Haiku
by “Clear Dew” Ibuse
Autumn’s start, I sigh,
Shirao ‘s decided by
the red dragonfly.
Haiku
by “Wired Clues” Abe
Without gravity,
the air particles We breathe
would fade into space.
Tanka
by “Wired Clues” Abe
Upon soft couches
in dark and drab living rooms,
the images pass
before the eyes of millions
of television viewers.
Tanka
by “Wired Clues” Abe
Braced, shoulders back, tense,
head erect, prepped and propped up,
riding the maelstrom,
the sailor went soaring, o,
through the violent worm hole.
“Wired Clues” Abe is a poet of NewMillennial leanings.
~~~
Darkness
by I. E. Sbace Weruld
Darkness
Darkness is
Darkness is all
Darkness is all around…
It is an important part of the Universe
and ourselves.
It holds nothing and everything,
stars and ourselves,
holes that literally go on forever
but go nowhere in particular.
The Grand Waltz
by I. E. Sbace Weruld
If Earth collided with twin Theia much was interchanged;
that Big Splash caused a cataclysm; two were rearranged.
Their girths were altered in the process, giving birth to Moon,
together going round the Sun—the larger and the lune.
According to the Giant Impact’s strange hypothesis,
4.5 billion years ago, the metamorphosis
took place, when Mars-sized Theia hit Earth, causing f-ir-e works,
thus breaking into untold pieces—bashing, crashing jerks—
creating in the process the Grand Waltz we’ve come to know,
serene Selene, her bridle tied, and brother Helios.
Mr. I. E. Sbace Weruld is a poet of our Solar System.
~~~
This Earthly Zist
by W. Sidereal Cube
There was a giant alien ship landed at his door.
It was a huge cube shape that overwhelmed his narrow porch.
He looked out of his window, searching for an alien.
He sought for any salient essential dalliance.
Lo, and behold, he thought he saw an android in the air.
Why was he hovering about that cubic spaceship there?
Was he attempting to make contact with somebody else?
O, God, he seemed to be aloft, not on the ground or shelf.
He thought of Wise’s “Day the Earth Stood Still” from long ago;
but this quintessence had the essence of a relished show.
How could that supernatural wraith rise above the walk
with slender shape and massive thighs? And then he heard the Cock.
The spirit disappeared into the dark and early morn,
like as an elder Hamlet fleeing into fluid form.
He wanted so to linger there, but that ghost went away.
O, God, that sceptered spectre left. He too then could not stay.
W. Sidereal Cube is a poet of th’ outer spaces. “The Day the Earth Stood Still” is a sci-fi film of 1951 directed by Robert Wise (1914-2005) was a PostModernist American film maker. Hamlet is a tragedy by English playwrite William Shakespeare (1564-1616). According to Beau Lecsi Werd, “Zist” is a trunc.
~~~
Lost in Ducks
by E “Birdcaws” Eule
How strange it is the routes one takes on travels through this life.
One hardly can believe the things one faces as one strives.
This cosmic strife is rife with many things that one must face.
Space-time is such a place, it’s hard to be an ace with grace.
One longs to fly on high, but one is ever pressed upon
to come back down to planet Earth, like geese down to a pond.
See there the sunlight shining on those rolling, curving waves.
See there those gorgeous flower-buds arranged, as in a vase.
See there that individual erect up by a desk.
See there that lovely sprawling, falling free and arabesque.
See there the Poe-t looking at the Universal Flux.
See there the flexing Rex athrone, alone and lost in ducks.
E “Birdcaws” Eule is a poet of birds. “athrone” is an obvious blend according to Beau Lecsi Werd.
~~~
Upon the Desert Floor
by Cawb Edius Reel
The Sun was warm upon the desert floor. He lounged and sat.
He felt like as a lizard lengthening where he was at.
He loved the heat, from head to feet, especi’lly round his hips.
His moistened tongue extended, hanging out upon his lips.
Was it at noon? and was he waiting for new history?
Was he upon a road seen curving to a mystery?
What was he looking at? and was it an important scene?
He had to get a grip. He wondered what was happening.
Cawb Edius Reel is a poet of the Southwest USA. William Stafford (1914-1993) was a PostModernist American poet.
~~~
The Role of Mathematics
by Euclidrew Base
The role of mathematics is one of
systematizing, summarizing, in
symbolic language what has been observed
or found out by experimentation.
Then from those formulae, things are produced,
as information that cannot be known
except by what the symbols have produced;
something that you cannot see has been shown.
But not all mathematics—only that
which cleverly predicts what’s happening.
Just then will we willingly claim such fact.
This mental mapping’s an amazing thing.
It leaves us often with a mystery
cleared only up by ohs of history.
Euclidrew Base is a poet of mathematics.
~~~
The King and Knave
Delir Ecwabeus
He felt as if he were within a dream’s amazing law.
He sat upon a peacock thrown, as if he were a shah.
But soon he realized he had been shoved down to his knees,
as if he had become a bum, or even worse, a beast.
It seemed as if his gorgeous throne had turned into a king,
who pushed him to an agonizing situation’s fling.
He had been flung into reality, as if he were
no more than but a bit of bitumen upon the floor;
but he remained upon that throne, though falling over too.
How could he be both king and slave, both knavish and yet true?
Delir Ecwabeus is a poet of Iran.
~~~
Proem to a Cup
by Esiad L. Werecub
The cup’s empty; it is not filled up with anything; but around it goes ivy and berries embellished with shapes of myth. A woman with only a coat, a lively Lady Godiva, has a man on each side of her, quarreling, missing her heart. From one man to the other, his glance shifts, but in vain do they her happiness reach. Besides these three, a little bit apart, an old fisherman casts his net, which drifts near a large rock. He pulls with all his might, so that, though he is very old, he seems to have a young man’s strength: His weight is light, Nearby, as with discrepancies in dreams, there lies a vineyard with a field of ripe grapes, and a small boy sitting on a wall. On either side of him are two foxes, but these two are not involved in some gripe: one scurries about the vines eating all of the grapes it can; the other lock its jaw about the little boy’s bag of food, and won’t leave the little boy’s bag alone until he has gotten it away good; but the little boy hardly cares if it is gone. He’s more delighted in planting rushes and asphodels than worried about vines or his provisions. All about the cup, the flowering acanthus spreads and gushes, a wonderful thing to a goatherd’s eyes, a marvel that would amaze your heart—up.
Esiad L. Werecub is a poet of Ancient Greece. Theocritus (c. 300 BC – after 260 BC) was the creator of pastoral idylls.
~~~
Inscrutable Malice
by Acwiles Berude
Always it seems I fail, and though I try to make
poetic visions out of the things of this world,
it seems I can’t succeed. Such stuff is hard to take.
Why should a person ever dare connect the word
to this wild swirling mess? Like a Pollack painting,
where the paint has been dribbled, dripped, draped, dropped, and hurled,
before our very eyes the cosmos whirls—a fling
impossible to make sense of if Ahab capped.
A great white whale fantails beneath sailors fainting.
Look, Starbuck, how our starstruck partner’s warped and rapt.
He tasks me with his madness, lame and Romantic,
a crazed, obsessive mania man can’t adapt.
Acwiles Berude is a poet of mania. In the above bilding [sic], Hermann Melville (1819-1891) was an American Realist poet and proset; Jackson Pollack (1912-1956) was an American Modernist painter.
~~~
Not Composed upon Westminster Bridge
by Beau Ecs Wilder
Earth has not a thing anymore to share:
all is ablaze with the soul of fire,
a sight so searing and so entire,
it seems literally to burn the air,
to say nothing of the eyes looking there,
the seat of English power a pyre
gone wild, flames higher and higher
going, until they seem to take over
everything, the many darkened figures
bent to the flashing scene, entranced captives,
both on and at the shimmering river’s
blinding surface, nature’s newest Baptists,
watching what that mighty hear delivers.
O, what little light it is that man gives.
Beau Ecs Wilder is a poet of 19th century British painting. William Wordsworth (1770-1850) was a British Romantic poet. J. M. W. Turner (1775-1851) was a British Romantic painter.
~~~
When He Would Walk
by Urbawel Cidese
He saw the sunlight on the silver, curling, growing grass.
He was not sitting on his ass. His car was filled with gas.
He longed to go out to that meadow, shadowy, and bright.
He loved to go out for a hike, o, in that brilliant light.
Thick socks and solid shoes were useful in such times as these,
when he would walk with buddies or alone out to the trees.
How could one be commanding or demanding in a wood?
Why should one not rise up to find the fount of feeling good?
He loved the urban forest, as he loved the rural tent.
The city of his dreams was still filled up with smooth cement.
Urbawel Cisese is a poet of the urban forest.
~~~
An Evening’s Am-bl-ing
by Waulcer Beside
It is the fading of the day. The light is bright and gold.
One hears the trilling of the birds, who sing out blithe and bold.
One hears the traffic chafing on the distant roads and streets.
One hear the engines revving up. One sees the sunlit trees.
One’s shadow stretches out beyond one’s body where one walks.
One’s arms and legs are lengthening along the grassy blocks.
The sidewalk sections of cement erode and buckle some
beneath the glinting gleaming shine, like jewels in the Sun.
One squints to catch the early evening’s showy facetry,
as one heads home back to one’s base, returning peacefully.
Walcer Beside is a poet of am-bl-ing.
~~~
An Early Morning Jog
by Rudi E. Welec, “Abs”
He went out for an early morning jog. The Sun was bright.
Left-right, left-right, his hips kept moving, grooving with delight.
He knew that running was good for him, pounding, pounding down.
He felt like as he was high flying, while still on the ground.
His legs exchanging, going forth, while passing grassy steeps.
His arm were swinging back and forth, his breaths were fast and deep.
The air was crisp and fresh, the nitro oxygen unleased.
He longed to get home for an eggs-and-bacon breakfast feast.
He’d fry his eggs in butter; dipping them in bakin’ grease.
But now he still was on the road. The Sun blazed in the East.
His Exercising Regimen
by Rudi E. Welec, “Abs”
He went on down to do his exercising regimen.
At times, it seemed so hard, he didn’t want to—but he did.
He did his stretches, bends and turns. O, Lord he was a pig.
He felt, like as he was a helicopter whirligig.
He pressed forth even when he didn’t want to—faster yet—
but still he did his best for each, attempting mastery.
His heart was pounding, he was panting, lifting up his spine;
he felt, like as, his limbs extended, tall loblolly pines.
He did his sit ups, and his pull ups, pressing forth with strength;
but how much longer could he take it? What was his time’s max length?
Rudi E. Welec, “Abs” is a poet of PE.
~~~
And Then Some
by Erisbawdle Cue
Don’t dwell upon the bad that you have done,
but take that energy to do the good.
Shun wallowing. Do something for someone.
There’s always something you could do—and should.
And learn from your mistakes. Don’t do again
that which should be avoided. Get and grow.
Don’t live in the past either. Let it go.
There’s always something else to do—and then
some.
Erisbawdle Cue is a poet of philosophy.
~~~
My Love and I Got In
by I Warble Seduce
On an impulse, my love and I got in a car
and drove out to a sandy beach upon a cape.
Although we didn’t drive all day, we went so far,
it seemed as if from time we managed to escape.
We saw wind. We saw blue. We saw us. We saw you.
We saw rocks. We saw birds. We gave talks. We said words.
On an impulse we took off shoes and ran in sand;
hand in hand, we waded in waves and left the land.
And though it was only for just a little while,
it seemed like it was for years and thousands of miles.
We saw points. We saw lines. We saw planes. We saw signs.
We saw waves. We saw foam. We saw dunes. We saw loam.
On an impulse, my love and I got in a car
and drove away from that gray beach upon a cape.
Although we didn’t drive all day, we went so far,
it seems as if we vanished there behind time’s drape.
I Warble Seduce is a poet of love. One of his favourite folk songs is Misaki Meguri (岬めぐり).
~~~
Sedoka
by “Lice Brews” Ueda
Across the mind’s eye,
flitting shadowed butterflies:
life passes by so quickly.
“Lice Brews” Ueda is a poet of brevity.
~~~
Lullaby for a Baby
by Crise de Abu Wel
The night is coming.
The light is dimming.
Your father is humming.
No birds do on any limb sing.
Repeat…
Crise de Abu Wel is a poet of the Good Father.
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