Haiku
by “Clear Dew” Ibuse
In the bare landscape,
on the wood fence, a bright red
cardinal pauses.
“Clear Dew” Ibuse is a haiku poet.
~~~
Haiku
by “Wired Clues” Abe
In the azure sky,
it’s not a jet flying by;
a hawk forages.
Haiku
by “Wired Clues” Abe
He climbed a ladder
high to reach a plastic sack
caught in the pear tree.
“Wired Clues” Abe is a NewMillennial haiku writer.
~~~
A Paper Trail Clipped by Clio
by Urbawel Cidese
Across the screen designs appear and then depart.
The entire globe becomes a series of point-lights,
which sweep around as Earth revolves from end to start.
There are so many uncountable starry nights—
how are we ever going to get through this one?
The words and numbers pass—another list of figures—
that manage only for a moment in the sun.
Does anybody, Hey! note this in Tokyo,
Shanghai, Mumbai, Moskva, Mecca, Cairo, London,
Berlin, Rome, Paris, New York, L.A., or Rio?
How do we love this time? How do we love? My heart
is wrapped up in a paper trail clipped by Clio.
Urbawel Cidese is a poet of cities. Clio is the goddess of history and playing the lyre.
~~~
Newsreel:
On US infrastructure there’s been a cybér attack,
a massive, stealthy, five-year, military Chinese hack,
that targetted communications, waste, and energy,
as well as transportation systems—all in jeopardy.
Bombshell reports, about the Volt Typhoon, this malware bust,
came from the DOJ, the FBI, and Microsoft.
~~~
The South African Rugby Player
by Badrue Ecsweli
He was a rugged individual who liked to play
a bit of rugby, with some coffee. That would make his day.
He felt it helped him git in touch with his primeval self;
though as for that he really wasn’t a bedevilled elf.
He simply loved the social aspects and the team ethos;
nor was he squeamish, though there were those who thought it
was gross.
He loved the fitness and the discipline; it made him strong;
because it made him feel like he finally belonged.
The harsh, brute force, the rucks and more, appalling, though,
to some,
induced com’radarie between the members in a scrum.
Badrue Ecsweli is a poet of South Africa.
~~~
Continued Wipe and Sweep of Dust
by Debare Ilsecwu
He broke at last—that terror fascination-fringe, that bound
his ancient gaze to crowding faces plundering his ground.
He seized the remnant of a life; it was a miracle;
empirical, he shook it like a cheap watch in his ear.
White-collar hands then threw it down upon the earthly floor.
Arising to his feet, he stretched spine, shoulders, head and more.
He climbed upon a ladder, his hands—new to harshness—grasped
the prickly day surrounding him above savannah grass.
He roared, and quenched the source of turbulence above his feet,
ascending forward into sunlight, beams that beat and beat.
He flung the door and windows open, of his humble hut;
his broom resuming its continued wipe and sweep of dust.
Debare Ilsecwu is a poet of Nigeria. Chinua Achebe (1930-2013), from whom this poem derives, was a PostModernist Nigerian poet and proset.
~~~
The Raw Recruits
by Rus Ciel Badeew
They stood, all in a line, one reading letters in
a row, another being weighed upon a scale,
occasionally an unemployed veteran,
one’s knee was tapped, one coughed out at a finger nail;
one got a shot, a hypodermic needle’s prick.
This was a healthy lot; not one managed to fail.
The doc signed off on all, pro forma, nice and quick.
They moved along from station x on to the next
without a big todo, the operation slick;
and everything was done according to the text.
The whole thing couldn’t have gone any better than
if it had been a magic show perfectly hexed.
Rus Ciel Badeew is a poet of Russia. Russia has been paying poor Nepalese, around 15,000, to help their conquest of eastern Ukraine.
~~~
Newsreel:
Ukraine claims it disabled Russia’s Tsezar Kunikov;
MAGURA V5 drones gave it a Valentine’s send off.
Soviet Commander of a landing ship, Tsezar Lvovich Kunikov, died on February 14, 1943.
~~~
Saint Valentine
by I. Warble Seduce
He is the patron saint of epilepsy and Terni,
that town in southern Umbria in Central Italy.
He’s also patron saint of the beekeepers and their hives,
maintaining colonies of bees, ensuring that they thrive.
That clergyman back then had ministered to Christians, who
were being persecuted by that Roman pagan crew.
Was that why he was martyed for refusing to renounce
his love for advocates of Christ, and healing those beat down?
That Roman saint of the 3rd-century has also been
associated with medieval courtly love’s desmesne.
Mr. I. Warble Seduce is a poet of love. Terni, Italy, is a town of around 100,000.
~~~
Cesare Pavese
by Luwese Becardi
On August 26, in 1950, in
a Turin hotel, dissed-ill-loose-shunned, he took his
own life by swallowing sixteen sachets of sin,
a powdery barbituate and fatal fizz.
Like Carlo Levi, he was sent confino, not
like Primo Levi, off, in the War, to Auschwitz.
Still, sleepless, like an old regret, he just forgot,
and left the filth of smoke and glare of factories.
He took his life down to the bottom, like a sot.
It was blind madness, not a time for nectarines;
and, in that bland abandoned land amidst the din,
he went down the abyss in silence—Pavese!
Luwese Becardi is a poet of Modern and PostModern Italian literature. Carlo Levi (1902-1975), Primo Levi (1919-1987), Chemist and Jewish holocaust survivor. Cesare Pavese (1908-1950) was an Italian Modernist poet and proset.
~~~
Survivor
by War di Belecuse
“Guerra es siempre.”
—Primo Levi, “La tregua”
Once more he sees the faces of companions he was with:
o, livid in the first faint light, the gray cement, dust-thick;
mist-nebulous and tinged with death in their uneasy sleep;
at night, beneath the heavy burden of their dreams so deep.
Jaws moving, as if they are really chewing—lips turned up—
but all that they have to eat—a non-existent turnip—split.
‘Stand back. Leave me alone. You submerged people, go away.
I haven’t dispossessed a single person. No, don’t wait.
Go back into your mist. It’s not my fault, if I compose
and live, and breathe, and drink, and sleep, and put on clothes.’
War di Belecuse is a poet of war. This poem draws on Primo Levi’s poem “The Survivor.”
~~~
Glechoma hederacea
by Ileac Burweeds
Ground ivy is a weed. Its leaves are green and kidney shaped:
when finger crushed they can smell like a cross of mint or sage.
Its purple funnel flowers bloom from later winter on;
They are a sight of beauty even in a landscaped lawn.
It loves damp shady areas, like woodland edges, yet
it also tolerates full sun, where stolons sprout and spread.
Prolific and abundant, its growth spurts are tenable;
and though its smell can be unpleasant, parts are edible.
Observing Pebbles
by Ileac Burweeds
He paused at the triangle of red yucca winter plants;
the nectar-rich and tube like, blooms long gone with small black ants.
The hummingbirds no longer fly about; the blooms have left.
An empty feeder shines nearby, bright orange, gold and red.
It gleams in sunlight, like a treasure, on a cedar elm,
above the tiny rocks, the yucca leaves, in pointy flairs.
Octagonal, the red stop sign alerts the motorists,
while further on, the pebble-finished, tall, street lamp poles sit.
They blend in with the brick. Are they all San Jacinto brown?
Observing pebbles in the threeside shape, he hunkers down.
Ileac Burweeds is a poet of plants.
~~~
Loud Crows
by E. Birdcaws Eule
“Not so sick, my lord,/ As she is troubled with thick-coming
fancies…”
-William Shakespeare, “Macbeth”
Loud crows were cawing in the hold of February’s cold.
Could it occur again—as it had in the days of old?
He looked far off, where they were perched; he saw the rough,
beige wall.
How long had it been there, he wondered, aging, hypaethral?
He heard their long and high-pitched calls to instigate a mob.
Who would come to join in the fray, afraid of balm or bomb?
Is there no consolation for these evils that plague us?
Is there no doc to cure my daughter’s furious ague?
E. “Birdcaws” Eule is a poet of birds.
~~~
The Most Secure Election Ever Held
by Caud Sewer Bile
Was there a phone call organized by the CISA
in 2020, on November 3rd? Was that the date?
Who was at that half-hour Security Initiative?
and were they there discussing things that were propitiative?
Was ERIC represented, and was Runbeck also there?
and the Associated Press, reporting free and fair?
Did a few Amazon employees join th’ adhocracy?
and did Democracy Works help support democracy?
Was there an ex-Dominion engineer who was there too?
and vote-machine suppliers like Smartmatic in the view?
as well as reps from Voting.Works, and, yes, ES & S?
Was anyone from Microsoft ensuring Window dress?
Was the time start 3:30? Did they end at 4 o’clock?
Were they protecting these United States from awe and shock?
Did they believe their labours clever and unparalleled?
Did they discuss the most secure election ever held?
There Will Be No Security
by Caud Sewer Bile
There will be no security for RFK, Jr.
To calls for his protection, Biden’s Admin is inured.
Redacted e-mails have concluded there be “no response”.
There’s nothing to see here. There are no undercover cons…
like when his father had been murdered, when he was a youth,
not by whom MainStreamMedia still pass off as “the truth”.
Caud Sewer Bile is a poet of the DC Swamp.
~~~
Newsreel:
Las Vegas was the venue; it went in to over time;
the Kansas City Chiefs defeated San Francisco’s team.
~~~
That Businessman
by Brad Lee Suciew
“If you could only see how beautiful this is.”
—Bilee Wad Curse
He saw him at a meeting long ago—that businessman—
who strove to make an extra buck, whenever he could—yeh.
He’d hand potential clients business cards that he had made,
that advertised what he could do, and all the jobs he did.
He loved his work, and dressed for it. He wore a suit and tie.
He treated all his customers professionally tight.
As soon as he was gone, however, most would toss his card;
they didn’t want more than a brief encounter. That was hard.
And so he ever felt life’s beauties always passed him by.
He was a businessman, who worked so hard. But why? O, why?
Economic Downturn
by Brad Lee Suciew
The narrow, little squirrel skips
across the cold and icy snow.
He always hurries on his trips.
He knows exactly where to go.
He does not pause to look at me,
who pauses now to look at him.
He is a bolt of energy
that zips with vigor, zest, and vim.
He’s pressed to find enough to eat.
The rest is insignificant.
A pinecone’s seeds are quite a treat
along with mushrooms, berries, nuts.
I don’t begrudge him his quick pace.
I understand what he’s about;
for I can state the time and place
when I, too, first, once, did, without.
Brad Lee Suciew is a poet of economics.
~~~
I-5 Overpass, in Seattle
by Ubs Reece Idwal
A youth paused on the bridge to watch the cars go by,
ten thousand vehicles on gas go speeding past.
Above there was a vast and silent azure sky.
Below, into a roaring pit, he has been cast.
Why? Why? he asks. Where are these guys all going to?
How can so much material be so amassed?
He gazes up into the wide, the white and pale blue.
Approaching God, he prays to find a lasting peace;
but in such busyness, what is a youth to do?
He grabs onto a fragment of the age, a piece
of time, and brings it for a minute to his eye,
and then he blinks before heart-heaving beats dec(r)ease.
Ubs Reece Idwal is a poet of the Pacific Northwest.
~~~
Prove Im
by “Raw” E. E. Cud Biles
“be mitochondria”
—Jason Wright
He wondered how it could be mitochondria helped him
observe and understand so many things that once were dim.
Reducing processed food and sugar seemed to give him strength,
as well as fasting in(termit)tently diurnal-length.
But what surprised was that the thinking on this organelle
seemed to improve his thinking even more than he could tell.
He thought that energy and power brought him greater good,
AND mighty DNA might (prove im)ino understood.
“Raw” E. E. Cud Biles is a poet of cells.
~~~
North of Oz
by Rudi E. Welec, “Abs”
It was time for his workout, so he lifted up his hips.
He stretched his elbows north of Oz, and shook love handles spiff.
He interwove his fingers round his head and raised his chest.
He moved his hands along his sides, as he pressed close his legs.
Although he knew he could do better, he still did his best,
like wise Odysseus in his palace hall, wherein he begs.
{Was there no one to recognize him, other than his dog?}
He then turned on his smart phone to an exercising blog.
He bent his knees, and then went on to that which was the next,
from thighs to glutes, to abdomen, up to his neck and pecs.
He did not feel very good, but that was how it was,
to get the Conan-ownin’ serotonin zonin’ buzz.
Rudi E. Welec, “Abs”, is a poet of exercise. Conan was a character created by Modernist proset Robert Ervin Howard (1906-1936).
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