Haiku
by “Lice Brews” Ueda
On a lily pad,
the frog sat squat, motionless,
prepared to hop off.
Tanka
by “Lice Brews” Ueda
Happily ensconced
beneath a crepe myrtle’s shade
in th’ hot autumn Sun,
Buddha is sitting nearby,
observing the jet-filled sky.
Tanka
by “Lice Brews” Ueda
Establishing ranks,
Seventeen Articles, and
two Buddhist temples,
he brought China to Japan,
and tea with a touch of Tang.
“Lice Brews” Ueda is a poet of Ancient Japan. Buddha (c. 6th – 5th BC) was a South Asian religious leader. Prince Shōtoku (574-622) was a noted Japanese figure of the Asuka period.
~~~
The Primitive
by Bud “Weasel” Rice
He was so primitive, he liked to start his fires
with flint. He scraped his stones until he got a spark,
and then he blew until the flame took hold. That tires,
yes, but he liked to do ‘t, to conquer cold and dark.
And as the smoke arose, he stoked it with more fuel.
He was a mighty lighter, powerful and stark.
O, he was blunt and crass, as stubborn as a mule.
His strength was great; his girth was grand; his width was broad.
Although he was formidable, he wasn’t cruel.
He was a man who didn’t need to shake a rod.
I saw him pause before a wall with high-flown spires.
He was a man who sought to know the breadth of God.
Bud “Weasel” Rice is a poet of the primitive.
~~~
Newsreel:
Cross border violence took place between Afghanistan,
influenced by the Taliban, and neighbour Pakistan.
At Peace Square Monument
by “Scribe” el-Uwade
It seemed surreal at Peace Square Monument and Fountain splay,
in Sharm el-Sheikh, el-Sisi hosting Trump, et alia,
Mount Sinai in the distance, palm trees growing all around,
the first phase of the Gaza peace plan placed forth to propound.
Among the World’s dignitaries, many souls were there,
though not from Israel or Gaza, in that desert air.
The warm, Red-Sea resort that overlooks Straits of Tiran
was filled with many delegates, but not those from Iran.
While leaders from around the Globe looked on in hopefulness,
the World gazed on with closed mouths, and still wide-open eyes;
so though four signed the treaty for this region’s help afresh,
one wondered would it work like as the Treaty of Kadesh.
Scribe el-Uwade is a poet of Egypt. Sharm el-Sheikh is a city of around 75,000. The first World treaty ever was the Egyptian-Hittite peace treaty of around 1259 BC.
~~~
The Modern Deliverer
by Cris de Abu Wel
He came up to the door with his delivery.
He held the package in his hands and rang the bell.
He waited there. He wore no special livery:
a white tee shirt, blue jeans, and tennis shoes, as well
as a bright, clear earring. He leaned against the wall,
his elbow near the knob, as far as I could tell.
His well-groomed hair was brown, and he was broad and tall.
His jaw and neck were wide, and he was neat and clean;
although there was a bit of sweat beneath his arm,
and matted, curling chest hair came out of his tee.
The door was opened. He made his delivery
and quickly left that porch. His step encased a spring.
Cris de Abu Wel is a poet of the Good Father.
~~~
Newsreel:
When Rajoelina fled, by protests overwhelmed,
in Madagascar, military forces took the helm.
The Wild Scribbler
by Wilude Scabere
He built a livelong monument without a solid tomb,
Soul of his age, his easy numbers roamed time’s spatial room.
The flowing utterance upon his leaves, a growing tree,
revealed subtle flowers in his prose and poetry.
Through weightless words, he wrought a beautiful complexity,
and simultaneously, pure, refined simplicity.
Remarkable effects occur so frequently, it seems,
his language has the magic power only found in dreams.
He left a fortune to us that, long after he has gone,
continues giving pleasure, as unmeasurable as dawn.
Cabined, Cribbed, Confined
by Wilude Scabere
He didn’t know if he was coming, going, or just stuck;
but he felt cabined, cribbed, confined; Macbeth within a ruck.
What hope was there of rising up, when all men put him down?
He felt like he was being shoved and pushed on to the ground.
He needed to be very hard, if he planned to survive.
It was a challenge to remain put, just to stay alive.
Who were these ghastly beings, scraggly and sinewy,
who plagued him with their ever-seeming constant jostling.
How could he ever be content? He felt ridiculous.
But still he strove to be controlled, smart and meticulous.
Wilude Scabere is a wild scribbler. William Shakespeare (1564-1616) was an English poet and playwrite, the author of Macbeth.
~~~
The Man in the Doorway
by Bic Uwel, “Erased”
I saw him hanging from a doorway, o, so long ago,
but, o, he had to go I know—time’s ever flying flow.
I longed to bring him back again, o, in the early days,
but knowing how dawn goes to moon, I knew no gold thing stays.
He had to go away. He left that wide and open door.
So briefly did he stop to pause, but will not evermore.
I saw him falling to the floor, his knees upon the mat.
I hardly can remember him, o, and where he was at.
But still his image and his hanging from the door frame there
have briefly, o, appeared again, though they have been made air.
Bic Uwel, “Erased” is a poet of those who have been made air. Robert Frost (1879-1962) was a
Modernist American poet.
~~~
The Man at the Hotel
by Arcideb Cidese
I met the man when he was staying at a hotel in
a col between two lovely hills. He had a crafty grin.
I wasn’t sure he was a spy, but he seemed secretive,
a surreptitious, stealthy sort of dude, untalkative.
I saw him hanging round the lobby near the check-in desk.
Although he seemed to be quite tall, he was not statuesque.
What was he concentrating on, his stomach or some curves?
I could not tell, because it seemed, like both were on his nerves.
He seemed content to be right where he was when I met him,
but I could not be sure he was because the light was dim.
Archideb Cidese is a poet of urban space-times.
~~~
The Man Upon the Sailing Boat
by Seaweed Lubric
“…as the skillful yachts pass over.”
—William Carlos Williams
I saw him on a sailing boat; he stood upon the deck;
he rode upon the deep blue water, silvery with fleck.
His wrinkled neck, connected, jerky, hung down long, and thick;
it almost seemed ridiculous, as if he were sea sick.
I wondered if he was a captain or a crewman there.
He seemed to be a picture of New England, rugged, spare.
I could not tell exactly where he was, and so relaxed,
like as a seagull on the wind, or rigging rope untaxed.
He longed to get away from where it was that he was at,
and vanished in the wake of waves behind his cruising yacht.
Seaweed Lubric is a poet of water’s ways. William Carlos Williams (1883-1963) was an
American Modernist poet.
~~~
A Deli Sandwich
by Carb Deliseuwe
He stood in line ‘n order t’ order a deli sand-
wich, which he had built on two toasted, foot-long buns.
His stance was firm; he said he wanted roast beef and
three bacon strips in a microwave oven.
For condiments, he chose white mayonnaise cream that
was slathered on thick. For food he had no conscience,
and he was quite content to be where he was at.
next came sharp cheese, tomatoes, lettuce, and olives.
(Behind the counter someone checked the thermostat.)
He asked for coffee too, but gave it up. What gives?
He spoke too quietly. They didn’t understand.
His meal was to-go, so he left. So go our lives.
Carb Deliseuwe is a poet of food.
~~~
The Hobbyist
by Des Werkebauli
I saw the hobbyist begin to work, become alert.
He loved to knapp and shape obsidian, or flint, or chert.
He loved the challenge of conchoidal fracturing with tools.
He loved to manufacture flintlock firearms for fools.
He loved producing flat-faced stones for buildings or for walls,
and flushwork decoration be it beautiful, or balls.
He loved the pressure flaking process, striking, stroking flint;
and he was happiest when he was well immersed in it.
He was a fabricator who loved making many things,
including, among other pieces, necklaces and rings.
Des Wercebauli is a poet of work.
~~~
O, Why?
by Cris Wade Eubel
O, why dig up your past? What do you gain by doing it?
It may be beautiful, but, o, it is a gooey pit.
By focusing upon the end, you never reach the start—
that lovely dart, those running, legs, that moving, gorgeous art.
O, why not grab the present currently before your eyes?
Its radiance is ravishing, o, smashing with surprise.
Just snatch it, clutch it, catch it, pluck it from life’s giving tree.
Forego the impulse that you have to sit in history.
O, why not see the future coming up right next to you?
It longs to lift you up to the magnificent and true.
It longs to carry you away into the grand unknown.
So go with it. From now on ride time’s rising-high cyclone.
Cris Wade Eubal is a poet of the moment.
~~~
It Is October
by Earl W. Sidecube
It is October once again, another year goes by.
Beneath the Sun-burnt sky, the air is dry, an arid eye.
And yet, despite the heat one still continues am-bl-ing,
and ram-bl-ing about the neighbourhood—not gamboling.
The coiffured lawns cede to the grasses two feet high and more,
bermuda, carpet, johnson, dallisgrass and buffalo;
and by the sidewalks, one observes the roadside asters take
to little plots of land in swaths of tiny mobs unraked.
The growing emptiness is seen beneath vast fi-elds seen,
which yi-eld to tan-coloured straw and pa-le, fading green.
The scene is changing, autumn’s coming, summer’s pages fly.
It is October once again, another year goes by.
Earl W. Sidecube is a poet of pedestrians. Ray Bradbury (1920-2012) was a PostModernist proset of sci spec.
~~~
Like Golden Flashes from Götzen-Dämmerung
by “Wild” E. S. Bucaree
Amidst the smells of barbecue, of ribeye on the grill.
I hate to see that evening Sun go down…and always will.
I’m walking down Fall meadows stretching past the grazing grass.
It’s orange in October on the horizontal span.
It shines like golden flashes from Götzen-Dämmerung,
the pictures taken snapped by the forsaken cam’ra-man.
The Osage orange balls are dropping from that native tree,
of a hard, durable wood used for handles, bows and heat.
Rotating Earth is turning from the blazing, flaming Sun,
and Halloween is near at hand; the black dark Night has come.
“Wild” E. S. Bucaree is a poet of Texas. William Faulkner (1897-1962) was a Modernist American proset.
~~~
Sunset in the Rockies by Albert Bierstadt
by Beau Ecs Wilder
Amidst the rugged rocky tors, the setting sunlight colours all
with amber and a touch of auburn round the waterfall.
The scraggly trees in shades of brown surround the mountain tarn.
Here Bierstadt set his painting, capturing the tranquil charm.
So high up in the sky, like little dots upon a screen,
birds fly about the lovely scenery almost unseen.
The craggy rocks along the lake, a distant golden hill,
this place so isolated, nearly inaccessible,
is beautiful precisely for the reason that it is
so far out of the way, and rare, like Bierstadt’s canvases.
Beau Ecs Wilder is a poet of 19th century painting. Albert Bierstadt (1830-1902) was an American Realist painter.
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