Haiku
by “Clear Dew” Ibuse
In the branching trees,
they wind up their orchestras—
noisy cicadas.
Haiku
by “Clear Dew” Ibuse
The cicadas drone,
in a noisy monotone,
an obnoxious moan.
Haiku
by “Clear Dew” Ibuse
Dun, with pale gold tops,
tiny mushrooms quivering:
summer umbrellas.
“Clear Dew” Ibuse is a poet of traditional haiku.
~~~
Flashback, 1941
by Ibe Ware Desu, LC
“In the first six to twelve months of a war with the United States and Great Britain,” Admiral Yamamoto did aver, “I will run wild and win victory on victory; but if the war continues after that, I have no expectation of success.” He had the clearest of views that era in the Japanese nation.”
Ibe Ware Desu, LC (Lieutenant Colonel) is a poet of Japan in its warrior aspects. In the above prosem, Isoroku Yamamoto (1884-1943) was a Marshal Admiral of the Japanese Imperial Navy.
~~~
Newsreel:
Because a new destroyer sank two men have been erased.
Kim Myong Sil and Hong Kil Ho have been vanished into space.
~~~
The Iron Plate
by Wu “Sacred Bee” Li
He sees the Iron Plate, in white, gray, black, and touched by red.
Between two mountains four black birds are flying overhead.
The mountain silhouettes climb high into the cloudy skies;
above the foggy shrouds, tree-topped, into the eyes they rise.
But there upon one mountain side, white-feathered, a bird dies,
a scarlet dye, so small it lies beyond th’ observer’s sigh…t.
Wu “Sacred Bee” Li is a poet of Ancient Chinese writing.
~~~
Newsreel:
Upon the skywalk of the Pearl Tower in Shanghai,
transparent glass exploded from the heat—perhaps that’s why.
~~~
In a Garden Plot
by Sri Wele Cebuda
He lay upon a bed of flowers in a garden plot.
The flowers all around him there were in a shady spot.
He seemed relaxed, like as he was in verdant India;
but he was simply in a backyard in suburbia.
Although he could be very hot, he seemed to be at peace.
Although his tee-shirt seemed constraining, he still seemed at ease.
It was hard to know what he was in meditation on.
Perhaps a situation he would soon be in anon.
One wondered how that man could be content in that odd place,
where he was free as he could be surrounded by small space.
Sri Wele Cebuda is a poet of meditation.
~~~
The Young Priest
by Crise de Abu Wel
He hears confessions from sinful parishioners.
They tell him all about the bad things they have done.
Wherever he may be, it is his mission there
to bring his flock to God without a whip or gun.
In frocks he walks the blocks. Some days he helps with mass.
Each day he prays to Father, Holy Ghost, and Son.
He thrills to watch each cross, gold, silver, bronze or brass,
he sees, and seizes on the thought of Jesus’ death
and resurrection. Heaven’s gate he longs to pass.
He looks up to the awesome, cloud-filled skies. His breath
increases with his pounding heart. A visionary
soul, he rises up, ascending to the thresh…
Be! Hold!
Crise de Abu Wel is a poet of the Good Father.
~~~
Newsreel:
CSIS reports almost a million casualties,
within Ukraine, of Russian deaths and other injuries.
Ukraine, as well has lost a lot of people in this war,
about four-hundred-thousand casualties, and maybe more.
~~~
Russian Recruits
by Alecsie Durbew
They stood, all in a line, one reading letters in
a row, another being weighed upon a scale,
occasionally an unemployed veteran,
one’s knee was tapped, one coughed out at a finger nail;
one got a shot, a hypodermic needle’s prick.
This was a healthy lot; not one managed to fail.
The doc signed off on all, pro forma, nice and quick.
They moved along from station x on to the next
without a big to-do, the operation slick;
and everything was done according to the text.
The whole thing couldn’t have gone any better than
if it had been a magic show perfectly hexed.
Alecsie Durbew is a poet of Russia.
~~~
The Camouflaged Men
by Radice Lubewse
Strangely thin, tall, and long, they ride in narrow cars
down dark and narrow streets past tall, long-shadowed trees.
These soldiers come from one of time’s previous wars.
These soldiers park their cars upon the sidewalks. They frieze.
They talk in whispered strings of words and undertones.
Machine-gun-fire blasts split the quiet of the breeze;
and, at the funeral, their silent groans and moans
mix with their sighs. Their bodies are lugubrious.
They do not cry inside, down in their very bones.
They are a very solemn, somber, serious
group; but not sober. These souls hang around the bars.
What is not weird about them is mysterious.
Radice Lebewse is a poet of Eastern Europe.
~~~
Foreign Intrigue
by Bleda Ur Ecewis
“…near the roundabout of Hinkle Strasse.”
—Uwe Carl Diebes
He didn’t know. How could he know? He was out of the loop—
that pool of people under which that government was grouped.
He saw the lights shine in the night that mix of mystery
and history, which formed the backdrop of this story—blood drops.
There was the growth above the eye—that flesh piece washed away—
the inner nostril scab—the pressure growing day by day.
He had been punched hard in the face. He did not feel good.
The min-gl-ing of blood and mucus—so misunderstood.
He saw the chalet lights. He wondered what was going on.
Where was he going to? Once there, what did he plan to do?
Like so much of existence—hardly understandable—
he went through life in a wild swirl of thunder and trouble.
Bleca Ur Ecewis is a poet of Austria. “Foreign Intrigue” is a movie of 1956.
~~~
An American Near Cannes
by Cews Baudelier
It was a strange awakening. I woke
up in a time warp’s prism whirling all around.
It was as if I was within a joke
that sped across the sky, like a jet bound
for places long forgotten, best unknown.
I wondered where I was. Was it England?
or France? or Italy? or Germany?
I felt I was enwrapped in some sun’s zone,
amazed that I could be visiting an
arena so divorced from realty.
How did I get there? Where did I come from?
I was a patient in a hospital,
but even that seemed to be quite hum-drum,
and there I spun around lost in it all.
How could I ever hope I could explain
the feelings that I felt in such a place?
It was as though I’d gotten off a plane
and stepped onto a slowly spinning space
of one hundred thousand kilometers
an hour, or more. I found myself upon
a speeding car’s seat, moving through sunlight,
although I could not read th’ odometer’s
small everchanging numbers in that dawn;
I had to watch the road it was so bright.
And then I ended up in bed. I looked
to find why I was there, and then I fell
into the room which had for me been booked,
as if I had been dropped from th’ NFL.
Oh, help me understand, I cried in vain,
but no one there knew any more than I;
so I embraced my fate of joy and pain
and spread myself out like a goose-flown sky.
Cews Baudelier is a poet of France. Cannes, France, is a city of around 75,000.
~~~
Near the Tâmega River
by Luis de Cawebre
For some of us, summer is not enough. To estivate, though lovely, is not love. Lost amidst the annals of time and the rushing modern world is the poetry of so many, including the restrained, as well as the gushing. In fact, in reality, there isn’t any who isn’t forgotten, left out, lost, passed over, who has lasted less long than the mahogany of his study, say, near the Tâmega River, like poet Joaquim Pereira Teixeira…was, attempting, as a type of philosopher, to articulate the yearning of his era, a con-fusion of hope an nostalgia, pushing against the ever advancing of forever.
Luis de Cawebre is a poet of Portugal. In the above prosem, Joaquim Pereira Teixeira (1877-1952) was a Modernist Portuguese poet.
~~~
The Kingly Ghost
by Wilude Scabere
My hour ‘s near when I to sulf’rous and tormenting flames
must render up myself, but do not pity me. My aims
are merely to unfold a tale of murder, foul in form,
and dull as the fat weed that roots itself on Lethe’s wharf.
No snake stung me when I was sleeping in the orchard, but
that serpent that now wears my crown, that wretched, horrid beast.
With wicked witchcraft wits, he wooed my wife, the Danish queen—
such lust and smut, aroused in feast, defiled, vile scene—
once he had poisoned me with yew, henbane, or hemlock juice,
poured in the porches of my ear, as lethal as a noose.
Swift as quicksilver, it coursed through my alleys and my gates;
an instant tetter barked about, and lazar-like my fate.
O, horrible. O, horrible, Most horrible it was,
dispatched of life, of crown, of queen, o, everything at once.
But fare thee well. The glowworm shows the matin to be near.
But though I must needs disappear, remember me, compeer.
Wilude Scabere is a poet of England. William Shakespeare (1564-1616) was an English Baroque playwright.
~~~
Over the Long Haul
by Celewie Absurd
There was no way of knowing what was really going on.
One only could find out some things before, one too was gone.
It was that bleak. What one could eke out of this mess was less
than what one ever thought was there. Where then was happiness?
One simply had to go on, for oblivion remained.
And yet it was this way. Why did it have to be this way?
It seemed insane to run a Globe like this. It was so strained.
Say, is it not insane and strange one has to pay to play?
Somehow one has to be okay with all that will befall,
and be content—a lot to ask—one, over the long haul.
Celewie Absurd is a poet of the absurdity of life.
~~~
The Death of a United States Novelist
by Wilbur Dee Case
He fell into the State and the Marines in ’45,
as World War II was winding down, and he remained alive.
From South Pacific waters he went off to Wesleyan,
becoming there a drama major, and a thespian.
He worked in TV as an actor, and producer next,
but it was not till in his forties he was writing text:
more than two dozen novels on the nazis, communists,
big government, big business, and destructive terrorists.
He wrote on paranoia, the Cold War and subterfuge,
in thrilling and compelling language, his plots, dark and huge.
Recovering from brutal burns caused by a torrid fire;
it was a heart attack, when he left life, in Florida.
Wilbur Dee Case is a poet of American literature. Randall Jarrell (1914-1965) was a Modernist American poet and proset. Robert Ludlum (1927-2001) was a PostModernist American proset, who created the Bourne Trilogy.
~~~
Zapped of All Energy
by Waulcer Beside
Step after step, he walked along the sidewalks of the streets,
the lined designs in fine grey concrete by the lawns and trees.
Some yards were very neat, some were let-go and left to seed,
depending on the owners wants or necessary needs.
The driveways and garages filled with rvs, trucks and cars,
the overall an atmosphere of an attended park.
He passed some people also walking round the neighbourhood,
some with their dogs, some with their babies, others with no brood.
He saw his shadow as he walked forth south, east, west and north.
He heard a vehicle all of a sudden beep its horn.
There was no storm. He only felt the warm heat of the Sun.
He felt zapped of all energy, as if upon a run.
Waulcer Beside is a poet of walking.
~~~
No Great Sage
by Erisbawdle Cue
He sat up on his swivel chair, dressed formally for work.
From black socks to his tightly-tied brown tie he felt a cur.
He felt demure, for he’d demur when jobs were on the line.
With hardened mucus in his nose, he hardly felt divine.
His legs weren’t shiny; they had no glow; they weren’t holy poles,
that held him up in the great flux of cosmic whirls and rolls.
He was no great sage typing files and/or documents,
that read, would offer great in-sights, or knock you into sense.
No, he was just a thin soul trying to make sense himself,
and parting with a bit of knowledge left right on a shelf.
This Plight
by Erisbawdle Cue
He feared that realm; he dreaded it; he longed to leave that place.
He disliked its brutality and death-defying pace.
He hated its sophistication and exactitude;
it was damn unforgiving, necessary, hard and crude.
He wished it didn’t have to be this way. Why must it be?
He had to bust his ass just to survive. He cussed this plight.
An Internet Meme Hits the Classroom
by Erisbawdle Cue
He was Rickrolled the other day. The class suggested he click on a video. Up pops Rick Astley singing with a cast of five or less, who danced around the show highlighting “Never Gonna Give You Up”, which he sings in a trench coat by arches…The students succeeded; they interrupted lesson plans, and all became watchers of whirling bodies and varied dance moves. He granted them that some of them were good. But what had they to do with Plato’s grooves or Aristotle’s ethical stances—those leaps, those turns, on concrete or wood, that happy tunes, those exuberant dances?
Erisbawdle Cue is a poet of philosophy. In the above prosem, Rick Astley is a contemporary singer songwriter. Plato and Aristotle (fl. 4th century BC) were Ancient Greek philosophers.
~~~
Newsreel:
Like scattered spiders they attacked th’ airline industry,
notorious aggressive, ruthless hackers recently.
UNC3944 are known for their cyber hits
on the casinos in Las Vegas in a prior blitz.
Are they young people from the UK and the USA,
who are part of the Com and threaten others in their way?
Las Vegas, Nevada, is a city of around 640,000, known for its casinos.
~~~
The Machinist
by Des Wercebauli
He concentrates upon the task at hand.
He is a taut machinist at a lathe.
He’s focused on the piece he must command.
His work is done precisely, firm with faith.
He wears protective glasses on his eyes,
an apron round his waste, and short-sleeved shirt.
It is his customer he satisfies,
while being careful not himself to hurt.
He does all kinds of operations there,
like facing, boring, axial drilling,
cutting screw threads, and sometimes knurling, where
a grooved, hard roller’s pressed against the thing,
the work piece, to attain a rough finish.
I saw him give an object English once.
Des Wercebauli is a poet of work.
~~~
The Hunter Gatherer
by Carb Deliseuwe
He felt like as a hunter…shopping for his groceries…
who’d go out to the woods for game…in hard upholsteries.
He had to search out varied spots to get the wanted meat,
though rarely was it quail or wanton deer, he longed to eat.
He had to look in different locations for his food;
where he might find some thing he liked, and thought was very good.
He had to press on through the time for that which satisfied,
some bird or boar, some albacore, some thick, fat, luscious side.
But he was very happy when he got his chosen prey,
for he was animated then, and glad to meet the day.
Carb Deliseuwe is a poet of food: the good, the bad, and the ugly.