Haiku
by “Clear Dew” Ibuse
To beneath the oak,
from all around, new birds come,
as the seasons change
Haiku
by “Wired Clues” Abe
He had to free it—
the house sparrow in her nest—
stuck in a porch light.
Haiku
by “Wired Clues” Abe
The infant turned up
a piece of tufa beneath
two red yucca plants.
“Wired Clues” Abe is a NewMillennial haiku writer.
~~~
Newsreel:
Apparently the ASML chip machines possess
a kill switch if Red China dares attack Taiwan full press.
~~~
Each
by R. Lee Ubicwedas
The Sun continues shining, as the Earth goes on…its spin;
and human spines extend their lengths, their energy moves in.
Each day is an adventure, sometimes good, but sometimes bad.
What will each one discover, starting from each own launchpad?
R. Lee Ubicwedas is a poet of anything.
~~~
The Messenger from Makkuran
by Abdul Serecewi
He came from Makkuran to bring the news of victory:
“The water there is scanty, and the fruits unsavory.
Commander of the faithful, it’s a land of stony plains,
where men are known for treachery, and plenty is unknown,
where evil dominates, and virtue’s held of small account.
No size of army can prevail around that wretched town.
And then the land beyond it is no better; it is worse.
Why would one enter into Sind; it is a horrid curse.”
Umar looked at the man, and asked, “Are you a messenger?”
“Yes, sir.” Umar replied, “Then this will be th’ easternmost frontier.”
Abdul Ceresewi is a poet of Iran. Makran is located in southern Iran and Pakistan. Umar (c. 582 – 644) was a Muslim caliph.
~~~
Newsreel:
Condolences came in from all around the World’s lands,
from China, Egypt, and th’ EU, Malaysia and Japan,
from Russia, Turkey, India, Sudan, and Pakistan:
there was a great outpouring for the Butcher of Tehran.
~~~
The Watering Hole
by Cur A. Wildebees
The animals come down to the watering hole
to drink. For them it is a natural impulse.
It is as if they’re led by an invisible
chain, tugging on their lifeforce source, that pulls and pulls
until they come to drink and drink that gorgeous draw.
To get there they will go to such lengths, raging bulls,
each with its own, insatiable, rapacious maw,
out of their minds with brazenness, to quench their thirsts.
They come from miles around to drop their lips into
that brew, and slurp up all they can in frenzied bursts.
It is as if that roundish pool is their top goal,
their foremost destination, absolutely first.
After Pierre Sonnerat
by Cur A. Wildebees
Indri, I hear it, a cry over the trees of that mysterious forgotten island of the moon, Madagascar, rising to a shrillness above Bartok, an eeriness after the afternoon, passing like us into feeling, being, spirit—ghost-like sounds from the relatives of the baboon. O, behold it—that sound. O, hear it. O, hear it. O, hear how it rises over the forest—that eerie howl. O, and I am so near it; but how I want to flee, emerge from that chorus, to embrace instead only my darling, my love, to escape those dark chords of Vergil and Horace.
Cur A. Wildebees is a poet of African animals. Pierre Sonnerat (1748-1814) was a French naturalist. Indri indri, meaning look, look, is one of the largest lemurs. Madagascar, an island nation, which split off of southeast Africa about 180,000,000 years ago, has a population of around 28,000,000. Béla Bartók (1881-1945) was a Modernist Hungarian composer. Vergil and Horace were noted Ancient Roman poets mentioned at the conclusion of this prosem.
~~~
On an Eruption
by Rawcee Buildes
There, at the mountain’s base, he slowly woke—
the dragon. First, his wings began to tense
up. Secondly, there was a puff of smoke.
He made a little belch, like hot incense.
The very mountain-roots began to shift;
a tiny rumble zig-zagged through the rock;
some firey, boiling spume began to lift.
The slopes then started next to shake—and shock,
just as the dragon rose up to his feet.
The sound roared like great thunder underground.
His heart of ire warmed like volcanic heat
and shook the mountain with its mighty sound.
Up through the summit’s height, the dragon went,
gigantic, spewing, venting, violent.
Celestial Flame
by Rawcee Buildes
Sicilian Empedocles thought that
the human soul’s a mixture of the aer
and aether, hence a blend of earth and sky.
At where I am, right here, I can see why
he thought it so, and that the aether had
been turned by fire to a crystallinate.
Rawcee Buildes is a poet of mountain fire. Empedocles (c. 494 BC – c. 434 BC) was an Ancient Greek philosophical poet.
~~~
The Painter in his Studio
by Red Was Iceblue
The painter in his studio stood up with poise and ease,
before his easel and the sitter that he’d like to please.
Studiously he studied thé subject in front of him,
controling every stroke he took, so firm, with managed vim.
The model was an ordinary person, as was he,
but in this case, required to be staid impassively.
Yet human beings, even when they are calm and composed,
can’t help but move a little bit and cannot be enclosed.
And so the painter failed in the task he set himself,
as did the figure seated there below the mantleshelf.
Ick Wreck
by Red Was Iceblue
At times, he felt like he was living in an Ensor pic,
as horrid as the worst of nightmares—really, really sick.
The garish lighting worse than any nightmare come what may;
because, at least those dream-states were not real, and went away.
He’d see these strangers everywhere he went, in parks and stores,
who looked like actors in Toulouse-Lautrec, or lurid whores.
They’d weirdly gaze, and one would need protection from their stares.
for they would do horrendous things; one needed to beware.
One needed to be tighter, frightened of what they might bring.
venereal disease and other vuln’rabilities.
Red Was Iceblue is a poet of art. James Ensor (1860-1949) was a Belgian painter; Henri de Toulouse-Lautrec (1864-1901) was a French painter.
~~~
Chic Ago
by “Bad” Weslie Ecru
“meaner than a junkyard dog…”
—Jim Croce, “Bad, Bad Leroy Brown”
It was a shed, red with white trim, among the trees,
containing sports equipment, bats and bags of balls;
there were all kinds of shelves with cans, things, and canteens.
It was so dark the only light came through the walls;
and there amidst the clutter tossed around, out strewed,
a fierce fight formed. Two guys were going at it, brawl-
ing. One tough dude was shoving up against the wood
the other feisty, struggling dude. Inside that box,
they wrestled like two lunatics, out grunting rude,
crude, lewd remarks. They tore shirts off; both wore crew socks.
One grabbed one’s hair; they stood on slightly bended knees;
they would not both be leaving there without hard knocks.
Nor was there any hope or way there would be peace.
Each pushed the other back. Why did they have to fight?
Why would they not just let it go, oh, let it cease?
Why could they not stand back at ease within that light?
What damn obsession drove them to that height? that depth?
Why did a beating gladden, bring them such delight?
Why did it mean so much to them, to go to’rd death?
“Bad” Weslie Ecru is a poet of Chicago. Jim Croce (1943-1973) was a folk-rock singer and composer.
~~~
A Butterfly
by W. Crisale Dubee
“Though favorably mentioned/ In Entomology.”
—Emily Dickinson
He saw a butterfly fly up above the lovely hills,
antennae sensory appendages to taste and smell,
with forewings flappily attached to mesothorax and
the hindwings happily attached to metathorax span,
with nearly spherical head, but small brain and compound eyes,
containing pharynx and proboscis, in its varied dyes,
its abdomen containing segments, ten in numbered count,
and forelegs, midlegs, and hindlegs, in which to land and mount
the beautiful full blooms, as gorgeous as its chiton sails,
whose surfaces are covered with bright, shiny, tiny scales,
attractive, and a warning to its many predators,
adapted hairs, reflective, iridescent go-get-ters.
W. Crisale Dubee is a poet of butterflies.
~~~
Words Overheard on a College Campus
by Educable Wires
You can’t thrive, no you can’t hide;
we will strive for genocide;
from the mountain to the beach,
we are hate-filled screaming sheep;
four legs good, but two legs bad,
join the livid, we are mad.
Educable Wires is a poet of the thoughtless.
~~~
Through His Mitochondria
by Dr. Weslie Ubeca
He drank his cup of water filled with some electrolytes,
some spirulina, sodium, trace minerals, and lime,
some turmeric and lemon, stevia and manganese,
some calcium, magnesium, potassium and zinc.
Supposedly electrolytes support strong teeth and bones,
and balance the amount of water in the body’s zones,
as well as help move nutrients in and waste out of cells,
maintaining the efficiency of varied organélles,
like as a C-sharp major prelude followed by a fugue,
o, firing on all cylinders—a synthesizing moog—
electrical thoughout the contours of his body’s car,
internal and combusting through his mitochondria.
Dr. Weslie Ubeca is a poet of health, not a doctor of health.
~~~
That Gasoline Garage
by Bruc “Diesel” Awe
He loved the darkness and the warmth of his concrete garage;
it warmed the cockles of his heart; it was a mass massage.
He loved the heat when it showed up. O, it was nice and hot.
It penetrated deep inside; the coldness he forgot.
He liked it even when he had to pump his tires up;
and if he was himself a tired man he could perk putt.
Though many might not like all of the work one had to do,
like cleaning, sweeping, fixing things, and changing light bulbs too;
still he loved doing all those things, and more, in that spare room—
that airy, very merry space, so rarely filled with gloom.
Yet were all of those happy memories, but a mirage,
when he was in, within his skin, that gasoline garage?
Bruc “Diesel” Awe is a poet of transportation.
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