by B. S. Eliud Acrewe
In the beginning is the end, and as the end begins,
one comes upon a rows of houses at the city’s end.
An open field, grand and vast, is covered in lush grass,
so green beneath the azure blue of sky’s extensive gas,
the nitrogen and oxygen, refracted by the Sun.
It is the same as it was when the journey had begun.
Here at the meadow’s edge, the World opens fresh and new,
upon the blades of grass, the tiny diamond drops of dew,
the crickets chirping, crystalline and clear across the grass,
a choir that acquires the ears of any who may pass.
In the beginning is the end, and as the dawn goes on,
across the open field, leaving lovely lane and lawn,
one comes upon another realm beyond the deep red rose,
to long rock walls, cement slabs and, some scattered boulder flows.
This is the only gray within the giant bowl of green
surrounded by a line of trees along the skyline seen.
And there above the trees, like as some alien ship sent,
a giant water tower sits, high as a monument,
a cross between a classic dome on pillars standing tall,
or giant spider, concrete, reinforced, in steel sprawl.
What is coronavirus doing, vexing spring with plague;
the creatures of the meadow unconcerned on wing or leg.
The rabbit leaps across the flowing water in the ditch
that slowly trickles there beneath the rusty red-brown bridge.
A pair of ducks sits midst a puddle on a conrete slab,
a pair of killdeer tries distracting one who does not gab.
The swallows dive about the field, oblivious to stars,
the morning Sun, but one among the constellated wars.
Its blasting penetrates this stage, the crickets chattering,
converting hydrogen to helium, mass shattering.
The hoped for calm, the longed for balm the pleasing hebetude—
Have we deceived ourselves again, with peaceful quietude?
Since every moment is a new and shocking vision to
reality, we must be willing to exchange each view.
The past is but experience the dead had come to know,
the wisdom of the ages in the pages of the old.
The rose bush at the wooden fence, the honeysuckle swells,
the scarlet harlot in the garden, the perfued purple spells:
Though it seem not to be, the houses will not stay in place.
Don’t let enchantment keep one from humility and grace.
It isn’t much at the beginning, hardly anything,
some mild, slanting slopes, a narrow dale skinnying.
It’s not a place for gods. They do not frequent its rough trough;
and at its low and mean surroundings, they would rather scoff.
But in the end this is where some have come to pause and think,
where slowly what is not a creek begins to start and sink.
Here at the rusty bridge one sees a pond where frogs abide,
the tall and thin green reeds, pink evening primrose at its side,
as well as golden orange-yellow desert chickory,
each like a little living sun in windy flickering.
The distant goal so far away, is not infinity,
but hard to comprehend, like as the God of Trinity.
It measures time, not as we do, its canvas greater space;
it slowly swells beyond the Garden of this parklike place.
The morning doves don’t lie awake at night; at light they coo,
perduring time, not calculating any future view..
They sleep before their morning watch; there is no past for them;
they’re motivated by their instincts; their main strategem.
Meandering, the creek bed, only tri-ckl-ing at most,
the raging drainage of the deluge, vanished like a ghost.
One walks along, alone, and leaves the oak leaves on the trees,
the hoped-for health, the absence of the hated, late disease,
reminding us of Adam’s curse, as we proceed beyond
the roses and euonymus, in wakening at dawn.
Across the meadow’s length, the stridulating, crickets chirp,
the gossip, grand, mechanical, a whirling, swirling whirr,
accentuated only by the swallows overhead,
or rushing winds across the massive, grassy area,
like as some futuristic ruined Circus Maximus.
And though we may now call this Monday good, it taxes us.
So here one finds oneself beside the huge arena bowl,
the cricket match, a crowd of insects rattling en el Sol.
The distant elevated storage tank, high in the sky,
and gleaming white, reminds one that the urban sprawl is nigh.
Each venture is a new beginning to another end,
and each conclusion is a start to one more reascend.
Dawn takes one’s breath away. One breathes the fragrant, fresh air in.
Ah, grass, or straw, the air is redolent with each rich wind.
If not propitious, then at least one makes the great attempt,
here at this empty, brimming place with nature’s full assent.
The telly utters news of the new novel plague’s success,
but here one is each step removed from that and its duress.
The strangeness of the World and its many calls and cars
is far from here and morning’s daily masking of the stars.
Not merely is a lifetime not enough to comprehend,
it isn’t long enough to find assurance at the end.
When here and now both cease to matter, and all energy
is dissipated from these words and their vain venery,
how then shall old men be explorers of this endless climb
to the sub-lime and hoar-frost rime that comes to all in time?
B. S. Eliud Acrewe is a poet fond of the Anglo-American poet T. S. Eliot. Telly is a Britishism for television.
by “Clear Dew” Ibuse
common buckeye butterflies,
at th’ euonymus,
swarm thru the dusty fragrance,
in amourous elegance.
“Clear Dew” Ibuse is a writer of Japanese nature poetry.
What the Doctor Said
by Lu “Reed ABCs” Wei
On January 1st this year, the Chinese Communists
placed a complete gag order on the Wuhan Institute.
Since then the Communists have done their best to obfuscate,
and share disinformation on the COVID-19 plague.
A medical doc named Wu Xiaohau has lauched a site
exposing Shi Zhengli, to try to shine a little light.
He said she used lab animals to test the virus that
has now infected millions all across its Earthly track,
and also said at WIV they have disposed
the animals they used improperly, and were exposed.
His charges of mismanagement and negligence are clea;
perhaps what Shi Zhengli has done is nearly criminal.
Lu “Reed ABCs” Wei is a poet of China. WIV is an acronym for the Wuhan Institute of Virology. Though countries are not equally, or even accurately, in some cases, recording cases and deaths of COVID-19, at least over 3,000,000 have been infected and over 200,000 have died.
A Brief, But Happy Moment
by Sri Wele Cebuda
He got into the lotus pose upon the light brown couch,
altho he still wore big, black work boots—not much of a lanuge.
So awkwardly he stretctched his legs and likewise bent his knees.
He opened up his inner eye; he longed for utter peace.
He lifted up his head, his OM becoming, humming UMM.
He tongued the air there in the lap of meditation’s thrum.
Around him swirled pastel colours in a circle’s wheel.
He was in love with life, and loved the way he now could feel.
He felt the mighty gods had given him this fortune, luck.
a brief, but happy, moment in the universal flux.
Sri Wele Cebuda is a poet of meditation.
Three Achaian Perspectives
by Acwiles Berude
1. Achilles in the Tent
I am just so infurated that
I cannot stand it. Such ineptitude.
Old Agamemnon’s arrogant and fat.
What does he know of godly virtues, good?
True, he’s persistent, focused, tough as brass;
and that does go a long way in a fight;
however, he’s a greedy, pompous ass,
and doesn’t have a clue of what is right.
I hate to put up with his snottiness;
and as far as I am concerned, he can
go off to hell. I hate his haughtiness.
Commander, hmmph! He’s just a journeyman.
I’d just as soon as see him, see him gone,
as I would Troy, who never did me wrong.
2. Agamemnon on the Field
It is true; no one is as mad as him.
That absurd prima donna is insane.
His soul is a melancholic chasm
that would destroy us all with bile and bane.
I hate him, for he is a pompous twit,
and overly dramatic. He thinks he’s
the only one who matters. What a git.
And nothing pleases him but his own ease.
That egomaniac presumes no one
can fight but him. He is all flux and mood.
He’s more like a teenager than grown man,
a stormy fury lacking any good.
I so hate having to put up with his
theatrics as if he is all there is.
3. Odysseus at the Seashore
Both Agamemnon and Achilles are
so powerful, and yet undisciplined.
Each sees himself as a bright, shining star;
but each is rather like a whirling wind,
a cyclone lacking subtlety and wit,
without the wily cleverness that aids
in solving problems. Granted, true, tough grit
is vital; but intelligence invades.
It is the thing that gets one home alive.
Oh, even if it takes a decade’s length!
because, it’s true, the goal is to survive;
that in and of itself is a great strength.
And so, although no man can know enough,
it’s what he knows that matters in the rough.
Acwiles Berude is a poet of ancient Greece. His favourite poet is Homer, composer of epics, the “Iliad” and the “Odyssey”. Achilles, Agamemnon and Odysseus are main characters from them.
This Side of Eternity
by Aedile Cwerbus
In Seventy-nine, Mount Vesuvius
erupted, and destroyed Pompeii, keeping
it ironically impervious
to nature’s inevitable sweeping
away of the past. Lava made it last
far beyond the ravages of savage
time. Into eternity it was cast,
and salvaged for use in a later age,
as a store of knowledge for life back then,
hardly what its inhabitants wanted,
though no one has been able to ask them.
Most had answered by running the gauntlet,
except for perhaps the elder Pliny,
who wanting data, didn’t get any.
Aedile Cwerbus is a poet of ancient Rome. The elder Pliny (23/24 – 79) was a Roman naturalist and military commander. He died trying to get data on the eruption of Mount Vesuvius.
The Second Draft of a Zapped Poem
by Bieder C. Weslau
—Uwe Carl Diebes
A city in the Ostwestfallen-Lippe Region, ah,
found in the northeast district of North-Rhine, Westphalia,
with population of 340,000 there:
some claim does not exist at all; it’s really only air;
and propagated by the entity that’s know as SIE,
whose members figure in the Bielefeld Conspiracy.
Have you been there? Do you know anyone from there as well?
Do you know anybody who has gone to Bielefeld?
If you can answer yes to any of these questions, then
you must be part of SIE and the conspiracy. Amen.
Bieder C. Weslau is a poet of Germany. Quatsch! is a German interjection meaning “nonsense”.
A Ginger Chew
by Carb Deliceuwe
Post breakfast, lunch or dinner, I enjoy a ginger chew;
the inexpensive candy is a tangy, zesty glue.
Made with cane sugar, ginger, and some tapioca starch,
some virgin coconut and lychee flavour supercharged.
The ones I eat right now are made by Indonesian hands,
but I don’t know where their machines are—island, city, plans.
The sweet and spicy treat is so delicious that I could
eat far more of its thich and sticky goo-drops than I should.
And so I limit myself to just one post any meal,
no matter how I long for them, no matter how I feel.
Carb Deliceuwe is a poet of food. According to Beau Lecsi Wurd, “thich” is a neologism meaning thick and rich.