by “Wired Clues” Abe
The infant pauses
on the narrow, gray-white way:
the sidewalk shuffle.
by “Wired Clues” Abe
The flies fly above
the reclining retiree.
The work must go on.
by “Wired Clues” Abe
In the breezy shade,
a momentary respite
from a biome bout.
by “Wired Clues” Abe
A mockingbird in
a half-open garbage can
forages for food.
“Wired Clues” Abe is a trad haiku writer, following on the work of writers, such as Nakamura Kusatao (1901-1983), Kaneko Tôta (1919-2018), Nagata Kôi (1900-1997), Nakamura Sonoko (1911-2001), and Akao Tôshi (1925-1981).
by E. “Birdcaws” Eule
When he was on his walk—swept in on wings quite suddenly—
a pair of yellow-crowned night herons landed by the creek.
A distance of approximately twenty yards between,
there seeking meeting meek crustaceans they could eat for meat.
So cleanly reaching grassy banks, they both abruptly stopped,
and focused carefully upon the turf where they had dropped.
So patiently and motionless, each stood before no prey,
in hopes they could grab any creature creeping past their way.
And then as quickly as they came, they fluttered to the sky,
so leanly elegant and flapping dexterously by.
Above the feeding rabbits and the reedy, lapping stream,
upon extended wings they rose into the morning gleam.
E. “Birdcaws” Eule is a poet of birds.
A Little Butterfly
by Earwic Beeduls
Across the newly mown and gold-green lawn,
a little butterfly frenetic’lly
goes by, and vanishes before a yawn
is done, because it moves kinetic’lly.
It’s gone before one has a chance to write
down how it travels—lightning-speed zigzag,
a tiny white kite, flapping left and right,
so bright, so light, without a tail to drag.
So quickly here it comes and goes, it makes
the tranquil scene seem suddenly alive;
and as it flits away, the trip it takes
lasts barely long enough to shout ‘high five’.
And then, it’s gone, its craziness has ceased.
Who’ll pause to praise its passing pace, and peace?
Earwic Beeduls is a poet of insects.
by Cebu Awis Desire
A quiet, calm, ethereal and glorious light rests,
white-silver touching on the tops of each and every crest,
the deep’s bare bosom in the breeze beneath the shining Moon,
heard whispers lingering, unfingering, a new-borne boon.
Near fleeting feeling ambience and patina mystique,
ungentle waves roll on, not gay or grave, but lambently.
Not always so, strife’s din has soared within this peaceful scene,
where East and West have faced war’s test and broken its serene.
One night, Olympia, in fight, presaging freedom came,
and later, claiming people’s care, an Asiatic flame.
Cebu Awis Desire is a poet fond of the Philippines. The above poem draws on a poem by Modernist Philippine poet Fernando M. Maramág (1893-1936) before World War II.
Xiongan New Area
by Aw “Curbside” Lee
Six years ago established, New Xiong’an Area,
located in the Haihe River Basin terria,
is near to Baoding, a central city in Hebei,
southwest of Beijing, situate in thé North China Plain.
The purpose of this “city of the future” tractable,
the deconjestion of its functions, the non-capitals;
but will forced relocation bring forth the desired effects,
or just another ghost town built on and pipe dreams and neglect,
constructing such a site that could be prone to major floods,
here by North China’s kidney, Lake Baiyang’s polluted muds.
Aw “Curbside” Lee is a poet of Chinese construction and industry.
He Could Live a Lovely Life
by Badri Suwecele
He had reached a point in his life—O, what was it all for?
He had no money, no, nor friends. He looked down at the floor.
He’s leaving the past, giving what he can, though he has no…
Life had been easy, things were clear; but now he doesn’t know.
He feels he feels the sea, that he could live a lovely life;
but he’s a failing act…and ticking…a time bomb, in the file.
He’s living on an island; he’s just asking for what he needs…
for suffering in peace, for covering the grief he brings.
He heard a song by Peter Cat Recording Company.
Beside the sidewalk, silently. O, like so many. Puff.
Badri Suwecele is a poet of India.. The Peter Cat Recording Company is a contemporary band from India, this tennos a play off of “Heera”
The cost of residential properties across the Globe
continued rising year-on-year BIS data shows;
and Turkey’s rose about one-hundred-sixty-eight percent;
and yet the Turks again chose Erdoğan their president.
An Ungrateful Guest
by Cews Baudelier
A Syrian from Sweden took his knife, in Annecy,
attacking pensioners and children, ages one to three.
It was a little playground where wee kids were running round,
with parents and/or minders watching over leap and bound.
Henri, a Cath’lic pilgrim faced th’ assailant with backpack,
and chased the base antagonist out of the lovely park.
Such vile hate and cruelty the refugee expressed,
in black, bandana and sunglasses—an ungrateful guest.
Cews Baudelier is a poet of France. Annecy, the “Pearl of the French Alps”, has a population of around 130,000. Of the four children and two adults stabbed, though it will take some time, all are slowly recovering.
by Wilude Scabere
He still recalls that distant April date.
He went to London for a month. He stayed
in a room at a place named Milton, aye,
where he had marmelade on toasted rye,
and tea for breakfast. Every day was an
adventure off to some new place. He can
remember standing on Westminster Bridge
in the middle of one day—that image
remains—and writing, with his left hand, a
brief sonnet that drab and dreary day.
He went to the Albert Memorial
on one of those days, going o’er the rail
to have his picture taken in the frieze
of great writers, near one of Shakespeare’s knees.
One can’t go wrong listening to Homer
tune his lyre’s strings, even in stone. No, sir.
Wilude Scabere is a poet of England. Homer (c. 8th century BC) was an Ancient Greek composer of two epic poems. William Shakespeare (1564-1616) was a noted English poetic dramatist of the late Renaissance and early Baroque. John Milton (1608-1674) was a noted English epic poet and proset. Prince Albert (1819-1861) was the Prince Consort of Queen Victoria.
It Was a Miracle
by Luis Cardewebe
The armed drug-traffickers had forced the family to fly
out from Araracuara in a tiny plane on high,
out of the jungles of the Amazon, so out of way,
to San José del Guaviare on the 1st of May.
Unfortunately the small Cessna crashed into the trees,
so locals and the military searched with expertise.
But after four days just four children were still yet alive.
Their mother said to go ahead in hopes they would survive.
And so the brave Huitoto kids, aged one to thirteen years,
proceeded through rainforest tangle and lush brier, trees.
They dined on milk-sweet avichure and bacaba plums,
and sleep-deprived, while moving on, and following the Sun;
but after forty days ordeal, hardly lyrical,
the children found were still alive. It was a miracle.
Luis Cardewebe is a poet of Colombia. San José del Guaviare, Colombia, is a municipality of around 50,000. Araracuara, Brazil, the abode of the Sun, is a city of around 250,000.
by Cesal Dwe Uribe
In poetry there is no happy ending, poets end…
up living through their madness, quartered in a cattle pen…
[O, did that happen then to Darío? I do not know.]
or fling themselves into the sea on ships, o, no, or stoned,
or simply dead from alcohol, or strains of poverty,
inhabitants of tombs, tomes of completed poetry.
Cesal dwe Uribe is a poet of Mexico. The above lines draw on “The Lives of Poets” by Mexican PostModernist poet José Emelio Pacheco (1939-2014). Rubén Darío (1867-1916) was a Modernist Nicaraguan poet.
The Beginning Three
by Wilbur Dee Case
“He placed a biss in Tennessee.”
By an abandoned old, peach orchard, in east Tennessee,
one found him plotting rest in place and peace, not menacing;
until arrival of a holding tank on hilly crest—
X marks the spot, a mental institution, and arrest.
A stream of consciousness flows by within the outer dark,
incest, a baby, and a journey into horror’s arc,
a hawthorn tree, mark two or three, a falconer in flight,
avenging devils roving madly in the lawless night.
A child of God, he lost his farm and turned to evil deeds,
sent off to a state mental hospital, where pricked, he bleeds.
Wilbur Dee Case is a poet of Middle America. Cause Bewilder is a poet of the South. Cormac McCarthy (1933-2023) was a PostModernist American novelist. According to Beau Lecsi Werd, “Because I said so, ‘biss’ is a piss-poor neologism for a biting boo-and-hiss—a piss.”
It seems that Southeby’s has bought the Whitney building for
somewhere around one-hundred-million dollars, maybe more,
that Brutalist construction Marcel Brauer had designed,
th’ inverted Babylon-like ziggurat of Bauhaus mind.
Marcel Brauer (1902-1981) was a Hungarian-American Modernist architect. The heyday of Brutalism in architecture was from the 1950s through the 1970s, eventually succumbing to structural expressionism, etc.
Flying the Friendly Skies
by Air Weelbed Suc
“…this fine specimen of hypermagical ultraomnipotence.”
—E. E. Cummings, “1 x 1”
According to the annual IATA report,
the main compliance issue airlines struggle to enforce
is use of cigarettes and other puff-devices in
the cabin or in lavatories, much to their chagrin.
Some other issues followed close behind that irritant,
including the unwillingness to fasten a seat belt,
the sneaking on of extra luggage, drinking one’s own booze,
and the unruliness of those who won’t chillax or snooze.
The increase in the bad behavior ‘s prompting stringent rules
to stop disruptive passengers and fierce, unfriendly fools.
Air Weelbed Suc is a poet of air transport. IATA stands for International Air Transport Association. Don Tenant (1922-2001) was a PostModernist advertising agency executive who coined the phrase “Fly the Friendly Skies”, who played a role in promoting iconic Marlboro Man and Tony the Tiger, as well as creating other phrases, like “nothin’ says lovin’ like something from the oven.”
Amidst High Ozone Levels
by Urbawel Cidese
It’s the end of the day, and yet the Sun continues on,
here at the edge of walks and lanes, near where the city’s gone.
And though it may appear a scene, like an apocalypse,
it’s not some long awaited cosmic immanent collapse.
The glowing sunrays cast their eerie light and heat the scene.
The purple thistles rise up high beside the littered streets.
It’s after eight and not that late, the Sun sets in the west.
It’s not the afterblast of some discharged atomic test.
Mysterious and serious the daylight closes down,
amidst high ozone levels going from the red to brown.
Urbawel Cidese is a poet of urban places. The World’s top 30 cities (in millions [using a step function]), according to UN population estimates @ 2018:
1. Tokyo 37,000,000
2. Delhi 28,000,000
3. Shanghai 25,000,000
4. São Paulo 21,000,000
5. Mexico City 21,000,000
6. Cairo 20,000,000
7. Mumbai 19,000,000
8. Beijing 19,000,000
9. Dhaka 19,000,000
10. Osaka 19,000,000
11. New York 18,000,000
12. Istanbul 15,000,000
13. Karachi 15,000,000
14. Buenos Aires 14,000,000
15. Chongking 14,000,000
16. Kolkata 14,000,000
17. Manila 13,000,000
18. Lagos 13,000,000
19. Rio de Janeiro 13,000,000
20. Tianjin 13,000,000
21. Kinshasa 13,000,000
22. Guangzhou 12,000,000
23. Los Angeles 12,000,000
24. Moscow 12,000,000
25. Shenzhen 11,000,000
26. Lahore 11,000,000
27. Bangalore 11,000,000
28. Paris 10,000,000
29. Bogotá 10,000,000
30. Jakarta 10,000,000
by Urbawel Cidese
“Progress is a comfortable disease…”
E. E. Cummings
Ferreira Gullar was a poet from northeast Brazil,
who wrote the Neo Concrete Manifesto “coffee mill”,
to differentiate himself from non-fig-geo art,
from that a-cute ra-tion-al-is-m he wished to de-part.
Phenomenology, he felt, should be combined with thé
ideal of a rigorous math’matic purity,
and shifted from designed contours and patterns on the page
to poems where the reader could inhabit ubic shapes,
to spaces of amazement in this high-tech, global age,
“the city’s in the man who ‘s in another city ‘SCAPE”.
Urbawel Cidese is a poet of urban cities. E. E. Cummings (1894-1962) was a Modernist American poet. Ferreira Gullar (1930-2016) was a PostModernist Brazilian poet. According to Beau Lecsi Werd, “ubic” is a trunc that rhymes with cubic.
by Cadwel E. Bruise
Bear with me as I try to understand your Jeu d’esprit,
for I Am thankful to be part of all you cauSe to be.
Your depths are vast, yOur knowledge mass; at times, I’m out of touch.
I kNow I owe you so much more; for you do, oh, so much.
If I’m unable to express much brillianCe in these lines,
forgive me for my lack of more tHan I can yet divine.
Still I will try, becAuse your minDs inspire and express
enormous possibilities, great reaches and richesse.
Cadwel E. Bruise is a poet of New England.