Haiku
by “Clear Dew” Ibuse
In the eastern sky,
Venus and a smiling Moon
lighten dawn in June.
Haiku
by “Clear Dew” Ibuse
Learn about the pines
from the pines, and from the spine,
learn about the spine.
“Clear Dew” Ibuse is a NewMillennial haiku writer. Matsuo Bashō (1644-1694) was a Japanese haiku writer.
~~~
Haiku
by “Wired Clues” Abe
On the paved concrete,
the screech of the cicadas
sinks into my head.
Haiku
by “Wired Clues” Abe
In Kyoto too,
cuckoos long for Kyoto,
kyoo-kyoo, and cuckoos.
“Wired Clues” Abe is a haiku poet of the New Millennium. Kyoto, Japan, is a city of around 1,400,000.
~~~
Newsreel:
In southern China, tens of thousands—there were myriads—
as residents of Conjiang and Rongjiang fled floods.
~~~
The Dragon
by Urclad Beweise
There, at the mountain’s base, he slowly woke—
the dragon. First, his wings began to tense
up. Secondly, there was a puff of smoke.
He made a little belch, like hot incense.
The very mountain-roots began to shift;
a tiny rumble zig-zagged through the rock;
some firey, boiling spume began to lift.
The slopes then started next to shake—and shock,
just as the dragon rose up to his feet.
The sound roared like great thunder underground.
His heart of ire warmed like volcanic heat
and shook the mountain with its mighty sound.
Up through the summit’s height, the dragon went,
gigantic, spewing, venting, violent.
Urclad Beweise is a poet of mythological creatures.
~~~
In to the Lotus Pose
by Sri Wele Cebuda
He got into the lotus pose, not seeking ecstasy.
He did not want to see a king, or queen, on bended knees.
He wanted just to take his seat upon a solid mat,
and stretch out legs and neck and pecs, while lifting spine and hat.
He longed to have a chance at peace, if only for a sec.
so much so he would sit time after time, hunt, check and peck.
Sri Wele Cebuda is a poet of meditation.
~~~
Newsreel:
In order to degrade Iran’s producing deadly nukes,
the USA bombed Isfahan, Natanz, and Fordow too.
~~~
Each Day
by Erisbawdle Cue
Each day there are new challenges, new changes one must face.
The problems one has rectified will need to be replaced.
It is the state of being human; we will ever have
new difficulties we must deal with—cry, sigh, or laugh.
Each day we must pay for our lives with pains and aches and gains;
yet we are happy to continue on despite the strains.
We have no other choice; it is out fate, and our estate.
Existence is in constant flux. Yes, it is very strange.
An early philosophical stance of Erisbawdle Cue, in his youth, was his theory of impulsion.
~~~
Perception’s Ever Changing
by Erisbawdle Cue
There is so much one can perceive. That is unfaltering.
Perception’s ever changing, rearranging, altering.
Things shift; they differ all the time; things do not stay the same.
How can this human situation not leave one amazed?
Ten Twelves
by Erisbawdle Cue
Are the ends actually a part of the means,
as Dewey insinuated, or distinct?
It isn’t as easy a question as it seems.
There are innumerable implications. One
is that all speculation, including Dewey’s,
is not merely foolish, it’s paradoxical:
ironies attend each individual’s thought.
Another is that good and evil meld into
one another, The Nietzschean spectre returns.
One has to be vary careful when one’s thinking.
Erisbawdle Cue is a poet of philosophical thought. Friedrich Nietzsche (1844-1900) was a German Classical Philologist; (John Dewey (1859-1952) was an American Modernist.
~~~
Newsreel:
In Syria, more than two dozen Christian souls were killed,
more than five dozen maimed as well. Hate keeps blood being spilled.
~~~
That Utter Thing
by Acwiles Berude
He was a snake—that human rake—that shiftless man who came—
that one-arm jackleg tramp who stretched his arms out just the same.
He looked like any thug, a naughty, sweaty hobo bum.
He was a nasty piece of work. Was he there chewing gum?
He was a slum himself, from dirty rags to hobnail boots.
He was unbalanced. Even when he stood up tall he stooped.
He didn’t seem that evil, but looked like he was in hell.
But just how stupid he was was a little hard to tell.
He was a river rather like the Styx, a shuddering.
How could he quell the sputtering he was—that utter thing?
Acwiles Berude is a poet of human crudity. Flannery O’Connor (1925-1964) was a PostModernist American proset.
~~~
The “Farandole” by Georges Bizet
by U. Carew Delibes
The “Farandole” by Georges Bizet is economical,
exciting and inviting, magical and logical.
Through colour, texture, and dynamic versatility,
the composition brief creates great durability.
From just one melody, he made a counter-melody,
transposing them into related keys developing.
The overall piece is so catchy it continues on
through changing tastes and ages, sparing it oblivion.
U. Carew Delibes is a poet of French music. Georges Bizet was a French Realist composer.
~~~
Brazil
by Luc Ebrewe Dias
“Tupi or not Tupi”
—-Oswald de Andrade
Like a gargantuan monstrosity,
it gobbles foreign cultures up, and then
digests them, often with ferocity
and crudeness, this grand cannibal of men,
Brazil, that turns into a brilliant beast,
as strange and colorful as Carnival,
exotic, gross, a veritable feast,
a jumbled jungle joining Mardi Gras.
Luc Ebrewe Dias is a poet of Brazil. Oswald de Andrade (1890-1954) was a Modernist Brazilian poet.
~~~
In Summer
by Cu Ebide Aswerl
When not at work, he loved to kick back on a bed or cot.
And even better was a good recliner, firm or soft.
In summer all he needed was a tee-shirt and some pants.
O, how he loved to lie down. It was so good to relax.
He loved to go out to the patio in summer shade.
He loved to see the flowers, hear the birds, and drink cool ade.
He loved to take a moment from the chores and hard wrought storms.
He loved to contemplate all of life’s many changing forms.
The rest would help him with the rest of things he had to do.
In summer he was warmer; sunshine was a golden glue.
Cu Ebide Aswerl is a poet of relaxation.
~~~
The Doppelgänger in the Groc’ry Parking Lot
by Carb Deliseuwe
He passed his doppelgänger in the groc’ry parking lot.
He was surprised to see him driving in another car.
Although he seemed okay, perhaps a rather cheerful chap,
he’d rather that he didn’t meet him for a friendly chat.
And though he wore a camo cap, his counterpart did not;
but he did not care one iota for some scot and lot.
He simply passed him by, and noted it in his memoir.
He wasn’t writing, nor directing, a new nuanced noir.
He turned onto a one-way street, and said his last good-bye.
He knew that even doppelgängers had to go, and die.
Carb Deliseuwe is a poet of groceries.
~~~
The Concrete Stage
by Urbawel Cidese
He loved to hang out outside his apartment by the stairs.
It made him feel so complete. He loved the open air.
From where he stood he could see much—high rises and low roads.
There was much one could take in there—indeed, o, there was loads.
The city had so many buildings—architechturally—
one could stage many scenes and plays—inspiring actu’lly.
He felt uplifted in the evening, morn, or afternoon.
He loved to watch the Sun come up, and as well the full Moon.
Although surrounded by concreted rebar patios
and parking lots, he could fulfill his spirit and his soul.
Urbawel Cidese is a poet of urban spaces. According to Beau Lecsi Werd, “architechturally” is contextually understandable.
~~~
Some Grace
by Bruc “Diesel” Awe
He longed to be a car mechanic at a large garage,
where he could learn to help fix vehicles, from Jeep to Dodge.
He’d love to troubleshoot the vehicles that came his way,
and satisfy the hard-pressed customers, without delay.
Of course, some problems could not be solved very easily;
the cost could be too dear, and some jobs were not feasible.
One had to be up for this kind of work with little thanks.
There were few crank-shafts these days, but there still were lots
of cranks.
And yet, for all the angst and agony one had to face,
it still was worth it, if one brought to grit and grease some grace.
Bruc “Diesel” Awe is a poet of mechanics.
~~~
Back at His Monitor
by Brad Lee Suciew
He was back at his monitor. He was upright, erect.
He had a lot of things he had to type, and to correct.
There was a never-ending list of tasks he had to do.
It seemed like as there ever was the challenge of the new.
He needed focusing. He wished he had a coffee cup.
But he pressed on the best he could. He kept his vigour up.
Brad Lee Suciew is a poet of business.
~~~
Summer Sweat
by Rudi E. Welec, “Abs”
He was so hot and sweaty. It was summer—simmering.
Upon the distant hills, sunlight was falling, shimmering.
O, quivering—the sunbeams were upon both tree and grass.
The scene was so spectacular, he knew it couldn’t last.
He felt no little bit of qualm, as he drew forth his palm,
along that long and leathery, but smallish ball of balm.
But all was calm, and all was bright, as night began to fall.
He longed to go out for a jog, and so he did. He hauled.
He felt so sweaty, as he ran about the neighbourhood.
But though he panted, as he hustled, he felt o, so good.
When he completed bustling along those city streets,
he took a shower, washing all, and parked his weary seat.
Time For His Exercises
by Rudi E. Welec, “Abs”
It was time for his exercises, but not at the gym.
At home he could do his own warmups. It worked out for him.
His rec room had a mat, some weights, and an elliptical.
He could get physical, if not apocalyptical.
He’d do his stretches, even when he felt an abject wretch;
for movement made him happier. He would take long, deep breaths.
He cycled up and down, he pumped, he lifted, and he jerked.
He worked his muscles and his bustles; it made him feel perked.
He did his squats, forget-me-nots, and other basic grooves.
He did his best to keep it up—those enerjetic vrooms.
And when at last he had amassed a good amount of moves,
he’d quit and go about his day. Was it a better mood?
Rudi E. Welec, “Abs”, is a poet of exercise.
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