Haiku
by “Clear Dew” Ibuse
The dragonfly flies,
with keen, focused, compound eyes—
concentrated life.
“Clear Dew” Ibuse is a haiku poet. Shimosato Chisoku [知足] (1640-1704) was a friend and contemporary of Matsuo Basho.
~~~
Haiku
by “Wired Clues” Abe
A four-year-old boy
awaits, in awe, the print of
a map of Japan.
“Wired Clues” Abe is a NewMillennial haiku poet.
~~~
Newsreel:
Will it be a new day—Nowruz—on the spring equinox,
as the Americans and the Israelis bomb Iran?
On February 28, the Epic Fury came,
and then the Roaring Lion struck down Ali Khamenei.
~~~
No Man
by Crise de Abu Wel
No man is a prophet in his own land,
nor is he regarded in his own town.
In his family he has no command.
If he be, he must be one on his own.
Crise de Abu Wel is a poet of prophets.
~~~
Flashback
Pre-X Tweet 3/2/2014
by Esca Webuilder
Into the jaw
of Crimea,
back from
the mouth
of hell
in Ukraine’s south,
the Russians come,
whom they know
so well.
When will they go?
Esca Webuilder is a poet of texting. Alfred Lord Tennyson (1809-1892) was a British Victorian poet.
~~~
The Death of Prokofiev
by Waldi Berceuse
Ideologically disparaged in 1948 by the Central Committee of the Communist Party, along with Shostakovich, Muradeli, Khachaturian, and Shebalin, Prokofiev was accused of “anti-democratic tendencies…alien to the Soviet people.” His whole sky fell in, and he was reduced to a mere shadow of his former self, and soon died on March 5, 1953, in fear, time’s cold and bony finger at his side, a broken, ill-spoken-of skeleton—one hour before the death of Stalin.
Waldi Berceuse is a poet of Slavic music. Sergei Prokofiev was a Modernist (1891-1953) Russian composer, as were Shostakovich, Muradeli, Khachaturian, and Shebalin, others mentioned in the prosem above. Stalin died on March 5, 1953.
~~~
A Russian Executioner
by Rus Ciel Badeew
Inside icy Siberia not long ago,
once, after the time of Fyodor Dostoyevsky,
there was a prisoner who was condemned to go
six feet below the Circle of Petrachevsky.
He was to be allowed just one statement before
he was to be executed, at which, if he
made a true statement, he would be shot to the floor,
but if he made a false statement, he would be hung.
Th’ executioner slowly opened the cell door.
“Well, what will it be?” he asked. The prisoner wrung
his hands, and spoke: “You will hang me.” Thinking this through,
th’ executioner could only choke on his tongue.
Rus Ciel Badeew is a poet of Russia. Fyodor Dostoevsky (1821-1881) was a Russian Realist novelist.
~~~
Ungone
by War di Belecuse
He got into the lotus pose right at the sofa’s edge.
He lifted up his head and upper spine. He spread his legs.
He wore his army, olive-green cap, though it was turned back.
He balanced himself, with his arms and hands, in one straight stack.
What was he contemplating there right at that nearby ledge of air?
What was he thinking, sitting upright, with a hard, stone stare?
He wasn’t watching television, his sight was not far.
His eyes weren’t focused on the planet Mars, nor moving Star.
What was he wishing for—a mission not so difficult?
What did he want to be free from—a HIMARS catapult?
He kept it up—his concentration—meditating on
the meaning of existence when he could go on ungone.
The Drought of March
by Darius Belewec
The drought of March has been pierced to the root, as he went on,
in sunlight in the Garden of the Hyacinth—Dentón,
drinking some ice-cool water, seated at the Bistro X.
He was not Lithuanian—a German-Russian mix—
He said he’d seen such castles at the wood just yesterday,
on hills portrayed as mountains, and designed in overlay.
There purple, pink, and white, green-leafed, the flowers flourished forth.
Their smell was that of coconut to one so young as four.
The Sun was shining in the dining—turf and surf behold.
What does the US military feed its fighting fold?
Was that Tehran within Iran, where people could be shot,
who cheered when they saw bombs explode and feared when they did not?
Darius Belewec is a poet fond of Persia. T. S. Eliot (1888-1965) was a Modernist British-American poet, literary critic, and playwright.
~~~
Dipole Moments
by Sir Bac de Leeuw
When he set sail for Ithaca, his way was long;
he was at fifty-six, in 1940, when
he, Peter Joseph Wilhelm Debye, had, gone on
a life full of adventure and instruction. Then,
he had already met the Laestrygonians,
the Cyclops, and had won the Chemistry Nobel.
He did not fear Poseidon, no, his only chance
to ever get away from th’ horrid halls of hell—
Valhalla. Rare emotion touched his lofty stance,
deep down within his spirit and his body’s well;
but who can know—no man—not one can ever ken
what was within his soul’s revolving carousel.
His way was long, the many summer mornings spent,
before he came to rest beneath the pleasant grove,
were filled with joy, peace and contentment by cement
roadways, beside synthetic rubber trees and love.
He saw the marketplaces filled with fine merchandise;
no longer did he feel the need to move or rove.
His Ithaca—a miracle—it was a lovely price—
for free. He did not need to find Phoenician stores;
a New York state of mind in war time would suffice.
No pearls, coral, amber, ebony—no ores
from famed Egyptian cities. It was his intent
to learn as much as he could learn at scholars’ doors.
When he was old, rich with the all that he had gained
upon his long and winding way, he anchored at
his isle. ‘This is where I’ll stay and be maintained.’
He lingered there for many dipole moments that
burned brilliantly, shown in the scattering of light—
molecular, electrolytic acrobat,
who left, in ‘sixty-six, Ithaca, blinding, bright,
with such a wealth of splendors and experience,
with such a glittering and shimmering delight,
with wisdom borne of passion and luxuriance,
with rainbows shining from all of the times it rained,
a voyager who came back to the Ithacans.
Sir Back de Leeuw is a poet of the Nether Lands. Peter Joseph Wilhelm Debye (1884-1966) was a Dutch-American Modernist chemist.
~~~
Newsreel:
The author of “The IPCRESS File” left the World today,
that crude and gritty place on planet Earth that he replayed.
Len Deighton (1929-2026) was a PostModernist British author.
~~~
At Lincoln’s Tomb
by Usa W. Celebride
Though Mr. Sedia’s poetic interests are wide,
@ SPC he is America’s Transparent Eye,
who kens the force of dark 1809’s strange, eerie glow,
in his Romantic take on Abraham and Edgar Poe.
He’s right, of course, if not too Shelleyan, at Lincoln’s tomb,
or in his understance of Heorot’s enormous room,
Longfellow’s take upon Lönnrot, Thoreau on friendly oaks;
yet don’t forget Poe’s humor too, or Lincoln’s many jokes.
Usa W. Celebride is a poet of American literature. According to Beau Lecsi Werd, the neologism “understance” is contextually evident. Writers like Lincoln, Poe, Shelley, Longfellow, and Thoreau 19th century English-speaking Romantics; Sedia is a NewMillennial poet and literary critic.
~~~
To a Prophetic New Yorker
by Brice U. Lawseed
“everywhere the trace of men”
—William Cullen Bryant
In Thomas Cole’s The Catskills and Lake George,
that set on scenic Catskill Creek, New York,
in 1845, trees are orange,
dark and light green, and reddish brown; they form
a core with large, gray rocks around the calm,
reflective waters showing mountains pale
and purple in the distance. This quiet psalm
invites the viewer to its lovely vale.
A single soul upon the shore holds to
his floating boat beneath an open sky
dotted with pink-tinged clouds in soft white-blue,
his, th’ only tension placed before the eye,
besides a faint and far-off swirl of smoke,
an indicator of some local folk.
Brice U. Lawseed is a poet of upper New York. Thomas Cole (1801-1848) was a Romantic American painter, William Cullen Bryant (1794-1878) was a Romantic American poet. Mantyk is a NewMillenial editor and poet.
~~~
Once on a Time
by Esca Webuilder
Once on a time, there was a hate-filled monster Ogre-Ghoul,
who dwelt among the people underneath its ugly rule.
It was an evil tyrant in its Tech-no-uni-verse,
that preyed on nature’s purest, and prayed to the vile perverse.
Whenever it heard joyous laughter from the land, it woke,
it did its best to suck out all life’s good, and leave it broke.
Barely Awake
by Leeb Sircadeuw
It still was night. The only light came from the high lamppost.
He opened up the shutters, that the shadows interposed.
Between the figure on the wall, not walking there at all,
barely awake, but still okay, who stood upright and tall?
It all seemed so mysterious. What was he doing there?
To what degree could he see what was there, barely aware?
He bent down to the window sill to see what he could see:
a car, with scarlet pinpoints, backing up onto the street.
He saw the limbs of barren trees, their leaves had been removed;
but this was in a neighbourhood; there was no nearby wood.
Leeb Sircadew is a poet of nighttime hours.
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