Haiku
by “Clear Dew” Ibuse
Th’ evening mockingbird
flits so rapidly, he is
a quick visitor.
Haiku
by “Clear Dew” Ibuse
A grasshopper sits
in a hibiscus blossom,
green against yellow.
“Clear Dew” Ibuse is a haiku traditionalist.
~~~
Haiku
by “Wired Clues” Abe
The morning commute,
like an atmo-filling jet,
makes a huge dull roar.
Haiku
by “Wired Clues” Abe
Huge, wispy clouds
pass silently overhead.
Below, traffic’s loud.
“Wired Clues” Abe is a NewMillennial haiku writer. Masaoka Shiki (1867-1902) is sometimes credited with coining the term “haiku” as a stand-alone poetic form.
~~~
Tanka & Triplet
by W. S. “Eel” Bericuda
It is so shallow
where the waves crash on the beach
and the sky rises,
where the land meets the water
at the edge of the ocean.
The orc is a cetacean, a grampus,
that rides the seas’ oceanic pampas
without a sextant or any compass.
W. S. “Eel” Bericuda is a poet of the sea.
~~~
Newsreel:
In CITIC Tower, a small aircraft crashed//////smashed/////ka-ching//////
It is the tallest building in the city of Beijing.
A Sunward SA 60L Aurora was the plane;
but why Liu Junhua c-r-a-s-h-e-d it—no one knows—Was he insane?
The China Zun (CITIC Tower @ 528 meters) design comes from the zun, an ancient Chinese wine vessel.
~~~
Drowning the Age-Old Woe
by Li “Webcrease” Du
Dear friends of mine, cheer up, cheer up. I invite you to wine.
Do not put down your cup. Drink up. And I’ll sing while we dine.
Hear this. What difference will rare and costly dishes make?
Let’s drink and drink and drink, get drunk, not needing to awake.
Through th’ ages, just how many great persons will be forgot?
How many sober sages will be lost among that lot?
The Prince of Poets feasted in the Palace at his will,
a thousand dollars for a cask, fill after fill. Refill.
A host should not complain of money. Sell much for some cash.
A fur coat and a dappled horse trade for a lively bash.
Li “Webcrease” Du is a poet of Chinese. Li Bai (701-762) was a poet of the Tang dynasty.
~~~
In All the History of Siege Warfare
by Delir Ecwabeus
In all the history of siege warfare,
few can compare with Zopyrus,
who, as an advisor to Darius,
the Persian ruler, did what few would dare
to bring about Babylon’s fall. There are
few who could ever be so devious
as this crazed, bold son of Megabyzus,
who cut off his own nose and ears and hair,
and then flogged himself, just so he could gain
entrance into Babylon, pretending
to hate Persia, Darius then sending
troops to staged places so he could attain
Babylonians’ faith in him again
and again, getting charge for defending
the city; but then later opening
the protective gates to the Persians’ bane.
It is said Darius would have preferred
to see Zopyrus unhurt, uninjured,
than twenty more Babylons. I have this word
from the Histories of Herodotus.
Delir Ecwabeus is a poet of Ancient Persia. In the above duodecad, Darius I (c. 550 BC – 486 BC) was the king of Persia from 522 BC – 486 BC. Zopyrus was a noted noble Persian who helped King Darius. Herodotus (c. 484 BC – c. 424 BC) was a noted Ancient Greek writer, known as “the father of History.”
~~~
Le Tombeau de Jesus Christ
by Crise de Abu Wel
“Even the laws of physics change, must change!”
—Ira “Dweeb” Scule
Tel qu’en Lui-même enfin l’éternité le change,
he leaves, leaves the Universe only his linen,
the blank white sheets upon which nothing is written
of the fury or the light of that distant dawn.
A few futile lines of Matthew, Mark, Luke, or John—
sad, sad attempts to touch that terrible minute,
the torment of that moment—
the Sun sent spinning
with it, and, then, even that gone, forever gone…
hardly sufficient to contain the suffering
and the tranquility always there hovering
nearby, that purest peace, posited and opened,
like the flat, dry loaves of bread upon the table
beyond the belabored birth within the stable
that seemed to go on and on and on for no end.
Coda:
With a log in my eye, how can I see what’s right?
O, my Lord, only You can free me from my plight.
I depend on your will for my hope and my light.
O, my God, Your truth shines on high. O what a sight.
Crise de Abu Wel is a poet of the Good Father.
~~~
Newsreel:
Refineries in flames and long lines at gas stations show
the impact of Ukrainian, but Russia, too, has drones.
~~~
The Plain Chant Hymn
by Ewald E. Eisbruc
Several things conjoin to make
the plain chant hymn sublime.
First off, it’s sung for Jesus’ sake;
it weathers well with time.
Second the melody is smooth;
the notes don’t jump about;
they focus on a sacred truth
and slowly work it out.
Thirdly, they’re contemplative songs;
they aren’t hemmed in by beat;
they reach for what the spirit longs
in simple meters mete.
And lastly, they are monophone;
no instruments intrude.
So though they groan in somber tone,
the soul still finds them good.
Ewald E. Eisbruc is a poet of song.
~~~
An Archaic Statue of Hercules
by Rudi E. Welec, “Abs”
“Du must dein Leben ändern.”
—Rainer Maria Rilke (1875-1926)
I came across a sculpted piece just recently.
It was a lifelike statue of old Hercules.
The ancient Greek hero was tall, but dented. He
was also old, as old as wily Ulysses.
The centuries had worn this Roman copy well;
but there was one small chip out of its noble nose,
and there were other marks one could easily tell.
It was quite an old piece; and yet despite all those
flaws, it was still remarkable. I was amazed
that it had even lasted this long. All those years
had not destroyed the cheeks or jaw of its firm face,
and one could still see the sinews in its shoulders.
It stood erect upon its formidable legs,
which, despite time’s enormous power, were intact,
though from a distance looked a little like shriveled pegs.
Up close one could see ugly marks upon the back.
So, overall, this sculpted work had, in fact, worn
rather well, though it was not as dynamic as
more modern ones, like those finely wrought works by Bjorn:
The Hiker, The Quarterback, The End, and The Pass.
Still there was something exquisite in its gray shape,
a thing that made it worthy of a certain awe.
After all, it had managed somehow to escape
thus far the clutches of time’s inexorable law.
Who knows but maybe even Statius had seen
its miniature in the time of Domitian,
or maybe Ovid saw it before he had been
exiled to the Black Sea by hard Octavian.
Whatever the case may be, it’s a miracle
of sorts that I have come to see it standing near,
imperious, impious, and empirical,
this hunk of hard material and hard matter.
Although the artist has done a very good job,
I would have made the abdomen less flabby, and
I would have made the shoulders broader. I would crop
the hair shorter, and I would make the statue stand
differently. There’s not a work of art one can’t
improve; nonetheless, I am still happy I got
to see this work, so staid, so strong, so elegant.
It reminds me that there are heights that I have not
yet reached. It’s a spur to my imagination.
It goads me on to striving for a finer form.
My satisfaction requires examination
to find greater order despite Earth’s fiercest storm.
Rudi E. Welec, “Abs”, is a poet of physical excellence. Rainer Maria Rilke (1875-1926) was a German Modernist poet.
~~~
The Dicta of Boelke
by Uwe Carl Diebes
The Dicta of Boelcke are as follows:
1) Before attacking, try to secure
advantages. [Lurk in the shadows.]
Keep the sun’s rays behind you. 2) Once you’re
started, always carry through the attack.
3) Fire when your opponent’s in your eye
sight, at close range. 4) Keep him from your back.
Keep an eye on him. Don’t be deceived by
ruses. 5) Assail from behind. 6) Meet
your opponent’s dives. Do not evade them.
7) Don’t forget your line of retreat.
8) Attack in groups. Follow verbatim.
Uwe Carl Diebes is a poet of Germany. Oswald Boelke (1891-1916) was a Modernist German pilot.
~~~
Newsreel:
More than two-thousand died in Venezuela’s harsh earthquake;
it was the nation’s worst catastrophe—this brutal s-h-a-k-e.
~~~
King Kong, 1933
by Cawb Edius Reel
From the unreal island
comes the unreal beast—Kong,
transported to high and
mighty New York City
at the edgemost of Long
Island, grand and gritty.
Far from his primitive
surroundings, he stood chained
on stage, yet still alive,
alarmed by flashing lights,
by the media pained,
crazed with vague, insane frights.
His flight took him from there
to the streets filled with cars,
els with trains, sidewalks where
thousands of people ran.
Buildings, beneath the stars,
he climbed like stairs. From man
he fled upward to the
Empire State Building’s roof,
trying only to leave,
with Fay Wray in his hand,
huge, outrageous, aloof,
under no one’s command,
falling from that great height
only after being
strafed by airplanes in flight,
falling from enslavement—
something amazing seen—
that beast—to the pavement.
Life’s Not Like the Movie
by Cawb Edius Reel
William Powell, Myrna Loy, and Asta,
though death does occur as oft—that’s not myth;
and it does have its humorous bits. The
fun is entwined with the miserable,
just as the sordid and good are mixed in
together. Someone’s always in trouble;
and the whole bloody lot ‘s like a pigs’ pen.
No, life isn’t at all like The Thin Man,
where every event is choreographed;
each person has his or her own entrance
and exit; and each speech is for a laugh.
Yet, what’s this nagging and gnawing at me,
that what life is like is this—exactly!
Cawb Edius Reel is a poet of film. Fay Wray (1907-2004) was a Modernist Canadian-American actress. William Powell (1892-1984) and Myrna Loy (1905-1993) were Modernist American actors.
~~~
“It’s a great day to be alive.
I know the sun’s still shining when I close my eyes.
There’s some hard times in the neighborhood,
but why can’t every day be just this good.”
—Darrell Scott
Darrell Scott is PostModernist American singer-songwriter.
~~~
The Perfume of the Pink Petunias
by A. Sbice Redulew
The perfume of the pink petunias
suffuses in the hot afternoon sun,
surrounding long, lanky blue lobelias.
It would be a beautiful illusion
if it weren’t real. Such luscious loveliness!
It reminds me of sunny, spring-morning
Sundays: lively. colorful, brilliant, fresh,
a rococo fountain’s rich outpouring.
The brightness of the sky opens the mind,
as if heaven was opening windows
on those in the dark, the lost and the blind,
and placing the shrine of new light in those.
From Another World
by A. Sbice Redulew
Walking along an Astorian street,
his nose was suddenly assaulted by
the smell of brand-new brambles and stickers.
The smell was penetratingly green, sweet,
and filled him with deeply held feelings he
sensed were part of much earlier vigor.
But that’s all he had—a few incomplete
memories that seemed to fall from the sky,
lacking any elaborate rigor,
that haunted his rambles, if not his feet.
A Sbice Redulew is a poet of redolent flowers.
~~~
Another Pregnancy
A second pregnancy?
Can you believe we would do it?
Isn’t one difficult enough?
Another infancy?
Do you think we will get through it.
The productions of love are rough.
Tanka
by E “Birdcaws” Eule
Amongst the green leaves,
the light from the distant Sun
vanishes from view.
By degrees, night-time appears
beyond the heads of robins.
E. “Birdcaws” Eule is a poet of birds.
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