Haiku
by “Lice Brews” Ueda
On the patio,
a mosquito, ant, and flea
no longer can flee.
Tanka
by “Lice Brews” Ueda
A man on his walk
paused intermittently and
momentarily,
beneath large passing shade trees,
wishing for a swishing breeze.
“Lice Brews” Ueda is a poet of the momentary.
~~~
Tanka
by Ibe Ware Desu, LC
in (the) space (cabin)
in (a) space (suit) floating in
zero gravity,
observ(in)g turn(in)g Earthrise
in buoyant magnificence
Ibe Ware Desu, LC, is a poet of space.
~~~
Tanka
by “Wired Clues” Abe
A man’s silhouette,
beneath a concave prism,
sits in warm sunbeams,
like an alien beside
his ovoid spaceship’s shadow.
Tanka
by “Wired Clues” Abe
Despite crass trollers,
unpaid traffic controllers
keep the jets going,
though they seem to go lower,
watching from a patio.
“Wired Clues” Abe is a poet of NewMillennial latitudes.
~~~
Newsreel:
It seems that Xi Jinping survived four days behind closed doors;
the CCP’s 4th Plenum ‘s done; the Party goes on…course.
Communiques of jumbled jargon—standard boiler plate—
were typic’lly dished out upon the closing of the gate.
~~~
Extreme Rowing Down Under
by Sbede Cawlie Ru
Five men prepare themselves for th’ extreme rowing race
Down Under at the beach. They steady their open boat—
four-hundred-fifty pounds—each with determined face.
Th’ important thing here is to somehow stay afloat
in waves that toss the skiffs about as if they were
but toys before the gods of surf and undertow,
that rise up high and crash in an enormous curve.
They yank their swim suits up, and then they all jump in.
They grab their oars and place set bottoms with great verve.
In tight sleek caps, they battle tide-slams. Will they win?
Rub-a-dub-dub—five guys in a tub—row and chase
a dream that flies when one’s tossed in the spindrift’s din.
The Aussie
by Sbede Cawlie Ru
I met him on the outback centuries ago.
He rose upon the morrow of a future clime.
He wore a robe of white, long flowing, glowing, oh,
so bright and brilliant did it shine, it was sublime.
He stood up at attention, his hard hands at his waist.
He turned his head off to the right, as if all time
had stopped and knew no haste. How could his stance be faced?
On raced my heart. His eyes were puffed. His mouth was small.
How could he see or eat? Upon what was he based?
He seemed so tense, yet so relaxed and natural.
I felt as though I would explode to see him so.
How could a life form be—so narrow and so tall?
Life Happens So Fast
by Sbede Cawlie Ru
Life happens so fast, there isn’t time to…
If you don’t make comments on whatever
you are thinking about, then they’ll pass you
by, and you may get back to them never.
Those crows’ feet that you can’t see in the air,
before you face the roc up in the rocks,
will remind you that the moment you’re there
lasts only briefly, and then it, like flocks
of birds flying across the open sky,
is gone. Some try to slow everything down,
including themselves, while some others try
to go with the wind, are off at a bound.
But no matter what one does, once it’s passed,
it must be replaced. Life happens so fast.
Sbede Cawlie Ru is a poet of speed and Australian attitudes.
~~~
Another Early Morning Jog
by Rudi E. Welec, “Abs”
He went out for another early morning jostling jog.
Just yesterday he did his best to navigate the fog.
The Sun was slowly rising, tho its speed could not be told
He only saw its new announcement—pale white and gold.
He wore his black athletic shoes, with thick black socks as well.
His trunks were snug and beige…about his hips…galvanic cell.
Although he wasn’t really going all that fast, he felt
like as he was within a race of time—a belted Celt—
here at October’s end, approaching old All Hallows Eve,
amidst this mist around these skeletons and fallen leaves.
Rudi E. Welec, “Abs”, is a poet of exercise.
~~~
Esther Cameron
by Esecwiel Barud
Among PostModernistic poets, one
of the finest is Esther Cameron.
She travels from free verse to loose blank verse,
from open metrics to iambic-terse,
from sonnets, some in sequence, couplet floes,
and little rhymes, to large, long fields of prose.
Her tone can be pedantic, sometimes proud;
but it can be quite moving and profound.
Indeed, sometimes she sounds oracular,
yet precious too, and quite vernacular.
Her topics also have a vital range
when they are not political or strange;
but when they are the latter and are bad,
they hardly make the happy reader glad.
No Kingdom There
by Esecwiel Barud
It shall be named No-Kingdom-There; for it
and all its princes shall have nothing left.
The Lord shall stretch confusion’s line o’er it,
and o’er the nobles, chaos plummeted.
By screeching desert birds ‘t will be encased;
the raven and great owl will dwell therein.
And generations through, it will lie waste.
No one shall ever pass through it again.
The streams of Edom shall be turned to pitch;
its turned-up earth to burning sulphur gone;
and neither night nor day shall it unhitch;
its smoke shall constantly go up and on.
For Zion’s cause, God’s day of vengeance has
a year of retribution’s recompence.
Esecwiel Barud is a poet of No-Kingdom-There. Isaiah (fl. 8th century BC) was an Israelite prophet.
~~~
Flashback:
In Borno state, Nigeria, June 2024,
three men knelt down, hands tied behind their backs; they are no more.
Who were those three young Christian men? What were their names?
Who knows?
Islamic state had shot them dead, each wound a deadly rose.
Three white-robed saints, beneath the fiery Sun of Africa,
shot dead into eternity, undone by massacre.
Where is the justice for their blood? Who cries for them at all?
The gunmen killed them for their love of fellow man enthrall.
Regina Elliott is a contemporary proet, writing about the tens of thousands of Christians murdered in the last two decades.
~~~
A Carnival Mistake, a Carnivore Milkshake
by Carb Deliseuwe
luscious and creamy and white—
o, cool, man, like, wow, yeh, delicious,
a frothy vanilla milkshake
in a thick paper cup—
o, and so good, so really really good,
Vergilian waves pounding on the rocks—
saxifrage—splashing at the edge,
surface spume,
glistening in the light og the midday Sun,
all this won
after centuries of
pain, torture, and unfortunate horrors,
the sonnet sliding away like a surf-board,
Shakespeare’s Ovidian motions, o, finally reaching fruition,
a continuing wind—
post-Miltonic pastures,
and a long white straw
with thin red stripes—plastic precision
Carb Deliseuwe is a poet of food and drink. Allusions in the above free verse poem include Vergil (70 BC – 19 BC) and Ovid (43 BC – 18 AD), Golden Age Latin poets, and William Shakespeare (1564-1616) and John Milton (1608-1674), Baroque English poets and prosets.
~~~
That War Is Gone
by War di Belecuse
Although that war is gone, the march goes on.
Another one has come to take its place.
And so it goes. New foes do come upon
old woes, the story of the human race.
Must this be so? Can peace not ever stay?
Is it original to sin? Is it
impossible to win? From day to day,
new victories appear to make it stick.
But then it breaks the halt. On goes the march:
step after step, arm swing after arm swing,
down paved road, over bridge and under arch,
all part of a continual army.
New battles start as soon as old ones end;
heads see, hands reach, hearts beat, and legs extend;
taut shoulders rock, elbows unlock, knees bend.
War di Belecuse is a poet of war. William Shakespeare (1564-1616) was an English poet and playwright.
~~~
In the Realms of Pre-Evening Air
by L. Eber Aucsidew
In the realms of pre-evening air,
crepuscular dusk—
smells of musk and dust in the pink-orange,
where there is neither time, nor chance, nor choice,
and even the sparrows are silent
the sound of an automobile
comes awf’lly close to existence,
and all that one is turns upon
re-redefining what one is…
amidst
blossom and element—
a filament of life—
drained and bare of the ever avenues
of yesterday’s left over news—
creeping ivy and the
wyverns of nominal realisms—
Wallace Stevens and the Possom—
awesome me-
anderings in mink,
moems at the edge of cognition—
brushwork—
twigs and swans
near the pond—
frogs actually jumping
from lily pad to
plop—
setting one’s head down to not perceive
the depths of experience vanishing into
sleep,
and then suddenly attaining instantaneously
and immediately—
the dialectics of hypnos,
the song of the nose,
the snooze.
L. Eber Aucsidew is a poet of airy situations. Wallace Stevens (1879-1955) and Possom, Ezra Pound (1885-1972) were Modernist American poets who wrote in free verse.
~~~
A City Site
by Urbawel Cidese
Upon a vertical, slanting, fire escape
on a rectangular apartment of brick,
a man is shooting at a criminal. I gape.
He holds the railing tight. Is he a public dick?
The scene is lit by a street light that throws its glow
up to the second story, level with the trees
that rise up from the sidewalk. He had better go
if he desires to stop the animal who flees.
He scampers down the metal rungs; but he’s too late.
The man he is pursuing ‘s gotten clean away.
He stands upon the grate. He has no time to wait.
He needs to fill out a police report today.
Urbawel Cidese is a poet of crime, and an acquaintance of Bilee Wad Curse.
~~~
October’s Closed Again
by W. Crusale DuBee
So many souls are much more sober, nights are longer, and
the days are getting shorter as October’s closed again.
Beneath one’s blanket one prefers to stay, yes, sleeping in.
The Celtic year is nearly over, cold is creeping in.
But though one still will go to work, and has one’s chores to do,
the summer time is yielding to winter’s deeper cool.
The seasons ever change; things do not stay the same. O, know.
It never faulters that they alter. Focuses morphose.
The kingly Monarch butterfly depart the bound cocoon,
and winging past the last warm noon, it shall be leaving soon.
W. Crusale DuBee is a poet of early autumn butterflies. According to Beau Lecsi Werd, “morphose” is a trunc.
~~~
A Coolant Exchange
by Bruc “Diesel” Awe
It was another day at work down at the small garage;
and what he needed was a coolant flush and fluid change.
He wasn’t sure if they used hybrid blended additives,
propylene glycol and a bio-based good sanative,
which offered excellent heat transfer and corrosion tect,
preventing overheating and ensuring engine glect.
He knew he needed an exchange because his car lit up
when th’ irritating bells and whistles, and lights flashed erupt.
That’s why he found himself at eight o’clock—the first in line—
to get the crucial operation done…so he’d be fine.
Bruc “Diesel” Awe is a poet of mechanics. According to Beau Lecsi Werd, “Tect” and “glect” are truncs.
~~~
Newsreel:
The FBI secured indictments for some thirty-one
ex-players, coaches, and some present NBA known sons,
involved in some illegal betting and rigged poker games;
four mafia crime families behind the deeds and names.
~~~
Wealth’s Not
by Erisbawdle Cue
Wealth’s not a mark of one’s morality. How could it be?
Both poor and rich must face the Ditch with true equality.
In that realm it may seem unfair one’s assets are no part
of that worth that counts everything that acts on mind and heart.
Erisbawdle Cue id a poet of philosophy.
Leave A Comment