Haiku
by “”Clear Dew” Ibuse
The air turns cooler,
and to the side of the house
thin-legged crane-flies cling.
“Clear Dew” Ibuse is a NewMillennial writer.
~~~
The Passing of Yu Menglong
by Lu “Reed ABCs” Wei
Will Xi Jinping step down, or will he quietly back step?
The war between him and his enemies has been intense.
Were Xi’s cohorts behind the death of actor Yu Menglong?
Was it a suicide or did someone shove this young man…
off of that balcony in wealthy Chaoyang, Beijing?
Was this the staging of a dark and tragical play’s king?
Why did this individual, so warm and kind, deserve
this fate, such hate, in this star-studded, raging Universe?
Although Chinese authorities want this event erased,
still billions yet are wondering upon what this is based.
Mass censorship, smears, and gag orders, can’t contain the ire.
It seems the longer explanations merely fan the fire.
Is this part of the shadow game before the Plenum’s date?
Does anyone believe he drank himself to such a fate?
Accounts—ten-thousands—were shut down for Yu Menglong support,
his name expunged across the Internet—for what purport?
No posts, discussions, or debates are hence to be allowed.
The young man’s dead. No one is let to dare disturb his shroud.
But why is this? Does this involve fierce struggles at the top?
Did some of China’s military leaders set this up?
Did this involve arms smuggling and money laundering?
Were there transactions with the Russians, lavish squandering?
How many dozens of shell companies were in Yu’s name?
In Yu’s accounts, who moved around the billions of Yuan?
How could so many facts come out? Why were so many piqued?
How was that party’s sixteen-person guest list known and leaked?
Was Yu a man who knew too much, refusing to go on?
Who were the people who planned that he needed to be gone?
Lu “Reed ABCs” Wei is a poet of China.
~~~
The War
by War di Belecuse
“Human life has always been lived on the edge of a precipice.”
—C. S. Lewis
The War continued on; he had to dress in camo gear.
The enemy was very near. How soon would they appear?
He needed to blend in with his surroundings—yes, he did—
o, whether he was at the beach or by a pyramid.
It was important to be hidden, ready, and alert,
especi’lly if he didn’t want to be beat up or hurt.
He also needed comrades, rugged and dependable;
for sure not those who cowered or were weak-kneed, bendable.
The World is a brutal place, and it will always be,
and so one must be strong; it is the nature of the Beast.
War di Belecuse is a poet of conflict. C S. Lewis (1898-1963) was a Modernist British proset.
~~~
Across the Bering Strait
by Rus Ciel Badeew
Across the Bering Strait, all winter comes in crossing light,
too stark to see, and little in the way of any height.
Through vast, blank, Russian snows, the faces, like balloons appear,
mass transit passengers progressing slowly to the rear.
So goes the tune that Alexander Stessin’s voice records,
among the college buildings and the lavatory doors.
Contrived designs, uneven words, dark mountains and white nights,
o, ev’rything that passes out and in and out of sight.
O, take the hour’s moments melting in the icy slime
of Nevsky gloom, those troubling blues, and Stygian sublime.
Rus Ciel Badeew is a poet of Russian skies. Saint Alexander Nevsky (c. 1220 – 1263) was a victorious leader against the Swedes at the Neva River. Alexander Stessin is a contemporary Russian composer.
~~~
Horace Redux
by Aedile Cwerbus
I have not made a monument more durable than bronze,
or higher than the pyramids, or lovelier than swans.
I have no great memorial as powerful as rain,
as strong as wind, as lasting as time’s ever-destined reign.
And I shall wholly die, no part of me escape death’s bite;
like vestal virgin and high priest, I shall succumb to night.
Without renown, I’ll dwell where Alph the sacred river ran,
in twilight’s desert kingdoms, poorer than the poorest man.
I did not bring Greek rhythms to our tongue, Melpomene,
so likewise toss those dry-leafed laurels you have offered me.
Aedile Cwerbus is a poet who still contemplates ancient Rome; here Horace (65 BC – 8 BC) is in his sights. Allusions to S. T. Coleridge (1772-1834) and T. S. Eliot (1888-1965) are intentional.
~~~
A Comment
by Ewald E. Eisbruc
Generally the World could not hear it:
Mozart’s art, the, two centuries ago,
and now, in the twenty twenties. Spirit,
however, manages ages; and though
scintillating music is not always
appreciated, it still has its days.
As
by Ewald E. Eisbruc
As a child, he and his sister were pressed
into musical service by their strict father,
who, though not quite as stern as Beethoven’s, still stressed
perfection. At times it must have been some bother.
As he aged, he had to endure others’ power,
especially when he really wouldn’t rather,
wounded by this man’s judgment and that man’s glower.
At times, he must have been terribly frustrated.
As a man, he must have realized his hour
was dark; and he’d never be appreciated
as he would want to be. At times he must have guessed
how dark the World was where his art scintillated.
Ewald E. Eisbruc is a poet of Germanic music. Wolfgang Mozart (1756-1791) was a Classical Austrian composer. Ludwig van Beethoven (1770-1827) was a German Classical and Romantic composer.
~~~
From Swiss Alps
by Erisbawdle Cue
Like as some prophet coming down from some great mountain height,
did Friedrich Nietzsche, from Swiss Alps, appear in darkest night.
Of course, he was a failure, like mage Zoroaster was,
or a Greek moral figure, Persian sorcerer from Uz.
Erisbawdle Cue is a poet of philosophy. Friedrich Nietzsche (1844-1900) was a German philosopher.
~~~
Some Cybersecurity Threats
by Esca Webuilder
A virus is self-replicating, user uninvolved;
a worm proceeds through network services, and ‘s unresolved;
a trojan acts benign, but has malignant purposes;
a buffer overflows by overwriting processes;
denials keep the user from the network overall;
network attacks manipulate the proper protocols;
a physical attack attempts intrusions, damage, thefts;
a password break can be quite large, as through shear brute-force hefts;
an information gathering checks for potential leaks,
and seeks out vuln’rabilities and probes for weakest links.
Esca Webuilder is a poet of the Interwebs.
~~~
Moby Dick
by Cadwel E. Bruise
At times it seemed to sailors that he was ubiquitous,
that Moby Dick who was outrageous and iniquitous,
could also be in two known places at one single time,
that he could penetrate two spots with force of the sublime.
But even stripped of ev’ry supernatural surmise,
there was enough in Moby Dick to strike awe in men’s eyes.
For he was huge and coloured, like the giant puffic shrouds
of sails flapping furiously under rushing clouds.
O, Moby Dick, gripped the imagination of each man,
who ever had the chance to face his hard and massive span.
Cadwel E. Bruise is a poet of Northeaster USA. Herman Melville (1819-1891) was an American Romantic-Realist proset.
~~~
19th Century American Poets
by Usa W. Celebride
Where Whitman uncorked the bottle and drank
like a lunatic, the left-over fumes
of the Bible’s high style, Dickinson sank
into its rhythms and rooms, hymns and tombs.
Usa W. Celebride is a poet of American literature. Walt Whitman (1819-1892) and Emily Dickinson (1830-1886) were Realist American poets.
~~~
Upon
by Dewie Arbustle
He stood up tall beside the wood. He had been jogging long.
But he was here alone; he had no friends he could count on.
Here were no loggers pausing from their hard, arduous work.
Here was no rude and really crude manipulating jerk.
Yet all the same, he still felt trepidation, pressed upon.
Here was no con or ruthless don. He longed just to sit down.
But, no, there still were further roads and trails he had to go.
Where was the stopping by these woods? Where was the falling snow?
He shirt felt tight upon his chest, as he continued forth.
He felt like he was stuck in brambles, though there was no thorn.
Was he upon the horns of a dilemma way out there?
Was this the Northern or the Southern whirling hemisphere?
Dewie Arbustle is a poet of woods. Robert Frost (1874-1963) was an American Modernist poet.
~~~
Cooling Down
by Ra Bué Weel Disc
He went out in the morning, when the Sun was burning hot.
He mowed and trimmed his grass. He wanted to cut back a lot.
But in such heat, he sweated much; he needed to cool off.
He went into his air-conditioned house, to rest and doff.
His temp’rature decreased. He felt so happy and so couth.
Eventu’lly his skin cooled down to shiny, soothing smooth.
He loved the airy breezes, though they were so miniscule.
He felt relief from stickiness. At peace, o, he felt cool.
At times, it was so nice to be free from one’s pouring pores.
He loved to walk on hickory, such chill and fluid floors.
Ra Bué Weel Disc is a poet of Solar Heat.
~~~
His Daily Walks
by Waulcer Beside
He loved to feel the air around him on his daily walks.
He loved it so, he would and could go on for blocks and blocks.
At times, the Sun was shining at his front, his back, his sides.
When he was facing It, he did his best t’ avert his eyes.
When It was at his sides, and he was hot, he loved the shade.
When at his back, he’d see his lengthened shadow up ahead.
He would walk carefully, so he’d not fall flat on his face.
It didn’t do to flop down on the ground, plopped in disgrace.
But, o, how wonderful it was successfully up high,
to move along each trail long, erect and going by;
for then, at one with life, down dips, up hills, avoiding spills,
he felt enormous bounty and sweet ordinary thrills.
Waulcer Beside is a poet of walking.
~~~
In the Hot-air Balloon
by Air Weelbed Suc
Away we went, up in the beautiful hot-air balloon,
suspended there beneath the gorgeous, pale golden moon.
We stood up in the gondola, the wicker basket weave.
Though we were slightly frightened, we were ready still to leave.
We rose up in the atmosphere, up on the heated air,
o, buoyant in the upward thrust, above the stones of care.
We rode in joy, exhilarated by the lighting flight,
the burner mounted just above, injecting flames of light.
The polyester dacron fabric, seal’d wi’ silicone,
rose high above the grassy knoll’s hat rolled out green and on.
Air Weelbed Suc is a poet of flight.
~~~
Pic Take
by Cawb Edius Reel
He prepped to have his picture taken—Was it a portrait?
from black socks to brown tie, arrayed so neatly, thus displayed.
He longed to get it over quick…to get out of these clothes.
And would the cam’ra-man ask him to smile for this pose?
He never liked to have his picture taken in the past—o, no.
He’d grimace in the sunlight or the flash bulb’s crashing glow.
Nor was he patient in the preparation of a shoot;
he felt such trepidation, like a beast in hot pursuit.
If he could only get away, and then go somewhere else,
away from a forced widened grin, this minor realm of hell.
Cawb Edius Reel is a poet of pictures.
~~~
The Sport of Washington State
by Ubs Reece Idwal
He was a member of the pickleball club locally.
He hand his friends went out to have some fun and jollity.
The day not hot, for there were lots of clouds up in the sky.
It was the sport of Washington state. Maybe that is why.
Ubs Reece Idwal is a poet of the Pacific Northwest.
~~~
—Exercising—
by Rudi E. Welec, “Abs”
He was back at it—exercising—body, will, and zed…
He worked on varied parts, from toes and feet, up to his head.
He panted mightily as he went through his varied steps,
that concentrated on his arm, his torso, and his legs.
He did his best to lift and stretch, to build his muscle mass,
to work the smooth, the skeletal, as well as cardiac.
Rudi E. Welec, “Abs”, is a poet of—Exercising.
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