Haiku
by “Clear Dew” Ibuse
Wild geese lying low
at the pond’s edge in twilight:
Independence Day.
“Clear Dew” Ibuse is a haikuist. Yosano Akiko (1878-1942) was a Modernist Japanese poet.
~~~
Haiku
by “Wired Clues” Abe
We heard the first boom,
then went out to our backyard
and watched the fireworks.
“Wired Clues” Abe is a haiku writer of the NewMillennium.
~~~
Flashback:
The first trapeze artiste to do quintuple somersaults
occurred in 2013, by Korean Han Ho Song.
~~~
A Journey To Take
by Bruc “Diesel” Awe
Nobody is always wrong, including Charles Wright.
We all have a journey to make; and it isn’t
the same one. Maybe Roethke needed to have some light
poured into his entiring rows; but a pheasant
that pauses at the edge of Meng-ch’eng Hollow don’t
make the classification of peasant pleasant.
The classic clarifies, it satisfies, but won’t
be worth a thing if it can’t add to the present.
Nobody wants to hobble over cobblestoned
roads; for, when what is needed is asphalt pavement,
as Ira Osborn Baker saw with keen insight,
where there’s no text on concrete, brick, stone or cement,
one has to make one’s own investigations tight.
Bruc “Diesel” Awe is a poet of roads. Ira Osborn Baker (1853-1925) was a Realist American civil engineer, known for his treatise on masonry construction. Theodore Roethke (1907-1963) was a Modernist American poet. Charles Wright is a PostModernist American writer. Burton Watson (1925-2017) was a noted PostModernist American translator. According to Beau Lecsi Werd, “entiring” is a descriptive neologism. Meng-ch’eng Hollow is a poem of Chinese Tang poet Wang Wei (701-761).
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Meng-ch’eng Hollow
by Wang Wei {translated by Burton Watson (1925-2017)}
~~~
A new home at the mouth of Meng-ch’eng;
old trees—last of a stand of dying willows:
years to come, who will be its owner,
vainly pitying the one who had it before?
~~~
A Chance
by SubCIA Weedler
He got into his camouflage. He went out to the wood.
But drones came in to urban spaces, hitting where they could.
He tried to hide in basement safe spots, but he had no luck.
Those nasty rushin’ bastards really didn’t give a fuck.
Around him they attacked. Their purpose was to roll him down,
along with anybody else they could beat to the ground.
To go out to the forest for a chance to not be hit
was just as much a damn illusion as it was a git.
He needed to blend in to gray apartments, stairs and steps.
Black socks would not be helpful, nor would hope, or cares and pets.
He had to breathe in deeply, taking all he could take in.
There was no other way he had a chance that he could win.
SubCIA Weedler is a poet of clandestine operations.
~~~
In Russia in Despair
by Alecsei Durbew
You could see what they were all up to back then, there—
not six feet tall and fitted for a coffin tux—
but an introduction to Leo Tolstoy, where
you would be able walk for miles to shoot ducks.
Although Anton Chekhov had been invited too,
one was afraid it was the calm before the flux.
You didn’t know whether to go, what you should do.
If you went, Dostoevsky might show up; and then,
in that climate, who knows what might occur to you.
You might be carried away. Who knows what would happen?
The trellised clematis in sunlight, in the air,
might take you by surprise at the edge of the garden;
and then where would you be? in Russia? in despair?
Alecsei Durbew is a poet of Russia. Fyodor Dostoevsky (1821-1881), Leo Tolstoy (1828-1910), and Anton Chekhov (1860-1904) were noted Realist Russian prosets.
~~~
Newsreel:
More than five-hundred drones and missiles recently were sent
from Russia to Ukraine—the onslaught targeting Kiev.
~~~
On Words
by Erisbawdle Cue
Socrates says writing things down weakens the mind;
but if it weren’t for Plato’s words, we’d still be blind
about what Socrates thought then when he opined.
Erisbawdle Cue is a poet of philosophy. Socrates and Plato were Ancient Greek philosophers.
~~~
At the Foothills of the Alps
Ewald E. Eisbruc
Upon the Salzach River, at the foothills of the Alps,
a mix of Romanesque, Baroque, and Gothic styles salve.
Beneath the Festung Hohensalzburg, its grand view commands,
this birthplace of Romantic Wolfgang Gottlieb Mozart’s hands.
Ewald E. Eisbruc is a poet of Austria. The Austrian Classical Mozart (1756-1791) was a noted composer.
~~~
In the Salty Air
by Sea Curlew Bide
He heard the seagulls calling out their cries,
above the rocks along the ocean’s edge,
beneath the dark foreboding, cloudy skies,
while fishermen unwieldy nets undredge.
As constantly as time the waves roll in
and leave their foamy splashes at the shore.
The fishermen continue to pull in,
their catch the seagulls sweep and hover o’er.
Two women and a man look to the south,
each with a searching gaze and resting hand,
each with a concentrated look, closed mouth,
each staring down the sandy stretch of land;
but finding naught that satisfies them there,
they keep on looking in the salty air.
Sea Curlew Bide is a poet of the sea coast.
~~~
A Good Fellow To Know
by Cadwel E. Bruise
“The Devil knows how to row.”
—Samuel Taylor Coleridge
I don’t know how he seems to others, but to me he seems,
like as a busy lifeguard tossing lifelines to the sea,
a noiseless patient fellow on a promontory spit
who launches filaments out of himself, without regrit.
From where I stand, far from Atlantis, in another space,
it seems he is attempting to connect to time and place…
all of these fellow individuals along the coast
with any gossamer thread he possesses. O my soul.
But will his ductile anchors hold? I really do not know.
See there upon the water, ghost or ghoul, upon those shoals.
How many fellows are there there [sic], in boats who try to row?
I only hope they find the throws of one Chad Parenteau.
Cadwel E. Bruise is a poet of New England. Samuel Taylor Coleridge (1772-1834) was an English Romantic poet and literary critic. Walt Whitman (1819-1892) was an American Realist poet. Chad Parenteau is a NewMillennial American poet and editor. According to Beau Lecsi Werd, “regrit” is a neologistic blend.
~~~
The Flood of the Guadalupe
by “Wild” E. S. Bucaree
In central Texas, Guadalupe River’s upper part,
a small fast stream of limestone banks, is where it takes its start.
Surrounded by bald cypress and pecan trees, it is formed
by the convergence of its North and South Forks, for its course.
Prone to flash floods due to a mix of stark topography,
of climate, and Hill Country’s mountainous geology.
July 4th, in the dark of morning, rain fell fast and hard.
In just one hour, Guadalupe rose high heavenward.
It was a mesoscale convective complex, MCC—
O Mother Mary, hitting land and people forcefully.
How many died? the number climbing over ninety-nine.
So humbling, numbing. O the in-fin-ite air is unkind.
“Wild” E. S. Bucaree is a poet of Texas. Gerard Manley Hopkins (1844-1889) was a British Victorian poet. Susan Bryant is a NewMillennial poet.
~~~
The Typist
by Des Wercebauli
He sat up at the monitor. He heard a distant train.
It seemed that he was back at it again. The day was gray.
He said it will be great, and laughed. It’s just what he would say.
But if he really meant it, would it mean he was insane?
He felt the air conditioning. It was cool on his back.
Just like the train, he did his best to stay upon the track.
He lifted up his spine. He heard the passing cars go by.
He was inside, but still he felt he was next to the sky.
He kept on typing letters, making words and placing marks.
from periods and commas to straight lines and ending arcs.
Des Wercebauli is a poet of work.
~~~
Buying Groceries
by Carb Deliseuwe
He loved to go out shopping in the morning for his stores.
The city traffic wasn’t thick with trucks and cars galore.
The stores weren’t filled with customers, the atmosphere relaxed.
He loved to go out buying groceries, and not be taxed.
He didn’t mind the taxes that he had to pay for food,
especially if it was good. O, yes, if it was good.
He loved to buy his meats, beef, bacon, salmon and sardines;
goat cheeses too were pleasing purchases, as was Swiss cheese.
He loved thick cream, as well as genuine replacement parts.
He loved rich butter, tubs or sticks. but did he love deer hearts?
And…And
by Carb Deliseuwe
It was the start of summer; the cicada voices flaired;
their many shook maracas were occasionally aired.
He had a root beer at the bistro in the afternoon.
Above the trees and buildings, jet-planes regularly boomed.
He smelled the smoky barbecue that wafted on fresh winds.
The mockingbird and morning-dove songs added to the din.
He did sudokus in the shade—the nine-by-nine squares done.
Huge, numerous, white cumulus clouds did not block the Sun.
The pink crepe myrtles flourishing were flowering and grand,
the whole scene aurally and visually was filled and…and.
Carb Deliseuwe is a poet of food.
~~~
He Had to Move
by Rudi E. Welec, “Abs”
There was no day in which he didn’t have to exercise.
He had to move; it was his view—a vital part of life.
He did his varied calisthenics on the hard gym floor,
those that made him pant deeply were the best he could hope for.
Up-down, up-down, from side to side; there was much he could do.
He felt like as an acrobat in deeds of derring-do.
At times, he felt like as a trapeze artist doing tricks,
a mix of swings and leaps and jumps, of jousts and…kicks.
Wanted
by Rudi E. Welec, “Abs”
He wanted to improve his joints, build up muscles too.
He wanted something very simple, easy to pursue.
He wanted to improve his mental clarity, and might.
He wanted calmness, and not to be hungry all the time.
He wanted lower risk of inflammation, a strong heart.
He wanted to improve digestion, and improve gut health.
He wanted to eliminate diseases—chronic ones.
He wanted to improve longevity beneath the Sun.
He wanted more control of life, that which he rarely had,
and wondered if becoming carnivore would make him glad.
Rudi E. Welec, “Abs”, is a poet of health.
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