Haiku
by “Wired Clues” Abe
Because of squirrels,
the infant left the sidewalks,
for the mud and grass.
Haiku
by “Wired Clues” Abe
At the netty park,
the infant checked out the nets—
soccer and tennis.
“Wired Clues” Abe is a rad trad haiku writer.
~~~
Newsreel:
The yen’s slide coincides with millions flocking to its shores.
Japan is now a bargain for more foreign visitors.
~~~
In the Afterlife
by “Scribe” El Wade
He was a pharaoh of all he surveyed, but he was not
lone on an island off of Chile’s coast almost forget,
nor was he a surveyor on the Nile River’s length,
in Ancient Egypt, of stout girth and firm, impressive strength.
He was a scribe who utilized typewriter, paper, pen,
and a computer, but no reed papyrus with his ren.
Alhough he had a khet, sekhem, as well as sah and ba,
he shut his shadow in his ib, and heart within his ka.
He was transfigured, and identified with light in night,
a roaming ghost who rose in darkness, stark, but pure and bright.
Appealing to Eternity, he longed to shine aloft,
like as a star, but not a nova, in the afterlife.
Sesh
by “Scribe” El Uwade
He still remembers starting school around the age of five.
He slowly learned his hieroglyphics and how to survive.
He was not beaten with a stick, nor did he teach with one,
although he never thought of writing as a kind of fun.
It seemed too serious for that. He dreaded a mistake.
He never stopped his work until it was time for a break.
He had a wooden palette, brush, papyrus and reed pens.
He wore an extra reed pen on his ear in readiness.
His black ink made from gum and soot, his red came from oxide;
Thoth was his patron and Seshat his bride, inspired him.
“Scribe” El Uwade is a poet of Ancient Egypt.
~~~
Flashback from earlier in 2024:
Iran conducted strikes on Pakistan’s Baluchistan;
then Pakistan attacked insurgents in Iran’s Sistan:
this was in January in Bolochi Saravan.
The population of Saravan, Iran is around 60,000.
~~~
One Hot Spring Evening
by Rus Ciel Badeew
One hot spring evening, as the Sun was going down, two men
appeared at Patriarch’s Pond; they were sitting on a bench;
one of them—Berlioz—about to lose his head—spoke with
a younger poet by the name of one Ivan Bezdomny;
when Woland shows up with his henchmen, and the tales begin,
and he—the foreign-looking man whose name endS with an n,
how lovely that, he says that they do not believe in God,
professing specializing in black magic, with a nod,
claims he knows many languages, and knew Yeshua, who
he met with Pontius Pilate in Yerushalaim too,
while looking totally insane, with one green eye and one
quite empty, black, and dead. O, who was looking at the Moon?
Rus Ciel Badeew is a poet of Russia. Characters in the poem come from Modernist Russian proset Mikhail Bulgakov (1891-1940)—“Master and Margarita.”
~~~
Newsreel:
Slovak Prime Minister Smer Robert Fico has been shot
in chest, and abdomen, and arm, by Juraj Cintula.
~~~
The Flavian Amphitheatre
by Aedile Cwerbus
It took millions of cubic feet of stone to build the Flavian Amphitheatre, and nine years to complete, with volcanic ash and lime. When filled it would hold more than fifty thousand. Engineers had been directed by Vespasian to get it done; but he died before he saw its last tiers. Titus, his son, insisted they keep building it; and they did, through Pompey’s burial and Rome’s fire. When done, gladiators with sword, shield, and helmet tested each other’s strength, will, fierceness, and desire to live, like Verus and Priscus, whom Martial, skilled in writing, told about on his broken lyre.
Aedile Cwerbus is a poet of Ancient Rome. Vespasian (9 – 79) was a Roman Emperor, Marcus Valerius Martialis (c. 39 – c. 103) was a Ancient Roman Silver Age poet.
~~~
This Heap of Life
by U. Carew Delibes
It was another World—one that truly did exist.
He knew, because he lived in it, but did not enter it.
He was too far away. He didn’t understand. How could
he have? Why would it even matter, but for bones and blood.
And though it seemed deep-seated, like as if it would remain…
just stay among night city streets and never go away—
O, throw it all away. Veau, veau, away. It was too deep.
The mood was jazz—a saxophone. He was about to sleep.
It was a whirlwind of fast-paced actions that he could not keep.
He wished he had, but it was something that he did not seek.
U. Carew Delibes is a poet of France.
~~~
Newsreel:
Transgenderism is a mental illness in Peru;
and by decree of President Boluarte was approved.
~~~
The Cap Has Broken
Lubec Easderwi
“It was in eruption, yet no, it wasn’t the volcano,
the world itself was bursting…”
—Malcolm Lowry, “Under the Volcano”
The Cap has broken in the East—cumulonimbus rise
up large and yellow-brown, with trim of white clouds in the skies.
They look like huge pollution piles climbing through the air.
The weather changing right before one’s eyes: to crude from fair.
It seems as if a great volcano’s blowing up, and orange,
like Malcolm Lowry’s al-co-ho-lic dis-in-te-gra-tion.
A massive billowing, an oceanic ashy tide,
that towers over houses in the sunset, grand and wide.
The heavens darken and the lighting of the neighbourhood
comes on, a golden-yellow, street-lamp light, an oval good.
He saw a standing, pale ghost, but quite substantial, pure,
a faint, white, glowing spirit, yet dense, stout and muscular.
Where had this seeming, hairless being, with an oval face,
come from and entered into this extr’ordinary space?
Was he a messenger, an angel slightly panting, fair,
a full-blown, breathing personage, who seemed as light as air?
He seemed like a mirage, an image rising from the Earth,
a full-grown man, so far away from anywhere and birth.
Still here he was there where he saw him beside the bright gray lane.
What was he saying? Why was he here, vividly and sane?
Lubec Easterwi is a poet of Eastern America, from Mexico to Canada. Malcolm Lowry (1909-1957) was a Modernist English poet and proset.
~~~
Postmodern Barthelme
by Lew Icarus Bede
Like Pynchon, Barth, and Vonnegut, Postmodern Barthelme
wrote fragmentary tales in dadaesque-like entropy.
Ashbury-esque he played around life in his jazzy scrawl,
repetitive, hypnotic, parataxic, and banal.
Like other members of his age, he made a lot of noise.
He was a Texan Beckett with a Kafka jackdaw voice.
Lew Icarus Bede is a poet and literary critic. Contemporary Thomas Pynchon, and John Barth (1930-2024), and Kurt Vonnegut (1922-2007), were all American PostModernist prosets, as were Donald Barthelme (1931-1989) and Samuel Beckett (1906-1989). Franz Kafka (1883-1924) was a Modernist German-speaking Bohemian proset.
~~~
Garage Door
by Bruc “Diesel” Awe
The disengage metallic lever had been stripped from its
garage door top, and so he didn’t want to hear its grum.
He didn’t want to break it prior to longed-for repair,
before it could be fixed and function could be brought to bear.
He was so thankful for his automatic opener,
to keep out insects, birds and snakes, and other fomenters,
like rain and snow, the bane of other wild and windy things,
like blizzards, hail, and animals, or shady human beings.
How strange it was how much he loved his little parking plot;
yet it was so much better than when he had had but naught.
Bruc “Diesel” Awe is a poet of transportation concerns.
~~~
The Things One Leaves Behind
by R. Lee Ubicwedas
It’s often true that when one dies, the things one leaves behind
have no significance for those alive. In fact, they find
them strange. Old photographs seem tasteless, valueless, and are
unusable. Materials one saved seem gross, bizarre.
Why would one ever want to have such things, the living think,
or sink into that personality upon life’s brink.
And even if all things are new, which rarely is the case,
they seem irreconcilable and somehow out of place.
O, life is such a precious thing, there’s little time for death;
one always would prefer to live and take another breath.
R. Lee Ubicwedas is a poet of anything in ubiquity.
~~~
The Ghost
by See Ablicudew
He saw a standing, pale ghost, but quite substantial, pure,
a faint, white, glowing spirit, yet dense, stout and muscular.
Where had this seeming, hairless being, with an oval face,
come from and entered into this extr’ordinary space?
Was he a messenger, an angel slightly panting, fair,
a full-blown, breathing personage, who seemed as light as air?
He seemed like a mirage, an image rising from the Earth,
a full-grown man, so far away from anywhere and birth.
Still here he was there where he saw him beside the bright gray lane.
What was he saying? Why was he here, vividly and sane?
Seer Ablicudew is a poet of the Spirit World.
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