Seven Haiku
          by “Wired Clues” Abe

In a parked car lot,
a dragonfly hovering;
the last day of work.

On the busy street,
in the middle of traffic,
a white heron walds.

It plods, back and forth,
across the dusty carpet:
the vacuum cleaner.

Two huge moving trucks,
ramps down, dollies loaded, men,
mobilized book ends.

Clink and clunk, kerplunk,
in the refrigerator:
the sound of ice cubes.

In the blazing Sun
beneath the droning airplane,
watering hedges.

On the horizon,
the athletic complex lights,
beneath the full moon.

“Wired Clues” Abe is an existential poet of Japanese forms in English on technology. According to Beau Lecsi Werd. Wald is a neologism, a verb meaning waddle-walk.

~~~

PC Bangs
          by Dae Wi “Scrub” Lee

In Seoul, in South Korea, PC Bangs are all the rage;
there are perhaps a thousand of these Internet cafes,
where people go to play computer games, with kin or friend,
before large PC monitors for hours upon end.
Computers are available for all one’s PC “needs”;
But the majority of people play games on the screens.
It is a way to meet new people, friendships can ensue,
addictive, indoor fun in air conditioned PC “rooms”.
There one can order ramen noodles or potato chips,
and drinks supplied, while one is playing, staying, taking sips.

Dae Wi “Scrub” Lee is a poet of Korea. “Bang”, pronounced “bong” means room in Korean. Seoul is a city of over 9,000,000.

~~~

On His Magic Carpet
          by Sec Wer El Dubai

He held on firmly to his magic carpet’s edge.
He didn’t want to fall off, flying through the air.
The ride was bumpy, but he strove to keep his pledge,
to keep on going till he reached release from care.
The currents were erratic, sheer kinetic force.
Up there alone and soaring, o, he felt so bare.
He wasn’t sure if he could make it, take the course.
And yet he gave it all he had. He had no choice.
His fate was like a wild stallion racing horse.
He wanted to relax. He wanted to rejoice.
And yet there wasn’t time to rest. He had to clench.
So on he rode despite his ride, on fate’s point poised.

Sec Wer El Dubai is a poet of Arabian Kingdoms. This month another repressive Arab monarchy (that of Bahrain) signed a peace treaty with Israel. Bahrain is an island country of about 1,500,000. As in Iran and Iraq, there is a Shiite majority.

~~~

Clash in the Caucasus
          by Darius Belewec

The armies of Armenia clashed with Azerbaijan,
along Nagorno-Krabakh, on Sunday after dawn.
Azerbaijani forces launched a vigorous attack,
including missiles; suddenly the hot war has come back.

A total military mobilization is on;
official state of war has been declared by Yerevan.
Artillery and air attacks have proven dangerous;
the escalation in hostilities is cranking up.

Some UAVs, some tanks, and helicopters on each side
have been brought down; more than three hundred soldiers also died.
And memories of genocide have surfaced once again
as Turkey seems to have sent forth some rebel terrorists.

Darius Belewevc is a poet of Armenia. Over 1,000,000 Armenians were exterminated by Turkey in the early 20th century and earlier. The word genocide was coined in relation to that particular murderous massacre, which Turkey refuses to acknowledge.

~~~

How Great It Is to Be a Turkish Neighbour
          by Eweseçü Birdal

Despite the fact it is a western Asian power force,
the plunge in Turkey’s currency continues on its course.
Engaged in Syria, with rebels under their command,
at odds with Kurds beyond their border and across their land,
filled up with animosity against Armenia,
the remnant of a people chased from Anatolia,
embroiled over varied issues that they have with Greece,
and also Cyprus, which they think one of their enemies.
How great it is to be a Turkish neighbour as of late,
just as its lira drops down to its lowest dollar rate.

Eweseçü Birdal is a poet of Turkey.

~~~

“The Artist and His Mother” by Arshile Gorky
          by Red Was Iceblue

“The Artist and His Mother” by Arshile Gorky’s hand,
a painted, transformed photograph of her and him in Van.
a simple vision almost classical in its design,
a silent stare, Armenian, of Turkish genocide.
Picassoesque, touched by Cezanne, both personal and shared,
the tragedy of millions in one portrait, bared and spared.
Young Gorky stands, beside his mother, in a formal coat;
the collar stiff, he holds a floral spray, his gaze remote.
His mother wears a pinafore, a scarf wrapped round her head;
her hands rest at her thighs, alive, but she will starve to death.

The palette, pale rose and terracotta colouring,
seems both ethereal and solid, real imagining.
Though close, the two seem disconnected, ochre, pink and white;
each other echoed there in stare, proximity in sight.
How strange they are, both near and far, both somber and profound,
as if in such simplicity their misery compounds.
Abstract, expressionist, American moderne,
and yet retaining something strained, Armenian and rare.
a Modern composition of traditional command,
“The Artist and His Mother” by Arshile Gorky’s hand.

Red Was Iceblue is a poet of Modernist, PostModernist, and New Millennial art. Arshile Gorky (1904 – 1948). was a noted Armenian-American Modernist painter.

~~~

The Poetry of R. Lee Ubicwedas
          by Wilbur Dee Case

The kind of poetry he wrote the World did not want;
it was a cross between the styles of Dante, Keats and Kant;
it was a mix of Vergil, Shakespeare, Milton and Descartes;
it was a blend of Aristotle, Plato, and éclat;
it was a combination of the ethical and good;
it was a fusion of the visionary and the true;
it was a union of math, science, history and art;
it was a poetry doomed from the start, but filled with heart;
it was a seeking after knowledge and enlightening;
it was a striving after understanding everything.

 

Hope
          by Wilbur Dee Case

At times it seems that all one has, when one is feeling low,
is hope, hope for a chance, a change in circumstances, oh,
hope for a better place to be amidst heartache and pain,
hope for a bit of happiness, hope for less stress and strain,
hope for an anchor in the turbulence of wind and storm,
hope for a dove to fly above, hope for a touch of warmth,
hope for an olive branch that falls down from an olive tree,
hope for a glass of wine beside some candles flickering,
hope for the strength allowing one to manage and to cope,
hope for more love, and hope that one not ever will lose hope.

Wilbur Dee Case is a poet and literary critic.