Haiku
by “Clear Dew” Ibuse
The young mockingbird
flutters, sputtering, to spots
the adults do not.
Haiku
by “Clear Dew” Ibuse
Between the pauses
of the madding cicadas,
morning doves still coo.
“Clear Dew” Ibuse is a haikuist. Thomas Hardy (1840-1928) was a British Victorian Realist proset and poet.
~~~
Haiku
by “Wired Clues” Abe
Across the rooftops,
jets fly o’er the metroplex
to their scheduled stops.
“Wired Clues” Abe is a haiku writer of the NewMillennium.
~~~
Around and Round the World Goes
by I. E. Sbace Weruld
Around and round the World goes, and where it stops none knows.
When will we populate new planets? Who will get to go?
That won’t be easy, but then nothing in the Cosmos is.
In fact, betimes, it’s difficult for people to exist.
Somehow we have to get along…when even that is hard;
but, if we make a better start, then Earth’s states could be starred.
July 20, 2025
by I. E. Sbace Weruld
He went out to his warm garage, his makeshift gym in place.
He did his stretches, chest and shoulders, abs, hips, arms and legs.
He felt like as an ace in space, a flyer in a plane.
Without binoculars, Uranus was too far and faint.
The waning crescent Moon appeared to plow through Pleiades—
Electra, Maia, Atlas, Alcyone, and Merope.
The Moon continued on its occultation, as Dawn broke,
in this the ever-changing cosmos—Was he waked or woke?
He pressed on with his exercises holding to his car.
Up-down, up-down, he did his squats to reach an arching arc.
He parked himself beside his vehicle, when he was done,
and left posthaste, in preparation, for the coming Sun.
Mr. I. E. Sbace Weruld is a poet of space.
~~~
One Needs a Compass
by Sid Cee Uberawl
Our World’s so complex and vast, it simply overwhelms;
it’s hard to find one’s place in it and all its many realms.
One needs a compass one can use to find where one is at.
One needs a compass that can tell the frictive from the fract.
One needs a compass that can make sense of the day to day.
One needs a compass that can keep one safe amidst the hate.
One needs a compass so one can distinguish beast from best.
One needs a compass that can help one find some happiness.
One needs a compass that can bring one to the shores of love.
One needs a compass here below just as God does above.
Sid Cee Uberawl is a poet of adventure. According to Beau Lecsi Werd, “frictive” is a neologistic blend.
~~~
My Ship
by Li “Web Crease” Du
My ship is built of spice-wood, with a rudder of muslin;
musicians sit at the two ends and play beneath the Sun.
They play their jeweled bamboo flutes and pipes of shining gold.
How sweet it is with a full cask of wine, and girls to hold.
To drift upon the water, hither, thither, with the waves.
I’m happier than th’ airy fairy on the yellow crane.
I’m freer than the merman chasing aimless seagull flights.
With key strokes of my laptop I can shake Five Mountain Heights.
The poem of Li Bai is done, I laugh in sheer delight.
Enduring Songs of Chu shine on, like Sun and Moon, so bright.
If Worldly fame and riches lasted for forever…true…
the waters of the River Han would flow north-westward too.
Li “Web Crease” Du is a poet of Ancient China. The above poem leans enormously upon Tang Chinese poet Li Bai (701-762).
~~~
Messages in Stone
by Cid Wa’eeb El Sur
I saw him step upon the air, a god in human form.
The single message that he flashed was in cuneiform.
He rode upon the quiet storm of civilization,
and rose upon the Ubaid. He was Sumerian.
I saw him in Eridu writing messages in stone,
an Elamite, and Amorite. O, he was not alone.
I saw him at the potter’s wheel, the clay spun in his hands.
I saw him on a sail boat, on waves at wind’s commands.
He fought for his control, arable lands and water rights.
The irrigation of his hills would bring forth food’s delights.
I saw the kingly gardener attempt to take control.
I saw the sleepy pardoner accept the mighty roll.
I saw him ride the sexagesimal-based tide of time.
He did divide the day and night into a shard uplime.
Cid Wa’eeb El Sur is a poet of the Middle East. According to Beau Lecsi Werd, “uplime” is a neologism see-king de-fi-ning.
~~~
In the Mountains
by Druse el Becawi
“In the mountains, there you feel free.”
—T. S. Eliot, “The Wasteland”
I long to flee, but whither can I go?
I am like as a rat caught in a trap;
I only want to leave. But I don’t know
which way would be the best, where no mishap
awaits behind the closest corner’s edge.
I want to flee, because it seems to me,
not that I walk along some lofty ledge,
but only that I’ve lost my liberty.
I yield to those suggestions, which appear
so nice, but cut into my freedom’s range.
It is this slow erosion that I fear,
that makes me feel unhappy, dreadful, strange.
I only wish I did not feel like this.
Is this how Jesus felt at Judas’ kiss?
The Druze
by Druse el Becawi
We saw the star of green and red, of gold and blue and white,
the universal mind and soul, the Word of cause and might.
We saw the golden ratio of temperance and phi,
and followed Plato, Aristotle, and Socratic why.
We saw the ones who call, though we are ignorant ourselves,
and follow to the ends of life the Shayk of al-Aql.
We focus on belief, in patriotic sacrifice,
in loyalty and honesty, in reincarnate strife.
We try to blend in with the country we find ourselves in,
but still identify ourselves as unitarian.
Druse El Becawi is a poet of the Druze. T. S. Eliot (1888-1965) was a Modernist Anglo-American poet and proset. More than 600 Druze were massacred in Syria by the jihadi Bedouins and governmental troops. In just one week, more than 120,000 people were displaced.
~~~
There at the Edge
by Ercules Edibwa
There kneeling at the edge , a red bed-spread beneath his knees,
he held on to no thing, but balanced on a passing breeze.
He saw a yellow wall off to his side, and took his cup
into his firm, but squirming, hands, and filled the damn thing up.
He wanted so to drink it in, the moment savoured sweet.
He longed to grasp it, yes, and feel its sweeping ecstasy.
He slapped his hand against the mounting glass. He was so glad.
He felt like he was in the midst of an Olympiad.
The liquid flowed, o, golden wine, the sunshine glimmering;
and for a time, that short-haired guy felt life was shimmering.
Ercules Edibwa is a poet of Ancient Greece.
~~~
Climbing and Striving
by Esiad L. Werecub
It seemed like he was ever climbing higher hills and mounts.
He never seemed to be at peace in haunts with lovely founts.
Those gorgeous spouts in reservoirs, flush with high splashing jets.
Those waters climbing to the skies on spiralings of steps.
He loved to watch those rising waters in the summertime,
those mighty rushing gushers striving for the lush sublime.
Like steeples on the tops of churches, pointing to the skies,
he felt like as a rocket flying o’er inspiring spires,
or like the white and wingèd horse of Ancient Grecian myth,
who sprang to heaven at his birth with lightning’s thunder pitch.
Esiad L. Werecub is a poet of striving.
~~~
The Strong Titanic Urge
by Erisbawdle Cue
The strong Titanic urge is good, if it
remains at peace in its own depths, and gives
that only which is necessary. It
is healthy, hale, and wholesome then; it thrives.
But if it goes beyond its native bounds,
or breaks out like an all-consuming fire
that recklessly burns all upon its grounds,
or, in desire, seeks only to aspire.
Then it is nothing if not foolishness,
a fond stupidity unleashed at will,
a dire morbidity and ghoulishness,
whose end must be inevitably ill.
The check on hubris is both near and free.
To live well, cultivate humility.
That Is Life
by Erisbawdle Cue
The body ever is expelling things. That is its job.
It has a never-ending batch of tasks it must not botch.
For that is life. But it must also always take in things—
the good, the bad, and…de-al with them all—these reckonings.
Erisbawdle Cue is a poet of philosophy.
~~~
The Market Bloke
by Aedile Cwerbus
So happy is the agri-bloke,
who, like the uncorrupted folk,
is free from owing others cows;
he owns the land his oxen plow.
He doesn’t have a soldier’s arms,
nor does he dread the sea’s alarms.
He keeps away from forum forms
and suits that stir up sewer storms.
He marries climbing vines with elms,
thinned, trimmed by lofty poplar realms.
He oversees the valley herds
that roam about as free as birds.
Aedile Cwerbus is a poet of Ancient Rome. Horace (65 BC – 8 BC) was a noted Roman poet.
~~~
Andrea Mantegna’s Saint James Martyr
by Buceli da Werse
Andrea Mantegna dispassionately looks
at life and martyrdom in Saint James Martyr, where
brutality broods, rules throughout. Mategna brooks
naught but an austere grandeur, the casualty bare.
Up front and center, th’ executioner’s ready
to kill the reclining James. Around him, none care.
The soldiers’ and onlookers’ gazes are steady,
but off-handed, as if such a death was minor
or ordinary. The structures, the fence, the spare tree
and the huge hill that rises to the left, find your
eye following their lines, just as one reads a book,
in thought, in order, to make discernment finer.
Buceli da Werse is a poet of Classical Italian painting. Andrea Montegna (1431-1506) was a
Renaissance Italian painter.
~~~
December Was About To Come About
Weedler SubCIA
It was November 23, in 1963,
the day of the assassination of John Kennedy.
Remember that December was about to come about.
Across the World, people died; of that there was no doubt.
How many unknown names? and also C. S. Lewis, died.
but that will be the news; the rest will go out with the tide.
He cried. He was a youngster at his locker—junior high.
He would abide. He didn’t understand it. Why? Why? Why?
And LBJ dropped down before the shots began to spray.
Lee Harvey Oswald was the patsy Ruby had to slay.
Weedler SubCIA is a poet of espionage. Frederick Forsyth, the author of “The Odessa File”, died June 9, 2025.
~~~
Newsreel:
It seems the legacy of hope and change begins to plunge,
that psy-ops NYT et al. can’t easily expunge.
~~~
Off the Pacific Ocean
by Ubs Reece Idwal
I saw him in a sail boat, and leaning on the mast.
He was out fishing for some halibut. His line was cast.
His bait, on circle hooks attached, was hung at intervals
to his long weighted line extending miles—several—
across the bottom. O, he longed to catch a nice, big fish.
To eat its flesh, the light pink mesh, was his desired wish.
His patience was enormous, as he hung out on his boat,
unlike mad Captain Ahab, bobbing calmly there afloat.
“Oh, yo!” he called out when he saw the huge, white halibut:
no Moby-Dick, but what a fish! for one damn hungry gut.
Ubs Reece Idwal is a poet of the Pacific Northwest.
~~~
Th’ Universal More
by A. I. Welder, “Cubes”
Chat GPT “confuses” metaphors and similes.
It also “struggles” to correctly classify milled themes.
It does not “understand” the difference of proper nouns
and neologisms that it has “found”. It’s not “pro-found”.
It’s lacking “knowledge” and much “cultural significance”.
Without “emotional nuance”, it “dwells” in ignorance.
It cannot “comprehend” the realms of prose or poetry,
or “recognize” the slightest “feel” of real quality.
What chance does it have to “grasp” controversial verses, or
dark energy, star synergy, and th’ Universal More?
A. I. Welder, “Cubes”, is a poet of artificial intelligence.
~~~
Attempting Sleepless Rest
by Rudi E. Welec, “Abs”
He got so hot and sticky, he was sweaty from the heat,
like as he was a fattened pig inside a too-tight tee.
Those times he’d take deep breaths, then blow the air across his chest,
while tensing up his abdomen, attempting sleepless rest.
Rudi E. Welec, “Abs”, is a poet of physicality.
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