Haiku
by “Clear Dew” Ibuse
In the night heavens,
Jupiter and Venus shine,
not divine planets.
Haiku
by “Clear Dew” Ibuse
Castor and Pollux,
Leo leaps from th’ ecliptic.
It is Gemini.
Haiku
by “Clear Dew” Ibuse
Breaking hot silence,
loud cicadas, in the trees,
dine on dew and sap.
Haiku
by “Clear Dew” Ibuse
Beneath the shade tree
and the high-flying jets,
the cicadas chat.
“Clear Dew” Ibuse is a haiku writer.
~~~
Somehow I Can’t Forget
by Lu “Reed ABCs” Wei
I never think about it, but somehow I can’t forget
those many years ago the Tiananmen incident.
The China Dream is not the one espoused by Xi Jinping,
but that which would allow the people to be free in spring.
That day you covered my two eyes with a gold-touched, red cloth,
and wrapped it all around my head, you asked me what I saw.
I saw a line of tanks; I saw a picture of what was;
I saw the sky was dark, and making sounds was dangerous;
I saw some people crouched within a corner of the World,
the year that had no 4th of June, the day that had no year.
Lu “Reed ABCs” Wei is a poet of China. The above poem reveals where Lu “Reed ABCs” Wei derives his hao from, lu wei 蘆葦 which means “reed” in English.
~~~
Newsreel:
A US helicopter was shot down near Hormuz Strait
and so the US struck back at th’ Iranian home state.
~~~
A Six Pack
by Erisbawdle Cue
Life isn’t easy for anyone anywhere.
It is hard, hard, hard. The point is to face it well.
Whatever trial comes your way just grin and bear
it with a stiff upper lip or a stiff drink. Hell
is not easily conquered, nor is happiness,
which one should not pursue, so much as produce.
On Someone or Something Else
by Erisbawdle Cue
When you are sure there is no more, remember me.
There’s always someone else or something else. Come out
of yourself. Look at the world. Listen to Locatelli.
Watch how the sun’s light plays upon the grass, and doubt
your doubts. The liquid silver songs of the birds come
each and every spring. When the bell rings, face the bout
with everything you’ve got. Stand. To do less is dumb.
Even the most dismal mood dissolves, comes undone.
The hummingbird with his flapping wings can still hum.
Even in rocks at the bottom of a depression
one can find value. Place them in a road, and see
if you cannot indeed go off to a new one.
Erisbawdle Cue is a poet of philosophy. Pietro Locatelli (1695-1654) was a late Baroque Italian composer.
~~~
The Eagles
by E. Birdcaws Eule
Distant, always distant—they fly above: the eagles,
as far from the near star as both you and I are,
yet, far from us also, as well as the seagulls.
Theirs is another realm; though the same isobar
marks where they and we dwell. Theirs is another fate,
vertebral, and, though avian, the avatar
is neither a care nor a concern they carnate.
They fly. We do not; that is, at least not without
mechanical contrivances. We lucubrate.
They do not; that is, they do not reason about
aerial dynamics or read traffic signals.
But when the thunder connects, they, we, all turn, scout.
E. Birdcaws Eule is a poet of birds.
~~~
A Snowy Egret
by E. “Birdcaws” Eule
While driving down the road one day, in the pouring rain,
a snowy egret flew above him, like a mighty crane.
He saw its giant underbelly and great wing-span soar;
it was not anything that he had ever seen before.
He wondered why it bade its time, while flying with no care,
like a white muslin shroud upon a pond up in the air.
He wondered what it meant that he had seen that bird as such.
Was it an omen like the Romans saw near hearth or hutch?
Was it a saint seen on this Sunday seeking peace or prey?
It was so beautiful against the grave and wat’ry gray.
Was he a king due to be crowned, a ghostly albatross?
a purity and surety, shaped like a flapping cross?
E. “Birdcaws” Eule is a poet of birds.
~~~
The Living Lumber
by Dewie Arbuscle
How beautiful is the green, rolling lawn
in the cool, evening air in hot summer.
How nice it all is now to gaze upon
the surrounding trees, not for their lumber,
but merely to see them growing up tall,
not for wood in cabinets and tables,
but just standing there: the vibrant laurel,
the spreading limbs of old and young maples,
the tough, prickly holly, the Douglas fir,
towering up high, stretching to the sky,
the mountain ash, the widening alder.
They are all so winsome, pleasing to the eye,
especially when winds kick up a bit
and send leaves and branches into a fit.
Dewie Arbuscle is a poet of trees and greenery.
~~~
Canker Sore
by “Cruel” Wadi Se’eb
There he goes again, getting overly angry,
exploding like fireworks, burning the ground beneath.
Something is rotten in him, and it’s not gangrene,
it’s anger, that down under the surface does seethe,
like a volcano, ever ready to spew out
its fiery breath. Watch out when it starts to breathe,
because it sends out smoke, heat, and ashes throughout
the atmosphere, mucking up all, clouding the air.
Oh, do not invite a dragon to a luau.
It doesn’t care. It comes out frothing from its lair,
sanguine, vain thing that it is, disrupting shangri-
la with its frayed frustration, hatred and despair.
Among the Most Wicked
by “Cruel” Wadi Se’eb
Among the most wicked people in history
are the vicious suicide bombers. Their purpose
is to murder themselves individually
and others multitudinously. A surplus
of people, if you can imagine such a thing,
to them means kill, kill, kill. What a vile, hateful cult;
the preciousness of life is considered nothing.
To be different from them they think is an insult.
To blast nails into babies, children, women, men
indiscriminantly is glorified by them.
They revel in their viciousness time and again.
Such a cold-blooded, calculating stratagem.
Oh, I fear for the world’s people if such as these
can turn their evil loathing into victories.
“Cruel” Wadi Se’eb is a poet of deserted realms. According to Beau Lecsi Werd “indiscriminantly” is the word the author means to use here.
~~~
Newsreel:
The Economic Forum in Saint Petersburg espied
Ukraine drones struck oil terminals and military sites,
but not Elvira Nabiullina, head of Russia’s Bank.
Though scheduled, she was gone. Some wondered if she had been yanked.
~~~
A Steely Willed Ossete
by Esca Webuilder
We live without the feeling of the country under us.
We cannot hear ourselves; nobody listens to our pulse.
But when there is a chance for words, the talk turns to High Tech.
Immense G-Mafia is mentioned merely for a sec.
Its thick long tentacles extend, like thick gigantic sucks;
commands drop from its giant lips like lead weights fall through muck.
Its cockroach-wire whiskers leer into our very lives;
Its gleaming boot-tops shine above the busy, buzzing hives.
Around it gather thin-necked men, and empty-headed hens,
who follow it obediently, speaking tongues in tens.
Some whine, some mew, some whistle too, some play upon their fears,
until they hear it poking, banging, booming in their ears.
Its edicts fly, like horseshoes galloping across the land;
some get them in the groin, the head, the eyes, or in the hand.
Its executions roll along, raspberry and rosette;
It’s filled with Moloch’s Arms and Chest, a steely-willed Ossete.
Esca Webuilder is a poet of the Internet. Osip Mandelstam (1891-1938) was a Modernist Russian poet.
~~~
Act I, scene i.
by Irbee C. Swaudel
He: Darling, I lost my job. And we have bills to pay.
She: That means we’ll have to look for work. Both you and I.
He: I hope we’ll find something. Tomorrow or today.
She: If not, let’s hope something shows eventually.
He: What if we don’t find anything?
She: I guess we’ll die.
I hope not.
He: How can you act so nonchalantly?
She: Worrying will get us nothing. The birds that fly
don’t fret or cry. I wish you’d act more gallantly.
He: I can see I should be holding up much better.
She: Let’s try down at the store. Usually you can get
something there.
He: Groceries.
She: Cherise, have you met her?
Oh, I know it seems I am off on a tangent!
I overheard her say there was an opening.
I think I’ll go try.
He: I wish something would just fall
in my lap.
She: Oh, great! The telephone is ringing.
It’s probably someone asking for dough. The gall!
He: Hello, Yes, I would be interested. What do I do?
(aside, in a whisper) It’s a job! It’s a job!
Uh-huh…Uh-huh…Uh huh…Uh-huh…Uh-huh…Uh-huh.
She: You sound like a stuttering cuckoo bird. Bob-bob.
He: What time do you want me to… Okay. Thanks. Good-bye.
That was Dennis. He said he needs someone to help
him with some research, someone like a Private Eye.
And he will pay.
She: You’re kidding! That is wonderful.
He: He wants me to look up this guy named Lancelot.
She: You’re kidding.
He: And find out if he’s holding a book.
She: But doesn’t that sound a little bit fanciful?
He: Certainly. It sounds loony. But I’ll take a look.
She: When does he want you to come?
He: Now. And guess what else!
He wants you to come too.
She: This is sounding stranger
all the time.
He: And there’s one more thing he said. There is
the possibility that there could be danger.
Irbee C. Swaudel is a poet of the urdinary [sic].
~~~
Tares Among the Wheat
by Caleb Wuri Seed
A man sowed good seed in his field
in hopes for a productive yield;
but while he was sleeping,
enemies came creeping
and sowed tares among the wheat.
Weeds were sown that none could eat.
When it was discovered the weeds were there,
he was asked if he should remove each tare.
He said let them grow together
until the harvest is gathered.
Then tear the tares out where you find them.
and into their own bundles bind them.
Caleb Wuri Seed is a poet of farming.
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