Haiku
by “Clear Dew” Ibuse
In a bamboo grove,
a sedentary panda
eats shoots all day long.
“Clear Dew” Ibuse is a trad haikuist.
~~~
Haiku
by “Wired Clues” Abe
In the pouring rain,
running on the wood fence top
was an opossum.
“Wired Clues” Abe is a haiku poet of the New Millennium.
~~~
Newsreel:
Three Chinese astronauts returned to Earth—a six-month stay—
and landed in Dongfeng, near Gobi, a one-day delay.
~~~
This Little World We Live On
by I. E. Sbace Weruld
Space jars us from this little World we live on—
the planet Earth that’s orbiting the blazing Sun—
that’s orbiting the center of this Milky Pond,
about 240,000,000 years—just once,
at 230 kilometers per sec, or so.
Perhaps the Milky Way itself is moving in
the same direction as the Great Attractor, oh,
a massive myriad of galaxies spinning.
And where is this all going to? One wonders, yes,
what is the journey that this universe plots out?
Is there a purpose to it all? Who knows? Perhaps.
Space jars us from this planet—Earth—no doubt, no doubt.
Mr. I. E. Sbace Weruld is a poet of Space.
~~~
Newsreel:
A blast at Bandar Abbas in Iran had major fires;
more than one-thousand people injured, more than sixty died.
Could it be linked to the mis-han-dl-ing of solid fuel
that could be used in missiles? Were such chemicals unspooled?
Bandar Abbas is a port in southern Iran of around 500,000.
~~~
The Traveler
by Ecwus Beal Ride
He followed cement roads with long and golden lines
that led him to a city made of tall structures.
The buildings soared across the sky in strange designs.
He was about to lose himself in its strictures.
He swallowed up his pride. He gave in to his fate.
He was sucked in to anonymity’s hard, block squares.
There wasn’t any place to pause, no time to wait.
He had to go on…moving forward, pressing forth.
What hope was there he could not now anticipate.
The compass pointed where he had to travel—north.
If only he could make sense out of all these signs,
each of them prodding, poking, sticking like a thorn.
Vigorously Traveling
by Ecwus Beal Ride
He saw them fly
as far as the eye can see
upon the far horizon—
the geese—
trailing in strings of vees,
organized,
above the human whirl.
His surprise
was in their numbers
and how far they stretched across the sky.
There were hundreds, and hundreds,
the most he had ever seen—
or heard honking—
in this his nine-and-fiftieth year
of life.
Northward they flew,
flapping against the cold, illimitable,
illuminated blue
of the fierce morning there—
vigorously travelling through
the rigorous air
this tierce of May Fourth.
Ecwus Beal Ride is a poet of movement.
~~~
An Ndebele Aside
by Badrue Ecsweli
They came north—
the people of the long shields—
across the Limpopo to Bulawayo,
the place of the killing.
Here they chased
the dirty ones, the dog people,
out of their zimbabwes.
their stone villages,
and christened Mwari,
above whom there is no one else—
Mlimo.
Here they lived content,
content, that is, until the masina mabvi,
the people without knees,
drove them like dogs into the rocks—
an assegai in the belly.
Badrue Ecsweli is a poet of South Africa. Bulawayo, Zimbabwe, is a city of around 650,000.
~~~
Newsreel:
The IDF attacked the forces that attacked the Druze,
in Syria, in Sahnaya, Damascus had abused.
Sahnaya is a town in southern Syria of around 14,000.
~~~
His Manner
by Cid Wa’eeb El Sur
His manner
is as a flow, a connection of images,
sounds, colours, textures, shapes, forms, et cetera,
a discrete continuance of free scrimmages,
the full flown world of veteran Bedouins
moving in the light of solar splosion
over oceans of sand particles—hejira—
a search for oasis amidst the erosion,
brilt, beneath the blinding new skies of clarity,
hesitant, yet constant, as camels in motion,
sure-footed but slow, and, although of verity,
also wrong-headed, definitely limited,
utterly opened in th’ extreme aridity
of the desert.
Cid Wa’eeb El Sur is a poet of West Asia. One of his favourite descriptions of the camel comes from Realist American proset General Lew Wallace (1827-1905) in his novel Ben-Hur.
~~~
When One Despairs
by Aedile Cwerbus
When one despairs, as Livy did, at living in these climes,
one should remember that each era changes with the times.
The rule of many, rule of few, and rule of only one,
although they be benign, are weak, and fade as time goes on,
from monarchy and aristocracy, democracy,
to tyranny and oligarchy and ochlocracy,
one should recall the ancient writers, like Polybius,
reminding us of human schemes and anacyclosis.
Malignancy appears, but also undergoes demise;
corruption disappears when souls prefer the good and wise.
Aedile Cwerbus is a poet of Ancient Greece and Rome. Titus Livius (59 BC – 17 AD) was a noted Golden Age Roman historian. Polybius (200 BC – c. 118 BC) was a noted Hellenistic Greek historian. Anacyclosis is an ancient Greek theory that says there are six types of governments cycle through political evolutions.
~~~
In the Rose Garden
by B. S. Eliud Acrewe
“Shall we follow?”
—T. S. Eliot
In the rose garden, he heard other echoes from the birds.
‘It’s here, it’s here,” they said repeatedly without the words.
Day after day he cut the roses down, scores after scores;
and yet they kept on coming back for more, for more, for more.
Bright pink, deep red, he kept dead-heading; they were flourishing.
The Sun, the air, the rain: How could it be that nourishing?
Rose petals flew around the bushes; birds flew all around;
there were so many not undone, abounding, full on bount.
The birds kept singing in the Spring; their music filled the air.
Beside dry concrete and gray street, they moved along with flair.
There is no other option. There is little time for stops.
“It’s here, it’s here,” they sang aloud up on the chimney tops.
B. S. Eliud Acrewe is a poet of Eliotic nuances. T. S. Eliot (1888-1965) was a British-American Modernist poet and proset. According to Beau Lecsi Werd, “bount” is a neologism.
~~~
Concordat
by Bruc “Diesel” Awe
He stood up tall in the garage; he had to change his tires.
The discount company had put them on against lined wires.
He waited till it was his turn. He stood there patiently.
He turned around to see if he was next up casually.
Occasionally he would hope that he was next one up,
for necessary wheel alignment, needed prep and pump.
He didn’t watch the clock, nor read his phone; he tightened abs.
He dreamed about his early fishing trips, for trout and bass.
Then suddenly it happened; his car went into the spot,
where tires could be rearranged, and put on cóncordát.
Bruc “Diesel” Awe is a poet of vehicles and their tires.
~~~
Life Ever Is a Battlefield
by Dr. Weslie Ubeca
Bacteria, both good and bad, as well as viruses,
are ever present in our beings; it is what we are.
Life ever is a battlefield; it’s our living plight.
It does not matter what we think; to love we have to fight.
We have an ever-present mission to remain alert
to troubles facing us each day. We can’t stay inert.
Dr. Weslie Ubeca is a poet of life and health.
~~~
A Proper Human Diet
by Carb Deliseuwe
Is there a proper human diet people ought to eat?
Does it consist of mainly veg’tables, fruits and/or meat?
What should one be a vegan, ketovore, or carnivore?
or is it better just to be a picky omnivore?
Carb Deliseuwe is a poet of food.
~~~
His Diurnal Routine
by Rudi E. Welec, “Abs”
It was time for his exercises—every single day.
It didn’t matter what he thought or what he had to say.
He said it was important to himself. He knew it was.
And so he did his workouts just because, he mused he must.
He felt he needed to be moving; that was very good.
It was what he thought he should do for as long as he could.
It didn’t matter if he was depressed or bilious,
if some bacteria infection plagued him with its pus.
The motions didn’t need to be much more than walking forth,
or simply stretching in the kitchen, bedroom, hall or porch.
Rudi E. Welec, “Abs”, is a poet of exercises.
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