by “Clear Dew” Ibuse
They turn bright scarlet—
the flowering pear-tree leaves—
before they all fall.
“Clear Dew” Ibuse is a haikuist who very much admires the haikus of Yosa Buson (1716-1784).
by E “Blue Screw” Dai
The slow riser tucks
blanket corners and sides in:
by E “Blue Screw” Dai
In cold autumn’s night,
the hot furnace of the Sun
burns not like my lamp,
which though it draws but an amp,
illumines, ooh, like the Moon.
E “Blue Screw” Dai is a surreal expressionist poet. He has here in mind the skeleton of a poem by Modernist Iranian poet Nima Yooshij (1897-1960).
Clive James (1939-2019)
by Walibee Scrude
Australian born and British fed—the lively Clive is dead:
leukaemia and emphysema, carcinoma bled.
When he was at his prime, his columns shook the literate,
wise-cracks that sparkled fireworks, with bright, sardonic wit.
And in this New Millennium, he kept his writing up;
his opal sunset setting amber in his shiny cup.
Clive James made letters fun; he had a lot of things to say,
a spritely Wilde and Wolfe beguiled, a sparkling, gurgling Gray.
And now he’s with the ages, pages permanently dumb,
Farewell and, hey, he met his final deadline with aplomb.
by Walibee Scrude
On Tuesday, citizens woke up to smoky skies and haze,
Australia’s largest city Sydney in a choking daze.
A stench of smoke there penetrated homes and offices.
Those plagued by varied ailments were hit by coughing fits.
A cloud of smog has blanketed the city, like a shroud,
at levels that are hazardous, that sicken some no doubt.
Advisories to stay indoors were issued hourly;
all should refrain from outdoor physical activity.
Despite the ocean breeze, the coastal region was as well,
like as a fumigation spraying coming straight from Hell.
And since October fires have been raging cross the land;
six deaths so far, more than 500 homes burned to the ground.
Walibee Scrude is a poet of Australia. Metropolitan Sydney has a population of around 5,000,000. Tuesday November 18, 2019, is the date mentioned in the poem. Vulnerable ailments include asthma, emphysema, and angina. This week more than sixty fires were burning across New South Wales.
The Hong Kong Vote
by Lu “Reed ABCs” Wei
On Sunday, Hong Kong citizens—almost 3,000,000 souls—
queued up to vote on candidates in this their latest poll.
The anti-Communist, pro-Democratic aspirants
won near 400 of 452 seats they could get.
Though councillors aren’t powerful, they still can do some things,
like this slap in the face of dictatorial Beijing.
The people are not happy with their present government,
and voted for a new political establishment.
Lo Kin-hei says the district councillors can send funds to
the protest movement if that is just what they want to do.
Lu “Reed ABCs” Wei is a poet of China.
A Mumbai Amble
by Abeer Dewi Lucs
Lunch at the Kala Ghoda, a small, quaint cafe amidst
the hustle and the bustle of the narrow city streets.
Next up the massive Asiatic, a library that
contains a hundred-thousand books and priceless artifacts.
Nearby are old abandoned buildings taken over by
the Navy, and a painted mural that will catch the eye.
Off to the Causeway, past the Royal Cinemas,
Police Headquarters, and historic Bombay NHS.
Then to the Gateway Arch of India, a monument,
from where in 1948 the British Army left.
Close by the Taj looks out upon th’ Arabian Sea’s brack;
the place of the cru’l terrorist 2008 attack.
The Leopold Cafe was last, near to the Mondegar;
and this five-to-six hour trip was done without a car.
Abeer Dewi Lucs is a poet of India. This poem comes from the cahiers of the Travellothoner, who resides in Mumbai, which has a metropolitan population of over 20,000,000, making it one of the largest cities of the World.
by Delir Ecwabeus
The Khameiniist government, in lock-down mode, has let
authorities restore more access to the Internet.
Atrocities committed are now coming to the fore,
and pictures of the hundreds murdered show up by the score.
In Gorgan, a protester’s killed, his head smashed with an axe,
and then shot point-blank at close range, just one of these attacks.
The county manager in Sirjan said that he himself
gave orders to kill demonstrators, as they must be quelled.
One woman dared to help a person wounded mortally,
and she was shot to death. So many treated brutally.
And proof’s emerged that Revolutionary Guards attacked,
at random, homes and cars, so demonstrators were not backed.
At least 5,000, maybe double that, jailed in Iran,
in cities, some 160+, across Iran.
In Fashafouyah prison screams of torture have been heard,
as well as in Karaj, Eslamshahr, Quds, and Shahriar.
Arrests are still continuing, Shiraz and Hamedan,
as well as many in the western province Lorestan.
In Khuzestan, a man was tortured by the prison force;
the marks quite visible when family received the corpse.
Unfortunately this will be quite easy to forget—
too many names, too many faces, on the Internet.
by Delir Ecwabeus
When was it that your thoughtful amble came to me—such ease?
How was it that your earthly walk was whispered by the breeze?
How long has it been since your humble birth? O, please tell me.
How did that fire tell the story of your ecstasy?
How long ago did that volcano’s mighty top explode?
Such crystal purity. When was it that that water flowed?
How long will we wait here until the great Seas rise again?
How was it that the Earth was undeniable? And when?
How was it that the World was so true, Ahmad Shamlou?
Iran must wait how long until a burst of hope renew?
Delir Ecwabeus is a poet of Iran. The woman murdered was Amena Shahbazi. Hamid Sheikhani was the man in Khuzestan. Ahmad Shamlou (1925-2000) was an Iranian Postmodernist poet.
by Ira “Dweeb” Scule
The subatomic particle that’s called X17
is still considered hypothetical. Has it been seen?
Attila Krasznahorkay has proposed this particle
as cause of the anomalous results too hard to call.
In 2015, scientists in Hung’ry maybe found
a photophobe X boson, data that seemed to astound.
Could this then be a new force? O, was it giving mega jolts?
What was its mass? Could it be measured in electron-volts?
Before with lithium and now with helium, they got,
this month, results that gave them pause: dark matter touching thought.
Ira “Dweeb” Scule is a poet of science.
by Euclidrew Base
The simplest epicyclic curve would be the cardioid,
a circle rolling round upon a same-sized circle’s side.
The heart-shaped figure that’s produced can truly be enjoyed,
for its formed figure is produced from quite a thrilling ride.
If both the circles each possess a radius of one,
then following a point upon the rolling circle’s fun.
Equations parametric that describe where it is at
use sine and cosine, y and x, on a cartesian plat.
Although the cardioid equation is somewhat involved,
its algebraic curve can be fulfilling, if not loved.
Euclidrew Base is a poet of mathematics. The cardioid was studied by Danish astronomer Ole Rømer (1644-1710) in 1674, Frenchman Philippe La Hire (1640-1718) in 1708, and was named by Italian Johann Castillon (1704-1791) in 1741.
At Mozart’s Grave
by Ewald E. Eisbruc
Was Joseph Haydn right, but still far off the mark? Posterity will not see such a gifted man in twice one hundred years, that is, Wolfgang Mozart; and who knows just how many more before there’s one. He died at thirty-five, and was interred within a common grave at Saint Marx Cemetery, Wien. He died of an acute rheumatic fever in December…maybe…Salieri, Süssmayr, and van Swieten were there with two other musicians, on that calm and mild day. But little more was planned. There were no symphonies, concertos, operas, chorales, or chamber music. All was falling sand.
Ewald E. Eisbruc is a poet and music critic of German and Austrian music. Joseph Haydn (1732-1809), along with Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart (1756-1791), Ludwig van Beethoven (1770-1827) and Franz Schubert (1797-1928) were the major fugures of the Classical era in music. Lesser known figures included Antonio Salieri (1750-1825), Franz Süssmayr (1766-1803), and patron Gottfried van Swieten (1733-1803), who attended Mozart’s funeral. Wien (Vienna) is the capital of Austria with a population of about 2,000,000. This prose poem has 144 syllables.
The Tesla Cyber Truck
by Bruc “Diesel” Awe
The Tesla Cyber Truck, inspired by the “Blade Runner” film,
was recently revealed; Elon Musk there at its helm.
When showing off the pick-up truck with hardened window glass,
the helper broke two windows. Oops! that wasn’t s’posed to pass.
Despite the hiccup at the launch, new orders quickly came;
though Tesla stock too took a hit and lost some of its flame.
Its angular design was greeted with both cheers and smiles,
but all the hype was good for business, advertising wise.
The stainless-steel electric-truck, a future truck on wheels,
was silver white, triangular, a sharp isosceles.
Bruc “Diesel” Awe is a poet of vehicles. The helper’s name was Franz von Holzhausen.
The Labourer in Lotus Pose
by Des Wercebauli
Although it was in a garage with bright white-painted walls,
and he wore black athletic shoes and working overalls,
he got into the lotus pose beside his bright red truck,
and stretched his legs out to each side, his hands down at his butt.
He raised his torso, shoulders back, he slightly turned his head.
He felt like as a clunky chunk beside his truck of red.
The light within bathed him without there by one of the tires.
It hardly seemed a perfect place for spiritu’l desires.
And yet, he’d do his best to meditate in such a spot.
Upon the gray cement he opened up his mind a lot.
Des Wercebauli is a poet of work.
That Quiet Urb in Black and White
by Cawb Edius Reel
The Sun was shining only in the spaces found between
tall buildings up above the street; just briefest gleams there seen.
A listless youth walks by a pet? along the way, the curb;
across the street another’s walking in that quiet urb.
The only car is up ahead, parked by the sidewalk’s curve
near where two other figures are; their distant forms quite blurred.
Tall, shaded buildings stand designed with long black verticals,
perhaps once elegant, they now seem drab and dirty—all.
This city setting, clicked from someone’s focused camera,
could be in Europe, Africa, or the Americas.
Cawb Edius Reel is a poet of film and photography. The name of the American with the focused camera is hidden in L3.
by Ileac Burweeds
He sat upon that rigid rock. He was uncomf’rtable.
But from that point on high he had a good view overall.
In hiking boots, he had climbed up to his perch at that height.
The scenery around him was so grand, o, out of sight,
He longed to hold on to the sky; it made him feel content;
but he knew it would change, eventu’lly he would be left.
Still, for a moment, he felt he was on top of the World;
the rugged landscape , near and far, about his body swirled.
Could he keep balanced on that mount, right at the mighty sky.
To get up there, he felt that he was quite a lucky guy.
Those Grassy Hills
by Ileac Burweeds
He saw the awesome grassy hills rise high above the plain;
they were so grand and beautiful they took his breath away.
He gazed upon their contours with excitement in his eye,
especi’lly as they rose up to the vast dynamic sky.
O, he would love to live by them, if only for awhile,
as they would greet him in the morning with their gorgeous smiles.
And he would love to take them on on sunny afternoons,
and climb their sides above the valley, everbound, but new.
O, he would take his walking stick and climb their lovely trails,
and leave behind the realm of men and that which time assails.
Out to the Forest
by Ileac Burweeds
He went out to the forest; dappled light came through the leaves.
He had been hiking for some time; there wasn’t any breeze.
So he went over just to rest upon some tree-trunk’s bark.
It was like as he was within a calm idyllic park.
He wore a long-sleeved plaid shirt on his chest, and hiking shoes,
as well as blue jeans on his legs. He longed to take a snooze.
He felt, like as old Rip Van Winkle, though he wasn’t old.
He dreamed some ugly satyr came up to him brash and bold.
He gave him golden ale that would make him fall asleep,
a decade-long nap there with Pan within the forest deep.
Ileac Burweeds is a poet of nature. Rip Van Winkle is a character from a story by Washington Irving (1783-1859), who falls a sleep for a decade during the time of the American Revolutionary War (1775-1783). Pan is the Greek god of nature and mountain wilds.
The Manxsome Wobblejock
by Web Reediculas
He looked so very awkward in the birthday suit he wore,
gargantuan and cyclopean, like he’d been at war.
He was a giant, gangling monster stretched out on all fours,
who looked like he was just about to launch into a soar.
Ungainly, ugly, cumbersome, it was a miracle
he even was, and yet I saw he was empirical.
I saw him, in a fleeting moment, pass before my eyes.
His leaving, like his swift appearance, filled me with surprise.
Galumphing like a giant, nasty crab, as he did walk,
I knew at once that he must be a manxsome wobblejock.
O, I was glad to see his back pass, for he was absurd,
there whiffling through the whispom wood beneath a bujbuj bird.
Web Reediculas is a poet of the absurd. Victorian nonsense was progenitor to Dadaism and Surrealism.
The Exerciser of the Mind and Body
by Rudi E. Welec, “Abs”
I saw him exercising in his home, but he was not
upon the pieces of eqipment, standing near his yawn.
He wore a tanktop anyway, as if to say he would
be serious about his exercising—at least he could.
He was down on his hands and knees, prepared to exercise;
but he had not begun when he was taken by surprise.
Some dude stood there and said to him, “What are you doing, sir?
You rather should be praying, yes. Pray for beatitude.”
That moment seemed to spin around within a swirling whirl;
although reality seemed stopped, things started to unfurl.
What should he do? He did not know. He had been taken in.
And everything around him seemed swept up within a spin.
Rudi E. Welec, “Abs”, is a poet of exercise.