Aubade to Maia
by U. Carew Delibes
O, slightly snoring damsel, resting, sleeping happily;
it’s time for me to rise and go; though not to Innisfree.
Though I am free, the birds are calling me to leave this Inn;
it’s time for me to greet the morning dawn, and even grin.
O, body of my soul, o, spirit of my beating heart,
why do I have to leave, my love? Why do I have to part?
I’d rather stay, like yesterday, and still remain alive;
this is the place I’d rather be, where I want to arrive.
O, let me stay a little longer. Let me be with you.
I cannot get enough of you, good, beautiful and true.
U. Carew Delibes is a poet of French music. An aubade is a poem or piece of music associated with Dawn.
His Eyes Were Wide Awake
by Seer Ablicadew
I saw him in his bed at night; his eyes were wide awake;
but not because he was ill or he had a stomach ache.
His head was propped up by his hand, cupped in his open palm,
but not because he had a head ache, nor was seeking balm.
His wrinkled, green shirt hung upon his chest; it was not tight;
behind him one could not see much for there was little light;
and yet his face was lit amidst the blankets and the sheets,
as if awakened from a dreamy sleep or pleasing sweet,
as if there was an aura or a halo’s inner stream:
No, he was on his cell phone bathed in RF energy.
Seer Ablicadew is a poet of sight, insight and the out of sight.
An American Band
by Usa W. Celebride
for Luis Lázaro Tijerina
Beneath the stars they danced to Artie Shaw and “The Beguine”;
the World War had not begun except beyond the seas.
They heard his mellow clarinet far from the Japanese.
That night—the rapture and the music—love’s sweet whisperings.
There were no clouds; there was no curse; dark embers—not a one.
Lips kissed beneath those stars; there was no European—none.
The band was grand; the instruments shined; suits and ties were neat.
Hearts beating each to each; love happy and the night complete.
They wished that it would never end, the melody, the mood.
It was so wonderful. It was so fine. It was so good.
Usa W. Celebride is a poet of the United States of America. Contemporary poet Tijerina reminds him of America in a time of World War.
by Waseel Budecir
Yet I cannot believe the Yeti is a real thing,
a Himalayan legend, when Tibet lacks realty.
Imperialist China claims the country is all theirs
Whose else could it be if not Beijing’s? Who dare call it else?
The Dalai Lama does not want to ruffle Indians,
because they let him stay there in the snowy shadowlands,
at McLeod Ganj, a Dharamshala suburb in Kangra,
above 2,000 metres, in the Himachal Pradesh.
Besides Prime Minister Narenda Modi snubbed the Da,
because Xi Jinping’s in control…in total Damyata.
Waseel Budecir is a poet of the Himalayas. Here “Damyata” suggests “self-control.”
The Laser-Focused, Surgical Precision Strikes in Syria on April 13, 2018
by Cid Wa’eeb El Sur
More than 100 British, French and US missiles fell
near Homs, and near Damascus, in the Syrian-sown hell,
on biological and chemical sites where they make
the kinds of poisons Ghouta residents have had to take.
The smell of smoke and fire wafted over the remains—
barbaric Barza Research and Development—insane:
this “one-time shot” against Assad’s use of the chlorine gas,
most hoped would be his last; though who knows what in time will pass.
And though the bombings could not benefit the Douma deaths,
the hope was there’d be no more, or at least there would be less.
The Syrian Kabuki Dance
by Cid Wa’eeb El Sur
It’s so confusing. Who can really tell what’s going on,
in Syria, as war continues, day in, day out, dawn?
And I’m not sure America is helping in the least
in the apocalyptic battle of the raging Beast;
nor Daesh, also known by many as Islamic State;
nor Russia, Turkey, or Iran, nor France or the UK;
Ahrar al-Sham, Jaysh al-Islam, and the Al-Nusra Front.
The conflagration is so great, civilians bear the brunt.
The devastation doesn’t stop. What can the World do,
with over half a million dead, two million wounded too?
And in the latest missile strike, it seems that Russia was—
along with Syria, Iran, and Israel—prewarned.
What kind of signalling is this in this kabuki dance,
elaborate and stylized, but limited by chance?
Cid Wa’eeb El Sur is a poet of the Middle East.
Tittle Tattle Tales
by Wic E. Ruse Blade
My homey Comey wrote a foamy, show-me, tell-all tome,
“A Higher Loyalty” with higher royalties to come.
He scolded Donald Trump and told us all about his dump,
another creature from the dark lagoon, that ample swamp.
My dormie Stormy did inform me of her fix with Coh’n,
the porn star, borne far, in her hard-core car with mega-phone.
Mike Cohen claimed his pliant client was Sean Hannity.
It’s not the zepp’lin frame in flames…but…o, humanity.
The legendary R. Lee Ermey in real life and film
was knocked down by pneumonia. Damn, time always overwhelms.
Without full metal jacket on, he was a gutsy guy,
the funny Gunny left on Sunday. Godspeed, semper fi.
And bushy Bar’bra Bush right at the end gave up the care
of trying just to keep alive. Though done, she stayed aware.
She told the doctor near the end; despite all, she still joked;
why George turned out the way he did, it’s when I drank and smoked.
A New Dark Age
by Esca Webuilder
A new Dark Age descends upon a witless mindlessness
that permeates the Intenet with its unthinking cess,
that loves censorious fault-finding, carping viciousness,
believing that disparaging is better than to bless.
The new inanity that googoo, faceless mobs express
when they descry those they don’t like and foolishly regress
into stupidity and trivial antithesis;
like vile ogres in their hate, opposing, they oppress.
It is a mindless lunacy, an inept senselessness,
a brainless dullness verging on profound unconsciousness.
Esca Webuilder is a poet of the Internet.