Haiku
by “Clear Dew” Ibuse
Mourning doves await
to dive down from a fence top
to dine on bird seed.
“Clear Dew” Ibuse is haiku writer.
~~~
Newsreel:
The new Prime Minister, one Sanae Takaichi, won
to lead the LDP to winning in the Rising Sun.
~~~
Flashback:
Is Xu Ming’s distant death in prison worth remembering,
not long before he was to be released—that plastics king?
He had just told his family that he was in good health,
once one of China’s richest men who had amassed great wealth.
Reputedly he had financed Bo Xilai and his wife,
who now are paying for their crimes, both prison terms for life.
But Xu Ming’s dead, His ashes were delivered to his folk.
His death was termed a heart attack in the report that broke.
There was no need for an autopsy, nor much comment more.
Xu Ming died in a Wuhan prison on December 4.
Xu Ming (1977-2015) was a Chinese entrepreneur. Did his death result in organ harvesting?
~~~
Li Bai by Light
by Wu “Sacred Bee” Li
The Sun shone down upon the Town of Silk, that is, Chengdu.
when Li Bai twenty-two came to it: 722.
The Scattered Flower Tower bathed in morn’s glow, had pinks strewn,
and golden windows, pearly curtains, shining like shown noon.
Its flight of stairs reached high green clouds, that soared into vast blue.
He felt renewed. His sunny outlook had dispelled his gloom.
He saw Three Gorges in the distance, rain was coming to,
and winding rivers, crystal-clear, around the Town illumed.
Yes, yesterday he came to feast his eyes upon this sight;
Celestial Sphere seemed very near and he was filled with light.
Wu “Sacred Bee” Li is a poet of Ancient China. Chengdu, China, is a city of around 10,000,000, if records are to be believed.
~~~
Newsreel:
A Chinese biolab, within Las Vegas, has been found
with deadly vials of diseases, threatening abound:
malaria, ebola, Covid-19, and TB,
including many other pathogens, like HIV.
~~~
Harmandir Sahib
by Sri Wele Cebuda
The Golden Temple, Harmandir Sahib,
sits on the Sarovar, a holy tank
fed by the Ravi River, built to be
a place of worship for all to come thank
God equally, and there participate
in langar, its communal meal, free.
It draws one-hundred-thousand every day,
who seek this shrine that’s holy to the Sikh.
To reach it, one must cross the causeway first.
To enter any one of its four doors,
one must go down. In day, or night, golds burst
from off its sides, its gleaming amber pours.
Despite pollution and the daily haze,
its brilliance is Amritsar’s greatest praise.
Sri Wele Cebuda is a poet of India. Amritsar has a population of around 1,150,000.
~~~
With an Abundance of Water
by Crise de Abu Wel
In Galilee at Cana, there was a marriage;
but the wine ran out; and the mother of one guest,
said, “They do not have wine.” He, with an upright carriage,
retorted, “What’s that to us? My hour hasn’t
yet come.” Nevertheless, she said to the servants,
“Whatever my son tells you, do at his behest.”
So he said, “Fill the six jars with an abundance
of water, and then, draw off some of the liquid,”
which they did (There is eternal significance
even in small events.); and after they this did,
the Master of the Feast did not know from where it
came; but, having drawn the water, the servants did.
Crise de Abu Wel is a poet of the Good Father.
~~~
The Man at the Desk
by Rus Ciel Badeew
The man in short dark hair had placed his elbows on the desk.
It looked like he was mulling over something picturesque.
A flag stood upright near him in the corner of the room.
He turned his head back to the left to contemplate his doom.
A military man walked in, in camo shirt and pants,
proceeding to yell at the man some visceral commands.
He yelled at him, he screamed at him, like a drill sergeant does.
The man upon the desk thought him a hard and brutal cuss.
The man in camo slapped the right cheek of the thoughtful man,
who still stayed calm, then offered up the left cheek to his hand.
Offshoot of Genghis Khan
by Rus Ciel Badeew
He sat upon the high, hard stool, attempting to keep poised,
but he’d imbibed so much, o, God, to be one of the boys.
He tried to keep upright, but it was so hard not to fall.
He felt like he was in a wild, whirling free-for-all.
He grabbed the guy right next to him, but still his feet flew up.
How could he hold his stiff drink steady, shaking in his cup.
His head turned round. His back went tight. He lost control and fell,
it seemed to him, into some dim, infernal, swirling hell.
He thought the best thing he could do was hold securely on,
complete the ride—this tested, tried offshoot of Genghis Khan.
Rus Ciel Badeew is a poet of Russia.
~~~
Newsreel:
The droids employed are oft destroyed, while human hate explodes.
The clone wars now are heating up, while S. S. R. implodes.
More than four-hundred-fifty drones aimed—one day—for Ukraine—
no heat, nor light, for day or night, cold winter’s aching pain.
~~~
Words on the Wind
by Ercules Edibwa
O blessèd was Laconia and likewise Thessaly.
Both once were ruled from but one line, that is, from Heracles.
Were they the best in battle? Is this boasting to no point?
Let Pytho and Pelinna lead me on for other joy.
They want me to present to Hippocleas ringing praise,
the glory of men celebrating, manly choruses.
O, at Parnassus, he is claimed the greatest of the boys
in double-course foot-racing; claiming he’s the best, rejoice.
The end, o, yes, and the beginning, both are very sweet.
as when a god, like great Apollo, goads man to compete.
No doubt he stretched his feet out far and wide for victory,
this son of him whose war-enduring armour Ares pricked.
The contest in the meadow there beneath the Cirrha rock,
where Phricias, o, quickly galloped, steed of frisky stock.
O, may a good fate follow them in future days as well,
enjoying life’s great pleasures and their well-earned, noble wealth.
A god’s heart should be free of pain, but man is fortunate
and bless’d, wise poet, yes, when he becomes importunate.
Ercules Edibwa is a poet of Ancient Greece.
~~~
The Man at the Edge of the Sublime
by R. Lee Ubicwedas
I saw him leaning back right on the edge of the sublime,
a man in his athletic shoes attempting to span time.
His legs were stretched out far and wide to leap across the gulf
between eternity and ecstasy, o, lust for love.
He dreaded not accomplishing this problematic feat,
and felt like he was being held back by some godly heat.
He tensed his shoulders, arms and abs, prepared to make the jump.
He desp’rately hoped that he would not fall upon his rump.
He braced himself, then took the chance, with chaos down below.
The only way for him to go was up or verti…go.
The World He Grew Up In
by R. Lee Ubicwedas
It was the world he grew up in, brutality
around every corner, a hard-hitting setting,
a strange economy and odd frugality
filled with fists and fights, brimming with booze and betting.
It was a place that he didn’t want to enter,
a place of murder and mayhem, worth forgetting,
cars speeding and crashing over the center
line, over the limit, out of joint and out of time.
It was a world of atom bomb and computer,
of concrete buildings, of sleezy commerce and crime,
of greasy cafes, of hardened banality,
and of so much ugliness, wretchedness, and slime.
It was the beginning of the finality.
It jarred all the senses with its menacing scenes.
It shook all one’s being with its modality.
It was a mean world by any measure or means.
Still, there was something genuine and good about
it, something that made it endurable, from jeans
and tees to jeeps and streets, to being with doubt…out.
The Crude and Cruel Dude
by R. Lee Ubicwedas
He was a crude and cruel dude, as greedy as they come.
He only cared but for his pleasure, not for anyone.
Although when one was falling through the cracks, he could be there
to offer some assistance from despair, as if he cared.
But he did not. It was his plan to fool all those he came
in contact with, and stroke their puffed-up vanity the same.
It always worked as far as I can tell. I never knew
a time when what he wanted didn’t work for him, come through.
He left behind a brutalized and beaten clientele
who very nearly worshipped him, as far as I can tell.
The Units of the Universe
by R. Lee Ubicwedas
In the beginning of our era scientists averred
that atoms were the smallest units of the universe.
But shortly subatomic particles were posited;
electrons, protons, neutrons, then, were neatly closeted:
the former, an example of a lepton, soon was joined
by muons, taus, and three neutrinos, all by flavours coined;
the latter two, examples of composite baryons,
were, with the mesons, such as, pions, hadron carry-ons.
Six quarks compose the hadrons, up, down, bottom, top and strange,
along with charm, and in the standard theory thus arranged.
Gauge bosons, like the gluons, photons, W, and Z,
the fundamental carriers of force, came finally,
Higgs boson, too, an excitation of a quantum field,
but gravity’s force-carrier, yet not part of the yield.
And then, perhaps, these point-like particles could be replaced
by one-dimensionals called strings, that propagate through space.
M-theory, formulated by Ed Witten in one spring,
suggests a grand proposal for a scheme of everything;
though as of yet, there’s no experimental evidence,
but that it has a certain mathematic elegance.
R. Lee Ubicwedas is a poet of Ubiquity.
~~~
Newsreel:
Seattle Seahawks won the Number Sixty Superbowl,
against New England Patriots, with an alt half-time show.
~~~
The Typecast Typist On
by Des Wercebauli
He saw the ty(pist on) his tasks amongst the needed frames,
reciprocating engines, pumps, and cylindric mains.
He sat upright, already prepped and focused on his keys.
He lifted up his neck and spine, his pecs, his abs, his knees.
It was important to have proper form to do each job,
not botch his tasks for his co-workers, clientele, or boss.
He did desire to inspire local fellow peers,
to keep his company not going down or in arrears,
but going up and growing, to continue getting paid,
and paying life, more life, task after task, day after day.
Some
by Des Wercebauli
Another day, and back to work, the ever-present tasks,
and never enough time to do them. There indeed are scads.
There are the deeds re-qui-r-ing both mind and body parts,
that is, the inner and the outer, always linked and smart.
For some, a cup of coffee helps, to get one on one’s way.
Hot water with some grounds gets focus. like a laser ray.
The heart is vital, but so too are arms and mighty chest—
as well, the whole co-ordinated bottom, top and rest.
And these are only some of what one needs to git to work;
and yet one needs, all these and more, for progress to occur.
Des Wercebauli is a poet of work.
~~~
Some Exercises
by Rudi E. Welec, “Abs”
He wore his black athletic shoes. He put on his tan trunks.
It was time for some exercises, as it always was.
He started stretches, warming up, from top to bottom down.
He lifted up his neck and spine because the time was now.
He activated back and shoulders, biceps, pecs and hips.
He did some twisting, piston gripping, and he did his dips.
He needed kneading, elbows, knees, and puffing chesty flabs.
He worked his body’s slabs, and tightened up his ends and abs.
He worked upon those hardest parts that made him pant and huff.
He knew he had to give forth force, o, all along his length.
The purpose of these exercises was to build up strength.
Rudi E. Welec, “Abs”, is a poet of workouts.
~~~
The Man From Panimai
by Waulcer Beside
From tiny little purple clusters of verbena blooms,
to houses made of brick and glass with many varied rooms,
he saw the cars and trucks in driveways, by the tall oak trees,
beside the litter in the grass, birds twitching in the breeze.
From lengthy shadows on the pavement, weeds in sidewalk cracks,
to hedges rounded by large rocks, and acorns dropped in packs,
he saw the passing vehicles, and owners with their dogs,
and excrement they left behind, like drying Lincoln logs.
From mailboxes standing nigh the gray streets and the lawns,
the blinds and shutters on the windows in the blinding Sun,
he saw the brown leaves everywhere and evergreen shrubs too,
the picture overall of brown beneath the sky of blue.
Waulcer Beside is a poet of walking.
~~~
The Early Morning Work Commute
by Bruc “Diesel” Awe
He heard the roaring of the early morning work commute—
ten-thousands driving through the city streets and avenues,
the myriads on highways, byways and the interstates,
a rush of trucks and cars in caravans of rat-race haste.
The careful drivers overwhelmed by those determined to
go faster than is safely recommended one should do.
Bruc “Diesel” Awe is a poet of driving.
~~~
The Country Poet
by Ubs Reece Idwal
A mowing, when the sun sets
all aglimmer, stirs up all kinds of moths:
pale whites, ashes, yellows, and golden reds,
all manner of straw grass stirred up like Goths,
flying this way and that, wisped hay and thatch,
here in the backyard of my humble home,
My tone is lighter, easier to catch
than the Old Testament’s. That moral tome,
more serious than me on ev’ry page,
was written by those who, inspired by God,
lived life at a more profound time and stage,
strove to get more from the marrow of sod
than I ever could, shallow, pathetic,
here on the edges of highway and creek.
Ubs Reece Idwal is a poet of the country.
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