Haiku
by “Clear Dew” Ibuse
A crane fly entered
the sterile surgery field.
It had to be stilled.
Haiku
by “Clear Dew” Ibuse
Upon the cat’s back,
after a wet morning stroll,
sit sparkling dew drops.
Haiku
by “Clear Dew” Ibuse
The large, arching bridge,
hung in the rear-view mirror,
nearer than High Ridge.
“Clear Dew” Ibuse is a trad haikuist.
~~~
Haiku
by “Wired Clues” Abe
Upon a pile
of stale, poured-out bread crumbs,
the grackles descend.
“Wired Clues” Abe is a NewMillennial haikuist.
Questions:
The face of Mars, a rusty red, from iron oxide comes?
and what about that square-like shape, how did it reach its sum?
~~~
Newsreeling:
How open to true speech is Open AI’s GPT?
How deep will DeepSeek seek for answers from the CCP?
~~~
Meditation in Darkness
by Sri Wele Cebuda
It was the middle of the night. The lamppost light was gold.
He sat upon the flat divan. He was but slightly cold.
He got into the lotus pose. He wished he had more heat.
In shadows, he stretched out his legs. He longed for unity.
He felt like a triangle opening up to pure mind.
Although he had a third eye beckoning, he still was blind.
He sought nirvana on the sofa; that would be divine.
O, Lord, he lifted up his head, his neck, his pecs, his spine.
He thought of David…with a slingshot, facing Goliat.
His eye were semi-closed. He wished that he was nice and hot.
He felt his meditating session coming to an end;
and so he rose up, hurled his stones, and watched the giant drop.
Sri Wele Cebuda is a poet of meditation. David (c. 1035 BC – c. 970 BC) was an Ancient Hebrew poet, musician, warrior and king.
~~~
The Idea
by Esiad L. Werecub
The idea is to break into newer realms,
to rake the fallen leaves high in to a pile,
near those fine, brick-red houses surrounded by elms
in which centaurs sit, discuss, drink tea, and smile,
and light bonfires in the imagination,
while being very clever all the while,
as adroit and as skillful in conversation
as Homer’s Odysseus was—that’s the idea,
though obviously not the idealization,
that is, if You do accept the criteria,
Plato would have preferred to have, the highest helms,
the αγαθος, God’s grand glory, i.e., the
Good.
Esiad L. Werecub is a poet of Ancient Greece. Homer (fl. c. 8th century BC) was a noted Greek poet; broad-minded Plato (c. 428 BC – 348 BC) was a noted Greek philosopher.
~~~
…and Reremember
by Bucalese Werdi
A mellow malaise, like a light melanoma,
covers my mind with a melancholic tumor.
At moments of weakness, I think that a coma
would nicely undo this dark, depressing humor.
But then I realize that that is not a cure,
and so I happily let it go—that murmur—
and reremember the happy things, good and pure,
that are the stock and standard of a gladsome life.
That truly is where I want most to be—for sure.
I long to find contentment in the midst of strife.
I long to go to Italy, perhaps Roma,
and take a pleasant trip there with my loving wife.
Bucalese Werdi is a poet of Italian moments. William Wordsworth (1770-1850), a British Romantic poet, informs the above bilding [sic].
~~~
Newsreel:
They, Donald J. Trump, Marco Rubio, and J. D. Vance,
clashed with Zelensky on how best to bring peace to war’s dance.
~~~
“Great is the battle-god, great, and his kingdom—
A field where a thousand corpses lie.”
—Stephen Crane (1871-1900), “War Is Kind”
~~~
The Typist
Esca Webuilder
“Words are flowing out like endless rain into a paper cup.”
—the Beatles
He sat up at his terminal within his cubical.
His legs stretched out beneath his desk to be more comf’rtable.
He pounded on the keys of his computer, making words.
He wanted to send messages across the Universe.
He fabricated sentences with sense and tensity.
and strove for data-swarms that were obsessed with density.
But he was also quite content to work hard like a drudge,
like as a giant genie from a lamp that had been rubbed.
O, how he wished he could fly up, he longed to wing along,
to meet the Zeitgeist with a bright heist, beautiful and strong;
but with imagination that adheres to what is real;
that’s how he wanted to think and how he wished he could feel.
Esca Webuilder is a poet of the Internet.
~~~
At Day’s Start
by Caleb Wuri Seed
He sat up at his monitor. He spread his feet apart.
The Sun was shining; mockingbirds were singing at day’s start.
He lifted up his spine, as high as he was able to.
He heard the distant morning train beneath the pale blue.
He looked out of the window at the rolling hills and lawns.
He looked like he was thrilled to see the sprawling landscape, ah.
He emptied a half-gallon carton of organic milk,
with no synthetic hormones, GMOs, none of that ilk,
without antibiotics, toxic pesticides and more,
grade A, and ultra-pasteurized, from grass-fed herbivores.
He loved to think of happy cows, content in grassy fields,
sustainable, small farms producing ethical, rich yields.
Caleb Wuri Seed is a poet of agriculture.
~~~
A Cup of Honey Apple Cider Vinegar
by Carb Deliseuwe
He had a cup of honey apple cider vinegar,
the taste between the slightest sweetness and a sour stir.
Its taste was fresh, invigourating, pungent to the tongue,
lip-smacking and zip-packing, tangy-tart, a flush of fun.
He loved its throaty effervescence—ah, that biting brew—
He sipped its savour, flavoured by its punchy chug and spew.
It put him in a mood, that if not good, at least was bright,
and kindled up his body, mind and spirit, filled with light.
And maybe, too, it could help him digest his eggs and meat,
by breaking down amino acids, making more protéin.
Carb Deliseuwe is a poet of food and drink.
~~~
No Atlas on the Mattress
by Rudi E. Welec, “Abs”
He was no Atlas on the mattress, stretching out his arms,
nor was he a used-car salesman with loads of smiling smarm.
He simply did his exercises filled with grit and verve;
the dude was very energetic with a lot of nerve.
O, how he tried to complement his function with his form;
but what he sought was nothing more than a bare standard norm.
If he could but attain just that, he would be quite content;
for that was his intent, no more, nor less for life unspent.
He did his push-ups, bends, and ab-work; there was lots to do;
yet it would help him in the long damned by kingly Zeus.
Needing to Fast More
by Rudi E. Welec, “Abs”
He knew he needed to fast more, for he was very fat.
Obese love handles hung protruding out; they were not flat.
His arms, his back, his sacroiliac, were flush and slack.
He felt more like a grunting pig than active wild cat.
What could he do to rectify his situation there?
stretch back his shoulders and be bolder? Should he trim his hair?
He tightened abs and glutes and ass; the treadmill went along.
So if he could not be more thin, he wished he could be strong.
Not a Dipstick
by Rudi E. Welec, “Abs”
Although he knew that he should do his workout every day,
there were some times he would prefer to simply ply and play.
Like Bartleby the Scrivener, there were some times that he’d
prefer not to do anything required for some need.
And yet, he knew he should heed needs; for what else could he do?
bends, stretches, touching toes down to the floor—at least a few—
for it was vital to keep up with exercises—yes—
for without them, he’d lack the strength for any happiness.
And so, he went about his chores, the most he would abhor,
because, although they made him sore, they loosened up his core;
and then he could be quite content—Protéstant work ethíc?
because he had accomplished things, and was not a dipstick.
Rudi E. Welec, “Abs”, is a poet of workouts. Herman Melville (1819-1891) was an American Realist poet and proset.
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