by “Clear Dew” Ibuse
Up, down, and up, down,
crawling around on the floor.
The baby’s moving.
“Clear Dew” Ibuse is a poet of haiku.
by “Wired Clues” Abe
dyed his white hair black.
by “Wired Clues” Abe
Oh, how pitiful:
a black cricket on its back,
upon the driveway.
“Wired Clues” Abe is a NewMillennial haiku poet. Saitō Sanemori (c. 1111 – 1183) was a noted Japanese samurai, who dyed his hair before he died upon the battlefield, so he would not be spared because of his advanced age.
The Badmitten Birdie
by Rudi E. Welec, “Abs”
“…this little bird who lives on the wind…”
One hits the webbed badminton birdie up;
perhaps one hits it over fifty times;
but it will always fall to earth—abrupt-
ly. It is fun to watch it as it climbs;
one has an optimistic air and hope,
when following its arc with wishful eyes.
One wonders how one’s going next to cope,
when now it tumbles through the airy skies.
One swings the string-crossed racket once again;
the birdie spirals up to heaven’s blue;
it passes over grass and net, and then,
as it descends once more, one follows through,
and one again can watch it as it flies,
until it falls to earth and where it lies.
Rudi E. Welec, “Abs”, is a poet of sport and leisure. Marianne Faithfull is a contemporary singer.
The World’s Busiest Airports: 2021
by Air Weelbed Suc
For passenger traffic:
1. Atlanta, GA
2. Dallas-Fort Worth, TX
3. Denver, CO
4. Chicago, IL
5. Los Angeles, CA
6. Charlotte, NC
7. Orlando, FL
8. Guangzhou, China
9. Chengdu, China
10. Las Vegas, NV
1. Hong Kong, China
2. Memphis, TN
3. Shanghai, China
4. Anchorage, AK
5. Incheon, South Korea
6. Louisville, KY
7. Taipei, Taiwan
8. Los Angeles, CA
9. Tokyo, Japan
10. Doha, Qatar
by Air Weelbed Suc
The pilot lands the plane along the lines
of shining lights upon the tarmac grid,
like a night bird alights upon a limb
near city neon with a sudden jerk.
Two hundred passengers coast to a stop;
each trepidation felt dissolves away;
they pull their luggage down and disembark;
each individual goes on their way.
Each action of reality’s instilled
with many layers of complexity
that everywhere one dares to look is filled
with more than patterns of perplexity,
a rich profusion at each turn of life
awaits each one prepared to meet it: rife.
Air Weelbed Suc is a poet of aircraft and flight.
Albania has severed its relations with Iran,
due to a cyber strike upon its infrastructure plan.
The Ordinary Man
by Radice Lebewsu
His world had changed. He had to lurk in shadows. It was odd.
The enemy was everywhere. They longed to thrash his bod’.
But he too wanted to eradicate his enemy,
to stop their madness, yes, to keep his eyes on everything.
At times he was so tired of it all, but knew he had
to keep on being vigilant on deadly, screwy Vlad.
Who knew when one of his crazed, vicious minions would attack?
He needed to be watchful, from his front, his sides, his back.
A cup of coffee creamed helped when he faced the next in line,
who kept on coming through the bushes: seven, eight, and nine.
He lurked among the sunlit hills, and hung out at the nast.
He hid among the brush and bushes, near the summer grass.
The camo helped, as did the ammo in his dark brown belt.
Upon the battlefield, he felt, like as an unkillt Celt.
No wonder then, unseen, unknown, he wondered who knew him.
Nobody cared, nobody shared, his flagging or his vim.
He wondered would there ever be an end to this turmoil,
this boiling kettle, on this roiling and unsettling soil.
He felt so raw…within…this straw, so smelly and so tired;
but he knew he must keep it up, so fired, yes, and wired.
Radice Lebewsu is a poet of Ukraine. Vlad is a contemporary Russian tyrant. According to Beau Lecsi Werd, “nast” is a trunc for the nasty battlefield.
by Buceli da Werse
Luca Pacioli, at a bright green table, in his creased, olive drab, Franciscan friar robes, illustrates the golden mean, upright and able, watching a clear, rhombicuboctahedron strobe, half-filled with water, his left hand upon Euclid, while, in his right hand, a pointer on black slate probes.
On the picture’s right side, to the left of Luca, stands a strange figure. It could be Albrecht Dürer, staring outward, perhaps the painter Jacopo de Barbari, who painted accounting’s father; but the figure remains incomprehensible, unknown. Could it be the Duke of Montefeltre?
Buceli da Werse is a poet of Italian Renaissance sculpture, painting and architecture. Luca Pacioli (1447-1517) was a noted Italian in mathematics and “accounting’s father”, Albrecht Dürer (1471-1528), a German artist, Jacopo de Barbari (c. 1460 – c. 1516), a Renaissance painter, and the Duke of Montefeltre (1422-1482), a noted condottieri.
Just for the Halibut
by W. S. “Eel” Bericuda
He loved to go out fishing for demersal halibut:
so good—that holy food—that satisfied his belly gut.
He loved its dense, firm texture, grilled, when it was a fresh catch,
those large filets with small, round cheeks, from both sides of the fish;
filled up with vitamin B6, as well as niacin,
along with phosphorus B2, D, and selenium.
Comprised of water, protein, not much fat, nor any carbs,
its taste is clean and heavenly, served in cafés or bars.
He loved Pacific halibut, not yet depleted, like
th’ Atlantic’s threatened type, and dread of disappearing spike.
W. S. “Eel” Bericuda is a poet of fish.
The Jenga Building
by Arcideb Usewel
On Leonard Street, the Jenga Tow’r, 821 feet tall,
arises in Tribeca, in Manhattan’s New York sprawl.
Designed by Herzog & de Meuron, Swiss-firm architects,
described the building as high “houses stacked”, a superplex.
There are one-hundred-forty-five large condominiums,
whose residences sell for millions, at the minimum.
Up at the top, sit eight full-floor apartments, large and grand,
for wealthy individuals, for whom they had been planned.
The building also has an open lobby, double-height,
sheathed in black granite, gleaming, streaming in diurnal light.
Arcideb Usewel is a poet of architecture. September 4th, Gustavo Arnal, CFO of Bed, Bath and Beyond, jumped off the Jenga Building.
by Wilcse Duee Bar
“The powder smoke does be so thick,
You could not cut it with a pick,
The smell of gas would make you sick…”
—Cornelius “Con” Carbon, “Mackin’s Porch”
The settlement of Wilkes-Barre, Pennsylvania, grew “bright”
with the discovery of anthracite coal near its site;
es-pe-cial-ly since Jesse Fell identified a way
to make it burn more easily by use of iron grate.
And so it came to be called “Diamond City” in the rough,
for its high productivity of mining the black stuff;
and child labour, brought to light by pics of Lewis Hine,
led to enactment of child-labour laws in shop and mine.
Upon the Susquehanna floodplain, it has been hit hard
with many troubles through the years, o’er which it has been marred.
Wilcse Duee Bar is a poet of northeastern Pennsylvania. Wilkes-Barre is a city of around 44,000. Con Carbon (1871-1907) was a late 19th century American balladeer. Last week Joe Biden and Donald Trump gave speeches in Wilkes-Barre.
It seems that CNN was caught in colour tinkering
to make Joe Biden’s hell-red speech a duller, pinker thing.
A Supermarket in Texas
by “Wild” E. S. Bucaree
Beneath the parking-lot lights, cars are in white-painted slots,
on wide, gray concrete, by the shrubs, speed bumps, and shopping carts.
There is no dreaming of enumerations, but there is
a list of purchases desired. The air is warm, ah, yes.
A distant, blinking, sloping jet is slowing down to land.
The automatic doors slide open for another man.
He goes to buy sliced watermelon in a plastic disc,
and then tomatoes on the vine, supposedly sun-kissed.
His next choice is “peach-flavoured” yogurt, two cups, cold and Greek;
and then he grabs a bag of chips, totopos de maiz.
Along with some organic, seedless, green grapes, he procures
four waters with a hint of “cherry”; and walks to the clerk.
She isn’t Charon with a pole at the cash register;
where someone else is having trouble with his credit card.
The man departs. It’s dark. No Lethe’s flowing with dead souls,
like Whitman or García Lorca, Ginsberg, and such trolls.
“Wild” E. S. Bucaree is a poet of Texas. Walt Whitman (1819-1892) was an American Realist poet, Federico García Lorca (1898-1936) a Spanish Modernist poet, and Allen Ginsberg (1926-1997) an American PostModernist poet.
US Top Fast Food Chains, 2021
by Brad Lee Suciew
In these uncertain times, it seems, Americans remain
unwavering in loyalty to these top fast food chains:
4. Taco Bell
7. Burger King
13. Pizza Hut
14. Kentucky Fried Chicken
16. Dairy Queen
18. Panda Express
19. Little Caesars
20. Jack in the Box
21. Papa Johns
24. Raising Cane’s
25. Jimmy John’s
Brad Lee Suciewe is a poet of business.
The Burger Flipper
He was a burger-flipper at a fast-food restaurant,
a bit o’erweight, but glad to work; he didn’t mind the haunt.
His bosses and co-workers seemed to like him well enough,
he brought a lot of energy, and he was also tough.
He didn’t mind smart-ass remarks; he focused on his job.
He kept up with the constant pace, cooked hot, pressed hard, then lobbed.
With spatula in hand, and greasy burgers on the grill,
he didn’t think that it was heaven, nor some worker’s hell;
instead he simply thought it was a way to make ends meet,
skilled at the skillet, till ‘t was time to leave behind the meat.
by Carb Deliseuwe
He thought controlling carbohydrates was a vital step,
to getting better health and thus achieving greater pep.
He heeded the ingredients of plants and ice-cream bars;
indeed, he’d been misnamed; he felt he needed fewer carbs.
And next, he prioritized his proteins, wanting to eat fats
from pasture-feeding animals, and not so much from plants.
He sought amino acids, and the B-12 vitamins,
to help digestion in his anabolic regimens.
And finally, he fasted, but not so much he’d get sick;
for, after all, his purpose was to feel fine and fit.
Carb Deliseuwe is a poet of food. Elmer, his grandfather, on his mother’s side, was a burger flipper for his life-long career.
When Mom Did the Laundry
by Ubs Reese Idwal
It was not a pristine world, the world of my youth;
but there was one part of it that was pure and fresh;
and that was when my mom did the laundry. The truth
of the matter was it was work for her: to mesh
the washed clothes through the wringer, careful not to catch
fingers in the speeding, churning, whirling pressure;
and then take the crushed, flattened clothes, batch after batch,
out to the clothes lines to hang them up with clothes pins;
and then to have to go outside again to fetch
them in. There were so many outs, so many ins;
laundry was an unending chore for her, in sooth;
yet now, as the washer turns and the dryer spins,
I think fondly of that time, so bright and so new.
Ubs Reece Idwal is a poet of the Pacific Northwest. Although my mother Shirley died in 2011, I love thinking about her younger days. This poem is a bilding+.
by I Warble Seduce
I will always love you, even though seasons change,
and our lives be tossed, like scattered autumn leaves,
this way and that, though the starry skies rearrange
themselves in oceanic, universal heaves,
though I’m taken away from you or you from me
(Who knows through what eternities the lover grieves?),
still will I love you so—no matter what may be.
It’s true I’m only one single human being,
and all my strength can only elicit pity.
In the great scheme of things, I’m hardly worth a thing.
Still within that very little extent and range,
you’ll always be for me, my heart’s deepest feeling.
I Warble Seduce is a poet of love.