Tanka
by “Clear Dew” Ibuse
How hard it will be
to see the Spring once again
and cherry blossoms,
even if I perchance go
back along this very road.
“Clear Dew” Ibuse is waka writer. Nijō Yoshimoto (1320-1388) was a noted Japanese renga poet of the early Muromachi period.
~~~
He Flows thru the Now
by “Clear Dew” Ibuse
With sweet joy in his step, he looks up, when he walks again,
and sees the vast blue skies of oxygen and hydrogen.
He watches as the giant, silver jets fly in the light,
and follows their trajectories beneath the Sun’s bright flight.
He also looks ahead and sees the birds fly in the sky,
a murmuration whirls around. He’s not alone. He sighs.
He looks behind to see if someone’s following along.
He hears a flock of birds up in a tree burst into song.
He looks down to the ground, the grass is tan, the leaves are brown.
Remembering so many, o, as he flows thru the now.
“Clear Dew” Ibuse is a poet of Japan. The lyrics of “Ue o muite arukou” [上を向いて歩こう] were composed by PostModernist Japanese lyricist Rokusuke Ei (1923-2016).
~~~
Haiku
by “Wired Clues” Abe
Kick the soccer ball.
Ref cardinal whistles stop.
‘I want to eat seeds.’
“Wired Clues” Abe is a NewMillennial haiku writer.
~~~
Newsreel:
Xi Jinping’s purge of Zhang Youxia and Liu Zhenli has shocked
the World—Now, what does it mean? Why have they both been blocked?
Across the country convoys are engaged—south, east and north?
What’s happening in China now? Why are tanks going forth?
Is there unrest in military units near Beijing?
With such an overwhelming force, what could this mission bring?
Neocles
by Acwiles Berude
Neocles, Themistocles’ father, warned his son,
beneath the open skies over the Saronic
Gulf, while walking at the beach at Phaleron,
with a tone that was sincere, and not sardonic,
“Observe those old, rotting, and abandoned triremes.”
He was both prophetic, as well as laconic.
“That is how the Athenians treat their leaders
when they have no more use for them.” His alarm is
recorded by Plutarch, one of time’s greatest readers.
And though he may have heard his father’s ominous
words, and, in his heart, known them a true prediction,
still he could also see just beyond—Salamis.
Acwiles Berude is a poet of Ancient Greece. Themistocles (c. 524 BC – c. 460 BC) was an Athenian statesman and naval commander. Salamis is a island off the coast of Athens of around 35,000.
~~~
A Soldier from Ukraine
by Radice Lebewsu
Who was that strong, tall man? Was he a soldier from Ukraine?
He stood upon that bombed-out floor in a beret in rain.
His boots were black and tied up right, so as he would not trip.
One saw he held a heavy load. What would he do with it?
Where was he going to? What was he doing then and there?
He looked like as a fireman who hauled a body tight.
Perhaps there would be better days, when he was not so prit.
Perhaps this conflict would end soon, if he could just stay fit.
Perhaps he could be somewhere else, not out in this thick air.
Perhaps he shouldn’t keep this up here in this battle’s fight.
Why did he keep it up? What would he git for all this work?
He felt like such a jerk—damned if he did, or didn’t shirk.
Radice Lebewsu is a poet of Ukraine. According to Beau Lecsi Werd, “prit” is a neologism.
~~~
A Fragment
by Aedile Cwerbus
Let others scribble words about you, Hostia,
or others will be ignorant of your value.
Let others, like Propertius, praise the hostile
soil that he planted his seeds in. I won’t sell you.
All, believe me, will come to the same humble point
in time. Why sell anyone? Everyone dies.
How odd, then, to find at history’s bony joint,
myself saying, “A learned maid below me lies.”
Aedile Cwerbus is a poet of Ancient Rome.
~~~
Coleridge on the Sonnet
by Basil Drew Eceu
It’s “limited to a particular
number of lines,” so that the reader’s mind
“may rest satisfied,” in that character
which is lonely, delicate, or refined.
It’s peculiarly suited to those
who are “violently agitated
by a real passion, and wanting compos-
ure,” try to methodize their mental state.
“Fitted to express a momentary
burst of Passion,” the sonnet’s keen tuner
scribbles on tender or sedentary
topics, Coleridge wrote: “I should sooner
expect to write pathetic Axes, or
pour forth extempore Eggs and Altars!”
The Thames below Westminster by Monet
by Basil Drew Eceu
The Thames below Westminster by Monet
is quite an interesting painted scene.
What’s seen along the riverside is gray:
the sky, the water, sidewalk, and Big Ben.
All is a haze, though color is throughout;
a duller brilliance would be hard to find,
reminding one of Wordsworth—there is no doubt—
though this is filled with people, ships, and kind.
Yet it’s the pier that pierces from the right
that focuses the picture. Vague and black,
yet crisp beneath the City bathed in light,
we leave some leaves but peer not too far back.
Above the House of Parliament does rise
and we are left with memories and eyes.
Basil Drew Eceu is a poet of English verse. S. T. Coleridge (1772-1834) was a Romantic English poet. Claude Monet (1840-1926) was a French Impressionist painter.
~~~
Words of Earl Dolan Page: a Fragment
by Waldeci Erebus
Slowly in that wretched night did I walk
along the edges of that misty tarn,
alone, with no one to whom I could talk,
or tell the horror of that Gothic yarn.
I wanted only to flee that madness,
and yet, I was still encased in that dread
aftermath of death, decay, and sadness.
I could do naught but flee, so I fled.
Above me the blood-red moon vividly
shone; it was the only light that I had.
Pale, pallid, it lit my way lividly
through the cold, dark, autumnal night. Oh, glad
would I be if I could be far from there.
I trod uneasily upon the ground
of that recent burial place. Despair,
filling my soul with ev’ry eerie sound,
entered my heart with each, new ghastly sight,
the shadowy nightmare of shrub and tree,
the whole nauseous atmosphere of blight,
a wood worse than that described by Dante,
more like a battlefield scene after which
thick poisonous gases had covered all.
It was as though I was caught in some ditch
or trench, surrounded by th’ unnatural.
I wanted so to cry aloud for help,
but none was there in that forsaken marsh,
which only empty gloom did envelope.
Who in their right mind would approach this harsh
landscape? I wanted to escape as fast
as I could, but in such a treacherous
setting how could I leave, let alone last,
where each step appealed to the venturous
only? I felt like th’ ancient mariner,
In that filthy fen, so lonely was it,
that God himself scarce seemed to be in there,
my only lantern, lurid and russet.
No paved macadam did I discover,
no horse-drawn wagon did I encounter,
no human saw I, nor forlorn lover.
In that dread bog alone did I flounder.
Oh, that some neighbor’s fire-lit home would come
into my purview! Oh, anything besides
this miserable and wretched boredom
of infernal ruin where none resides.
Still, I pressed on. What else was there for me
to do? If I could not escape this place,
at least, I hoped, I could somebody see;
or if I could not find some friendly face,
forever leave this terrifying scene.
So on I walked, cold nipping at my bones
beneath my thick, long cloak. Continuing
o’er muddy clods and occasional stones,
until, all at once, quicksand grabbed at leg
and foot. I pulled with all my might to free
it. Oh, now could I use old Ahab’s peg
with all of this muck clear up to my knee…
Waldeci Erebus is a poet of darkness. Edgar Allan Poe (1809-1849) was a Romantic proset and poet.
~~~
A Self Portrait
by Red Was Iceblue
Near the end of his life, John F. Peto painted
a self-portrait before one of his own still-lifes,
deteriorating, interior, tainted,
George Washington’s picture fading, fated like fifes,
cornets, horse shoes, or other worn, broken objects,
a skeleton key, a grandpa’s found Bowie knife,
sheathed, picked up at Gettysburg, letter racks, train wrecks
of existence, like that of Abraham Lincoln.
He became like one of the things that time neglects,
sinking beneath Wright’s disease, in his shirt, pink on
white, a brown tie, erect, seated, bright, not faint, red
cloth hanging at right, in the background the ink gone.
Red Was Iceblue is a poet of art. John F. Peto (1854-1907) was a Realist American painter known for his trompe-l’œil works.
~~~
Work Will Be Optional?
by AI “Welder” Cubes
He sat up tall, then stretched his spine, it’s time to begin.
He sat up at his monitor back at his work again.
The sunshine, through the window, lit his torso and his chest.
He wasn’t thinking of his pecs; he had no time to rest.
But could Elon Musk be correct, work will be optional?
Is that something we would want? Is it even possible?
What AI robot could do all that he would want to do?
Is that just one more scheming, dreaming mogul’s point of view?
He got back to his job, his body bathed in shining light.
His finger tips and keys were lit, he strove for new insight.
Outside he saw the buildings topped with sweeps of shade and snow.
Inside and on a roll, he felt the early morning glow.
AI “Welder” Cubes is a poet of NewMillennial technology.
~~~
The Missing Persons
by Bic Uwel, “Erased”
Back in a century and country that
no longer is, they got aboard a train
to get across the border, but couldn’t.
The train, diverted again and again,
could not get out. The passengers were trapped,
caught in a bureaucratic, tangled web.
If only they were where the water lapped
upon the shore, where tides would rise and ebb.
Instead, they were engulfed by mountains, trees,
and cloistered towns, where citizens were stuck
on darkened roads of narrow certainties,
in barren houses made of wood or brick.
Bic Uwel, Erased” is a poet of the missing.
~~~
A Valentine
by I. Warble Seduce
I have no ring for you for Valentine’s.
I have no fancy gift to show my love.
I have no choc’late, printed heart Be Mines.
I have no captioned card with swirls above.
I have no flowers standing in a vase.
I have no diamonds shining in a strand.
I have no picture framed about your face.
I have no glittering tiara band.
What I do have is something far better—
you at my side. I’m so thankful you’re here.
Forever will I remain your debtor
for being around unworthy me, near.
Of all the people in life I’ve met, you’re
the best, the blessing I’ll always hold dear.
Mr. I. Warble Seduce is a poet uv luv.
~~~
Going
by Waulcer Beside
Sunrise was glowing over rooftops, garbage bins were placed
beside the curbs along the lanes. The dogs were walked and paced.
The cars and trucks unleashed on roads began their day commutes.
One wonders what will be their routes. One hears a siren’s hoots.
The last dry, brown leaves leave their limbs, the growing flowers gone,
the winter ice and snow is gradually melting down.
The lawns are tan beneath wan gilding skies. The crows caw out.
Green hedges crowd around the houses, keeping warm, no doubt.
The mourning doves and black-eyed juncos seek out tiny seeds.
Waulcer Beside is a poet of going.
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