A filament of solar plasma broke off of the Sun
into a powerful vortex around its north pole’s nub.
by “Clear Dew” Ibuse
A winter wind blows.
He stands upon a hillock,
a fighting spirit.
“Clear Dew” Ibuse is a haiku poet in English. The above haiku was influenced by Modernist Japanese haikuist Kyoshi Takahama (1874-1959).
by “Wired Clues” Abe
Kyoshi made haiku
through a nuclear winter.
O, forty thousand.
by “Wired Clues” Abe
A small raccoon pulled
its mother—on the highway—
but she would not move.
“Wired Clues” Abe is a haiku writer who deals with modern technology.
As now reports say over 40,000 people died,
some videos show Erdogan put building codes aside.
The Turkish engineers and architects attacked this pract
of zoning amnesty for builders as a deadly act.
by Erisbawdle Cue
‘e pissed ‘em all. O, Gee! They couldn’t stand where he was at,
as he sat there, like Heraclitus, on the dark brown mat.
They were repulsed at where he was, in lotus blossoming.
Few were attracted by his thinking on an awesome thing.
He took deep breaths. His heart was pounding, o, resoundingly,
as he embraced his bracing fill of, ah, philosophy.
His inner eye was open wide. He lifted up his head.
He turned it to the right, quite far, as if to see in stead.
He turned it to the right, as if to get a better look,
there in that clean and tidy room, in that nice, neat, new nook.
The closed, white shutters on the windows rose above the couch,
as he was bound in meditation…fully…Holy cow!
Erisbawdle Cue is a poet of philosophy. Heraclitus (c. 540 BC – c. 480 BC) was a philosopher of Ancient Greece.
Was the United States involved in Nord Stream sabotage?
Is Seymour Hersh’s claim more credible than a mirage?
Seymour Hersh is a contemporary American investigative journalist.
by Ewald E. Eisbruc
It is the frenzied music one locates in the Baroque,
that often fits with NewMillennium electro folk,
the constant movement, driving highways, avenues and roads,
observing scenes in broad and scherzophrenic episodes.
There is so much to see, the rising Sun right at one’s back,
large freeway trucks, the constant flow, wolf packs and single cars,
that interweave in ever changing, rearranging ways,
amazing in their possibilities and strange displays.
It carries one along with contrapuntal harmonies,
tonalities, modalities, such charming, striking keys.
O, it’s that grandiose, dramatic, energetic verve
of the Baroque one finds around each brand new curving turn,
Ewald E. Eisbruc is a poet of central European music. The Early, Middle, and Late Baroque era in music was from 1600-1750. The above dodeca intentionally ends in a comma.
A Humming Murmur
by “Bard” Eucewelis
He wanted just to languish for the anguish that he felt.
He wished he could endure the misery he had been dealt.
And yet, he knew he had to go on to life’s next events,
despite lacrimae rerum —come to each and everyone.
He felt the need to leave the grief, and to be duty bound
to grab whatever pith there was in life that could be found.
No matter what, he had to go on. That was all there was.
There was no more than this strange thing one must make something of.
He felt a fuzz around him buzz. O, love was hard some times,
especi’lly when there was no reason and no rhyming bard.
“Bard” Eucewelis is a poet of Wales, intrigued and repelled by the poetry of Modernist Welsh poet Dylan Thomas (1914-1953).
A New York City Site
by Dic Asburee Wel
Upon a vertical, slanting, fire escape
on a rectangular apartment of brick,
a man is shooting at a criminal. I gape.
He holds the railing tight. Is he a public dick?
The scene is lit by a street light that throws its glow
up to the second story, level with the trees
that rise up from the sidewalk. He had better go
if he desires to stop the animal who flees.
He scampers down the metal rungs; but he’s too late.
The man he is pursuing ‘s gotten clean away.
He stands upon the grate. He has no time to wait.
He needs to fill out a police report today.
by Dic Asburee Wel
In Gotham, unafraid to go the vole,
he, ever at the surface of the earth,
he, digging, going deeper down, a mole,
he dropping from the dawn to deal with dearth,
how many days had he—Clifford Holland—
designing tunnels underneath New York,
subterranean subways, swollen and
hollow from working, swallowing the dark?
When he became chief engineer to build
below the Hudson River’s open mouth,
continuously checking figures, filled
with anxious energy, still going south,
he met a nervous breakdown at the end,
and died two days before the two ends met.
Dic Asburee Wel is a poet of New York. Clifford Holland (1883-1924) was a Modernist American civil engineer. PostModernist American poet John Ashbery (1927-2017) once said of himself that critics of his writing viewed him as “a hairbrained, homegrown surrealist whose poetry defies even the rules and logic of surrealism.”
The Billionaire Bill Gates states that his private jet planes aren’t
part of the carbon problem that he’s trying to retard.
To run electric autos one needs electricity.
In Europe it is generated by each one of these.
From 2021, here is the data. It will change,
now Putin and the Russian army targeted Ukraine.
Natural Gas 20%
by Bruc “Diesel” Awe
What are the items that rely on fossil fuels today?
The list is long. Here are just some of them upon display:
refrigerators, phones, computers, eyewear and commodes;
utensils, coffee makers, washers, furniture and roads;
synthetic rubber, auto plastics, pesticides, and boats;
detergents, fertilizers, carpets, tires, wax and soap;
perfumes, dishwashers, solar panels, sanitary pads,
bicycles, nail polish, dresses, nonstick pots and pans;
upholstery, transparent tape, pens, chewing gum and paint;
face creams and body lotions, contact lenses, and toothpaste;
cleats, curtains, basketballs, deodorants, and surgeon scrubs,
hair spray, heart valves, surfboards, kids’ toys, insecticides, and rugs;
some anesthetics made from ethylene, and chewing gum;
tiles, antiseptics, helmets, packaging materials…
by Bruc “Diesel” Awe
The blinding light shone glinting off of glass
and concrete buildings in the heat of day.
The cars shot fast beneath the overpass,
where ivy clung to manufactured gray.
It hardly seemed a place where life would dwell,
there was so much of carbon monoxide.
It seemed to be a picture out of hell
inhabited by those who fell and died.
Where was there any place to breathe fresh air?
The buses, trucks, and taxis sped on by.
There was no peace or pause there from despair.
A mustard-catsup color filled the sky.
(One ordered fries, a burger, and a shake.)
The grease was on the inside and the out.
An oily surface covered everything,
along with mortar, plaster, paint and grout.
It seemed a rough and harsh and heavy ring,
the hardest place to grow up kind or soft,
impossible to find a place to rest,
upon a street, or bridge up high, aloft.
Life ever was a constant Rorschach Test.
And there was no escape from all its swirl,
so like a ride at an amusement park,
the busy, driving wheeling sweep, the whirl
and spin of life and death, of light and dark.
And yet somehow in all that craziness,
within that urban nightmare, one could find,
amidst the yellow fog and haziness,
occasionally moments in the mind
where clarity was solid and secure,
one could discover in it, after all…
that which was genuine, worthwhile and pure,
though pigeons high up in the rafters…fall.
Bruc “Diesel” Awe is a poet of fossil fuels and the open highway, influenced by writers, such as American Modernist poet Hart Crane (1899-1932) and contemporary PostModernist American proset Michael Wallis. Hermann Rorschach (1884-1922) was a Modernist Swiss psychiatrist. “Rorschach” is pronounced “roar-shock.”
To One From L.A.
by Cal Wes Ubideer
“We lived in places that we never knew.”
Then, driving down an alley in the sun,
beneath two slanting parallel el cars,
in a new shiny sports car—EDISON
remembered—strangers walking with cigars,
past staunch, five-story buildings, a hard sell,
a telephone pole and a squat palm tree
beside a tall, brick wall, where letters spell
NO PARKING is ALLOWED, faint, hard to see,
that takes one to a flight of cement stairs
that climb to nowhere in particular,
the litter seemingly strewn everywhere,
paint peeling off even th’ edge of th’ air there,
rundown, undone, impoverished, hopeless:
always hovering o’er
Cal Wes Ubideer is a poet of California. Dana Gioia is a contemporary poet.
Just one day after the US shot down an object o’er
Alaska, one was shot down over Yukon, Canada.
Were these not spy balloons that China sent out to explore
the military tracking sites in North America.
And then another shot above Lake Huron. What the heck!
What’s going on in US airspace? Why all of this tech?
Round That Oval Track
by Rudi E. Welec, “Abs”
Ah, yes, those days when he’d go running round that oval track
in regular work clothes, black shoes, nice shirt and slacks,
would happen only when he had a break from all his tasks,
and then he’d scat out to the track, and make but just one pass.
Each day he tried to run, o, but one single minute’s length.
and used what strength to run as fast as he could in those lanes.
And that was it. He’d go back to his workplace panting hard,
there winding down and finding his breath calmed and regular.
Rudi E. Welec, “Abs”, is a poet of exercise.