Haiku
by “Clear Dew” Ibuse
Grandma must come now.
She cannot eat her kefta.
The boy will not wait.
Haiku
by “Wired Clues” Abe
You are not my type.
When I hit the print icon,
I get an error.
Haiku
by “Wired Clues” Abe
He lost his e-mails.
They vanished in cyber-space:
cicadas voices.
“Wired Clues” Abe is a NewMillennial haiku writer.
~~~
Quite Contrary
by R. Lee Ubicwedas
“Things as they are/ Are changed upon the blue guitar.”
—Wallace Stevens
Who is unhappy with the way things are now in the World?
Like all of us who come here, we must change things as they are.
And though we wrangle, struggle, strive—against each other hurled—
one wildly and savagely plays on…his brown guitar.
Combining, fabricating, juggling till something new appears,
a buzzing, twanging banging, and experience is pierced;
and when perhaps new idealities are made and neared;
the process is alchemically produced, ferocious, fierce.
The anarchy of waters and the comedy of farce
reveal raging forces we cannot control or parse.
R. Lee Ubicwedas is a poet of Ubiquity.
~~~
Newsreel:
By training China’s pilots, former Western pilots place
colleagues at risk, and may face legal peril for their sale.
~~~
Elections
by Brice U. Lawseed
Tsai-Ing Wen won th’ election in Taiwan; there’s more to go;
for Modi won in India, Sheinbaum in Mexico.
Across the World voters cast their presidential votes,
and some of them seem fairly honest; others not much so,
especially when the government attempts an overthrow,
behind the scenes—rewind what’s seen—there is much we don’t know.
Brice U. Lawseed is a poet of law.
~~~
Th’ Ongoing Genocide
by Crise de Abu Wel
Th’ Assyrians continue to be persecuted by
those who surround with genocide—brown rocks, black trees, white sky.
They are attacked and slaughtered, barely standing—tattered, raped.
What hope have they to be a people? Is there no escape?
They totter on the brink, and lean, dark-eyed into the wind.
Who will be there to catch them when they drop into the end?
not Persian, Turk, Iraqi, Kurd—not even Syrian!
Who will be there to love their gorgeous culture buried in…
the sands of time? to see their peerless wonders crushed beneath
the latest hateful state—Daesh—that Death has just bequeathed.
Crise de Abu Wel is a poet of western Asia.
~~~
A Pic of It and Alex Lilly
by Red Was Iceblue
Before his painting Bombs on Gaza—Alex Lilly stands,
dressed all in black, shirt, shoes and pants, behind his back—his hands.
It stretches eighteen feet and rises seven-and-a-half—
the gray and black smoke billowing in terrifying fact
above the buildings lit at night in cataclysmic drear.
He is so near to it, it seems, this graphic engineer,
who turns his head off to the right and doesn’t look at it.
Perhaps it has already taken toll, this ghastly pit.
His cheek-boned stare, beneath his short-cropped hair, is spare and lean—
yon Cassius—it hangs upon a wall, like Helloween.
Red Was Iceblue is a poet of painting. Alex Lilly is a contemporary painter. According to Beau Lecsi Werd, “Helloween” is a neological blend.
~~~
The Revolutionists at Dawn
by Israel W. Ebecud
The revolutionists were sitting on the college lawn.
They wanted orangeade at day-break, in the dawning light.
Repeating slogans, they were wont to slake their sore, hoarse throats.
Why wouldn’t the professors bring them drinks—they felt like goats?
What is wrong with these people? Do they not ken what is bad?
Beneath the steeple, sheep are bleeting, o, stark raving mad.
How many hundreds are there in th’ encampment on the quad?
So packed with many loiterers, scarce seemed there to be God.
A loaf of barley bread rolled to a tent, and what elapsed?
It fell; and then turned up-side-down; and then the tent collapsed.
Israel W. Ebecud is a poet of Israel. According to Beau Lecsi Werd, “bleeting” is a neological blend.
~~~
Far from the River Don
by Rus Ciel Badeew
“We are what we are through our love.”
—Mikhail Sholokhov
He woke up from a stormy night, and put his camo on.
He hated sleeping in the grass, far from the River Don.
His abs were tight, his butt was sore; he wanted to be free
of this the rape of this his country. O, why must this be?
He’d seen his rib cage underneath the skin he did abhor.
There was no food to eat. He’d have to fast, and fast some more.
He wished that he could brush his teeth, before the war revved up.
He wished he had a cup of coffee. It was time to hump.
He heard one roar, ‘Hup, two, three, four.’ There was no time to wait.
The enemy was all around. O, what would be his fate?
Rus Ciel Badeew is a poet of Russia. Mikhail Sholokhov (1905-1984) was a Modernist Russian proset.
~~~
Up-Side-Down
Sir Eel da Buwec
At times he felt like his whole world had been turned up-side-down,
as if his head was now below his hips well off the ground.
He felt like Father Williams, he was holding to his feet,
but hanging down around the nether parts where ankles meet.
He straightened up his belt, although not svelte or smooth, or poised;
for he supposed it was good form for him not to be hoist.
He gazed upon the Cave of Plato—that broad-minded man—
but he decided that no spider could be friend of Ham.
Be gone, you noisy boys. Be off. Keep far away from him.
He doesn’t want to see, or hear you. He does not like them.
Sir Eel da Buwec is a poet of the surreal.
~~~
Lucas Eberewid’s Demise
by Ib Claus Weeder
A roaring motorcycle, with large bore exhaust,
ripped down the road without a muffler—screeching loud.
Its shiny body, silvery, copper embossed,
gleamed, like a rainbow arching high up to a cloud.
Ear-splitting noises, like machine guns’ bursting shells,
screamed out of it, as if it were exploding proud.
And at its helm there drove a driver, one of hell’s
own demons—one Lucas Eberewid—a Dane,
a Vikingesque Hans Christian Anderson himself,
so Scandanavian, not just a bit insane;
because he crashed, and lost his life—his bike was tossed,
when he hit seventy around a country lane,
and missed an ugly duckling as it waddled—crossed.
Ib Claus Weeder is a poet of Denmark. Hans Christian Anderson (1805-1875) was a Romantic
Danish proset.
~~~
Translations of Laforgue
by Claude I. S. Weber
He wanted to thank him for his translations of Laforgue;
but he had died, and had become marginalized, of course.
Lord Pierrot was complaining of a woman’s feelings, when
he told he of the sun of angles—noneuclidean.
O, how I love you, she would say. He said, all ‘s relative.
Thanks, Louis Simpson, for your word strands. Is that how to live?
What if one evening he should of tuberculosis die;
and she would follow him? Then was it serious? a lie?
Where was he going, and what was he doing at that time,
the late Elizabethans syncing in his sinking mind?
Claude I. S. Weber is a poet of French literature. Jules Laforgue (1860-1887) was a Franco-Uruguayan Impressionist poet. Louis Simpson (1923-2012) was a PostModernist American poet.
~~~
Sometimes
Educable Wires
“Sometimes I cry when I’m lonely…”
—Gene Thomasson
Sometimes he felt like as an alien from outer space,
surprised to find himself here in this time and place.
What was he doing with a modest dark tie round his neck?
with black socks on his feet and whiskered beard upon his cheeks?
At times he felt like as a ruminating quadruped,
a flailing tetrapod directed by embodied head.
He could be found there going round in circles, standing still,
or even turning up-side-down, or out and in at will.
And then there were the times he felt like a physique machine,
a washer or a dryer, going round to heat or clean.[The Lilliputians tried to make out what that giant was,
that massive gullible Lemuel Gulliver, because…]
Educable Wires is a poet of rock. Gene Thomasson (1938-2012) was a PostModernist songwriter.
~~~
Them
by “Bad” Weslie Ecru
One had to stand up at attention when they came
around—those hairy, hard-nosed bastards at the bar.
To jab you in the jaw or jowls was all the same
to them. They’d beat you to a pulp. They loved to spar.
They’d knock you on your ass and laugh the whole night through,
each one a tyrant trying to out-tsar the tsar.
They were out of control, a wild, ungainly crew;
and you had to be on your guard to get through them.
They’d whoop it up and holler, drink the strongest brew,
and then take you out back to pound you on a whim.
It never served you well if you were ever lame,
for they would take you down and shake you to your shame.
“Bad” Weslie Ecru is a poet of Chicago.
~~~
Newsreel:
The present White House resident seems to have dealt in pork.
The former president is now a felon in New York.
And yet for all their flaws, they fit right in this Universe.
That all are sinners seems to be a very human curse.
~~~
Green Chai
by Carb Deliseuwe
He boiled a pot of water for some tea that he could drink,
green chai was the desired liquid to which he could link.
He liked the cinnamon, the allspice, and the ginger root;
the cardamom and clove flavours would also be quite good.
But as for being therapeutic; this he didn’t ken,
as may have been the case in Ayurvedic India.
Were polyphenol antioxidants promoting health?
Was the amino acid Theanine another wealth?
And was metabolism boosted by black-tea caffeine,
by helping with one’s focus and by stable energy?
A Cup of Green Tea
by Carb Deliseuwe
He boiled water for a cup of matcha green tea hot—
so savoury the flavouring, yes, it would hit the spot.
He loved to have a couple cups, each morning warmed him up.
O, he was golfing on the green. He aimed to take his putt…
he stood up tall, and stretched his spine, adjusting belt and pants…
and shot…how sweet it was to hit the hole from that firm stance.
He pulled the flag pole out, and bent to get his callaway,
and picked the golf ball up. Hey, was it yellow, green or white?
He took another sip, but slowly, since it was so hot,
so savoury the flavouring, ah, it sure hit the spot.
Th’ Idea of Autophagy in the Town Down the River
by Carb Deliseuwe
He loved th’ idea of autophagy—it made him dance,
like as a vagrant on the town involved in a romance.
He did not dream of Camelot, of Amalek, or Thebes;
but as for mighty mitochondria that pleased his bees.
He loved to find more nourishment within his body bare;
he loved removing his debris and cellular repair.
He did not dream of warriors, no, but ketones on the go
filled him with intermittent fasts, above, below, and slow.
He loved self-eating muscles, adipose, and pancreas,
as well as cleaning up his liver, lowering glucose.
O, reservoirs of glucagon would cause his brain to reel,
and took another drink of bergamot tea happily.
Carb Deliseuwe is a poet of diet. Edwin Arlington Robinson (1869-1935) was a Modernist American poet.
~~~
The Field of View
by Waulcer Beside
His abs were taut, his shoulders tense and stiff, his glutes were tight;
he was attempting to move forward in the twilit light.
Each step was sounding, pounding, on the concrete as he walked,
He felt like as an animal, high strung and being stalked.
Could he escape the eager ape that traipsed behind him there,
or would he have to fight that biped beast, that grizzly bear?
He kept on moving steadily, as if he hadn’t seen
that sneaking individual who tracked him stealthily.
Was this what it was like to be a quarry preyed upon?
He wished that he were far away—somehow, somewhere beyond.
But such was not to be, and so he simply needed to
go on, then quickly disappear, and flee the field of view.
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