku
by “Clear Dew” Ibuse
He rode his bike to
the elementary school,
bird voices singing.
“Clear Dew” Ibuse is a poet of traditional haiku.
~~~
Haiku
by “Wired Clues” Abe
Imbibing deeply,
at the bird-sunny bistro:
‘Vitamin D, please’.
“Wired Clues” Abe is a NewMillennial haikuist.
~~~
Newsreel:
In Indonesia, once pristine town Tanjung Uma now
in sewage, garbage and industrial waste, drowns, drowns, drowns.
~~~
The Yoga Master
by Sri Wele Cebuda
He sits inside an equilateral triangle. He
is sitting in the lotus position. His hands
are at his knees. He’s seeking peace and harmony.
The sunlight touches him with gold commands.
He wants to hold his body steady for a long
time, calming all the joints of tension, bonds and bands.
He meditates upon becoming…being…strong.
He sits upon a mat. One cannot see his face,
His breath slows down. He tightens arms and legs along.
He goes into a trance. He pauses from the race.
He tones his nerves. He contemplates eternity
from his relaxing height. He’s sitting at the base.
Sri Wele Cebuda is a poet of meditation power.
~~~
But a Vision
by Crise de Abu Wel
I had a dream the other day:
As I was walking on my way,
I came upon ten angels there,
as if they were upon the air.
They loomed above me, shining bright,
in glorious, radiant light.
I longed to touch them, shake their hands;
I listened hard for sweet commands;
but they remained aloof, on high,
in splendor, winging in the sky.
I reached out for their brilliant robes;
if only I could touch their clothes;
but back they flew away from me.
Oh, all that I could do was see.
They were too insubstantial for
reality, my human core.
I longed to go and be with them,
each shimmering, a gorgeous gem;
but I could not bring them to me.
They kept their distance silently.
Before they left, they threw a bone.
I reached for it, but it was gone.
And so I traveled on alone
with but a vision, something shown.
Crise de Abu Wel is a poet of the Good Father.
~~~
Newsreel:
The Arab nations mobilize against Trump’s Gaza scheme,
a Riviera on the Med is not what they would dream.
~~~
Pretennosity
by Erisbawdle Cue
Parmenides was right not to accept the paradox,
to reject antinomy’s face, it is and it is not,
to strive for consistency, yes, a standing together,
agreement between individuals, things, acts, statements,
to seek incessantly existences and essences,
to imagine, believe, and state that nothing, yes, changes,
to speak beyond the context of the meaning of the phrase,
to go further than the phase, to reach for the other side,
to fly not flee, straight for the heart of the matter of life—
energy, to face the universe fully totally.
Erisbawdle Cue is a poet of philosophy. Parmenides (late 6th century BC – early 5th century BC) was an Ancient Greek philosophical poet. According to Beau Lecsi Werd, the neologism “Pretennocity” means before the adoption of the tennos.
~~~
Flashback:
Not everyone who has a harp can play upon
it. “Non omnes, qui citharum habent, sunt ci-
tharaedi,” Varro wrote in de Re Rustica,
a quote back then in that long distant century.
Marcus Terentius Varro (116 BC – 27 BC) was a noted Roman scholar.
~~~
Epelegy
by Ewald E. Eisbruc
Beethoven, first in misery’s arms, then in oceans of anguish,
caught it, contracted the nothing of love—antimusical matter—
mountains of constant futility tombed high over the vast flux,
cupped in the put of the cosmos, and lost in the presence of hell’s hold.
Documents simply reveal and anger, an odious grimace;
doubtless the pain was intense, harsh, simply beyond all consoling.
And I? I am too much in a furor to know of the loss there,
how the adversity took him apart and created instead—God.
Ewald E. Eisbruc is a poet of German composers. Ludwig van Beethoven (1770-1827) was German Classical composer of the Romantic era he helped inaugurate. According to Beau Lecsi Werd ‘Epelegy” was a neologism of the 1980s,
~~~
A Friend of Mine
by Durable Cwiese
I am a friend of Misery, who’s been with me
for as long as I can remember. Years go by,
they fly, yet Misery still keeps me company,
reminding me to be, o, yes, to be alive
is hard. Wherever I may be, I can locate
my friend, close to my heart, or in my mind nearby.
My friend is kinder than my enemy called Hate.
My friend appears whenever Love’s song disappears.
My friend is never on time, and is often late.
My friend is also very critical of cheers;
yet it seems I always have time for Misery;
for Misery has been a friend of mine for years.
Durable Cwiese is a poet of hard queasiness, as in the above bilding [sic].
~~~
Newsreel:
In the election, Germans gave the voting victory
to CDU/CSU in Western Germany,
whereas the AfD came next in Eastern Germany.
In scattered places of the North were SPD and Greens.
“Our life is like a German confederacy, made up of petty states…”
—Henry David Thoreau, “Walden”
~~~
How Many?
by Wilbur Dee Case
How many tens of thousands in apartments and their homes
are living lives of noisy hopefulness—Thoreau or Holmes?
How many myriads with trucks and cars span city streets,
amidst concrete décor, deciduous and evergreens?
How many people are involved in, o, so many things,
amidst the songs of singing birds and hawks in turning rings?
How many fixed-wing aircraft are now flying overhead,
relaxing people underneath, eyes opening and red?
How many roving hobos walk about with shopping carts,
amidst well-heeled shoppers in ten-thousand strolls or darts?
How many parts are individuals in scene or play
in this grand, massive drama reeling forward, night or day?
Concerning the Drum Major
by Wilbur Dee Case
Did he pause at attention at the start of his brief run?
Did he kick up his legs while he was holding his baton?
Did he go through a series of positions, then bend back,
at ninety-some degrees, head, neck and stomach nearly flat?
Did he stand up, and then begin to high-step down the field?
What did he think his training for these stops and goes would yield?
Did he move his baton about, in spinning, winning whirls?
Did he believe that this would help him meeting up with girls?
Did he throw his baton across the goal posts, watch it bounce,
and grab as it jumped up to him, finishing his counts?
Wilbur Dee Case is a poet of Middle America. Henry David Thoreau (1817-1862) was a noted Romantic American proset. Oliver Wendell Holmes, Sr. (1809-1894) was an American Romantic poet. Donald Barthelme (1931-1989) was a PostModern American proset.
~~~
This Golden Age
by Brice U. Lawseed
The President states we’ve embarked upon a Golden Age,
but does that make it so? Could it be Silver, Bronze, or Beige?
What is it that makes any time superior, in fact?
What is the mettle wanted most, because that’s what is lacked?
What makes an era top-notch? Is it something in the air?
or is it in the spirit of the people then and there?
What is the loss? What is the cost of gaining such insight?
What is the weight of centuries against a brand-new height?
There always will be change; there always will be challenges,
as we continue on and forward through this Golden Age.
Brice U. Lawseed is a poet of this Golden Age.
~~~
Escholtzia Californica
by Cal Wes Ubideer
“Tell Ina Coolbrith I shall never forget.”
—Bret Harte
orange and golden, the poppy, the papery petals so flimsy,
thin, like life’s brief kite, its flippantly candescent candle,
nature’s expression of love, o, amor, more marvelous than things,
like long-forgotten tombs, bloom’s blazing and beautiful fire,
free for the moment of corpses and graves, here wildly growing,
flapping and flickering in wind spins, leaves, glaucous, dissected,
lovelier shades than Tyrian dyes, this copa de oro,
yes, this loveliest flower, so glossy and shiny its smooth sheen
Cal Wes Ubideer is a poet of California flowers. Bret Harte (1836-1902) was an American Realist proset. Ina Coolbrith (1841-1928) was an American Realist poet, “the sweet singer of California.”
~~~
A Nineteen-Eighties Frothy Vanilla Milk Shake
by Carb Deliseuwe
luscious and creamy and white—
o, cool, man, like, wow, yeh, delicious,
a frothy vanilla milk shake
in a thick paper cup—
o, and so good, so really, really good,
Vergilian waves pounding on the rocks—
saxifrage—splashing at the edge,
surface spume,
glistening in the light of the midday sun,
all this won
after centuries of
pain, torture, and unfortunate horrors,
the sonnet sliding away like a surf-board,
Shakespeare’s Ovidian motions, o, finally reaching fruition,
a continuing wind—
post-Miltonic pastures,
and a long white straw
with thin red stripes—plastic precision
Carb Deliseuwe is a poet of carbs. So much of NewMillennial fast foods and drinks are anathema to the health of the American people. Ice cream, for one, can be made by using vanilla, heavy cream and allulose, instead of sugar. Despite the plastic waste problem, Donald Trump has recently directed a change from paper straws back to plastic straws. In the above free-verse poem, Vergil and Ovid are noted Latin poets, and Shakespeare and Milton are noted British poets.
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