Haiku
by “Clear Dew” Ibuse
About the rosebush
and its dying, drying leaves,
a dragonfly flies.
Haiku
by “Clear Dew” Ibuse
The striped tabby cat,
stalks, with care, the savannah
of his own back yard.
“Clear Dew” Ibuse is a traditional English haiku writer.
~~~
Not Hurled into Space
by I. E. Sbace Weruld
As you are looking to the South, one sees the azure skies,
and tints of pink on the horizon where skyscrapers rise.
One sees the waxing Moon above the rooftops of the world;
the triple digit heat warms one, aloof from cold space whirled.
It is so wonderful, though momentary, transient,
a beautiful and airy atmosphere, fair, ambient.
It cannot stay, and it will pass. That is the way of Earth.
And yet that won’t diminish its great value and its worth.
In fact, that may be why such time of life upon this place
is precious to those here who are not hurled into space.
The Conjunction of Jupiter and Mars
by I. E. Sbace Weruld
He saw the giant early morning flight come roaring in,
its flashing lights against dark sky, its soaring engine nigh.
Night was about to leave, but still remained with space and stars.
He looked out to the East, observing Jupiter and Mars.
He saw Auriga and the Bull above the city scape,
there at the threshold, in the throes, of cosmic outer space.
He heard the sprinkling of the lawn, and distant, train’s air horn,
but it was relatively quiet on this August morn.
He stood upon the driveway, his car back in the garage,
as the alignment passed him by, with open eyes and jaw.
Mr. I. E. Sbace Weruld is a poet of Space.
~~~
Haiku
by “Wired Clues” Abe
They hovered beneath
the shaded AC unit—
two spiny lizards.
Haiku
by “Wired Clues” Abe
The poised runners race
on the track beneath the sun:
grace under attack.
“Wired Clues” Abe is a NewMillennial haiku composer.
~~~
The Early Riser
by Cid Wa’eeb El Sur
I saw him step upon the air, a god in human form.
The single message that he flashed was in cuneiform.
He rode upon the quiet storm of civilization,
and rose upon the Ubaid. He was Sumerian.
I saw him in Eridu writing messages in stone,
an Elamite, and Amorite. O, he was not alone.
I saw him at the potter’s wheel, the clay spun in his hands.
I saw him on a sail boat, on waves at wind’s commands.
He fought for his control, arable lands and water rights.
The irrigation of his hills would bring forth food’s delights.
I saw the kingly gardener attempt to take control.
I saw the sleepy pardoner accept the mighty roll.
I saw him ride the sexagesimal-based tide of time.
He did divide the day and night into a sweet sublime.
Cid Wa’eeb El Sur is a poet of Iraq.
~~~
There Keeling at the Edge
by Ercules Edibwa
There keeling at the edge , a red bed-spread beneath his knees,
he held on to no thing, but balanced on a passing breeze.
He saw a yellow wall off to his side, and took his cup
into his firm, but squirming, hands, and filled the damn thing up.
He wanted so to drink it in, the moment savoured sweet.
He longed to grasp it, yes, and feel its sweeping ecstasy.
He slapped his hand against the mounting glass. He was so glad.
He felt like he was in the midst of an Olympiad.
The liquid flowed, o, golden wine, the sunshine glimmering;
and for a time, that short-haired guy felt life was shimmering.
Ercules Edibwa is a poet of Grecian goals.
~~~
In His Own Words
by Redewi Albescu
I never shall forget those faces turned to wreaths of smoke
beneath a blue and silent sky—those flames those bodies stoked.
I never shall forget that silence which deprived for me
my faith forever burning, burning, for eternity.
I never shall forget those moments murdering my God,
my soul, my dreams, all turned to dust, my life a total fraud.
I never shall forget that time I spent in Buchenwald,
transformed into another man in pictures that I saw.
I never shall forget those Yiddish words that came to light.
On Saturday I left, and went off on into the night.
Redewi Albescu is a poet of Romania. Elie Wiesel (1928-2016) was a Romanian-American PostModernist proset.
~~~
Postlude
by B. S. Eliud Acrewe
At dusk, it is the lighting of the towering street lamps,
and smells of barbecues from back-yard grills, those smoky samps.
The waxing Moon arises in the azure airy realms.
It overwhelms with strong emotions, passing oaks and elms.
No leaves have fallen from the trees, no leaves about one’s feet.
One loves the lots of houses on their lots beside their streets.
The heat 101 degrees, the time is eight o’clock.
One sees the chimneys on the rooftops on one’s slow, warm walk.
One sees the setting of the Sun, the flames in orange-blue.
A lonely person, on his journey, moves through summer’s range.
B. S. Eliud Acrewe is a poet of Modernist tendencies. According to Beau Lecsi Werd, “samp” is a trunc. T. S. Eliot (1888-1965) was a Modernist American-British poet.
~~~
A Sunlight Sonata
by Eber L. Aucsidew
He sat up on the black chair in the middle of the day.
He listened to a warm, sunlight sonata put on play.
The music was so mesmerizing, his long spine’s length stretched.
He felt like as large, rolling hills, down which his slopes were pitched.
But could he git up off his duff to do another chore.
There were so many of them, each with reasons to abhor.
He dreamed of cooling breezes over grassy meadowlands.
It was so bright, so brilliant white, he found no shadow bands.
Here was no love. Here was no joy. Here was no happy eye.
But could he git a bit of what he wanted from this sky?
Eber L. Aucsidew is a poet of air and water.
~~~
Newsreel:
While jogging, Stephen Chamberlain has died, hit by a car,
according to his lawyer, it took place in Cambridgeshire.
Off Sicily, Mike Lynch has drowned, with those that news forgot—
half dozen dying in the sinking of his superyacht.
~~~
On Compliment’ry Drinks in Flight
by Air Weelbed Suc
When pouring compliment’ry drinks upon a turbojet,
one travels eighty miles long for one tomato juice;
but it’s important still to occupy the passengers,
who seated close together for one journey’s lengthy jaunt,
need mental stimulation and an assuaging nudge
to keep them from stir-craziness, without a single budge.
I judge such gentle jostling, if not genuine or joy,
at least allows for some contentment, if not a perfect ploy.
The drinking of a coke or alcohol preoccupies
the mind with pleasure as the measure of the time goes by.
Air Weelbed Suc is a poet of flight.
~~~
A Strange Black Ring
by Eber L Aucsidew
Near Williamsburg, Virginia, one observed a strange black ring,
for just ten mins…but what it was no-one could say a thing.
Still, many wondered if the smoky residue could have
come from some recent pyrotechnics in the area.
Eber L. Aucsidew is a poet of atmospheric phenomena. Williamsburg, VA, is a town of around 15,000. According to Beau Lecsi Werd, “mins” is a fairly common trunc.
~~~
It Wasn’t USSR
by Caud Sewer Bile
It wasn’t USSR with its gulags and show trials.
It wasn’t Germany or China with their murder piles.
It wasn’t Egypt, Turkey, Indonesia, or Japan,
It wasn’t Pakistan, Spain, India, France, or Iran.
It wasn’t Mexico, Morocco, or Nigeria.
It wasn’t Bangladesh, Brazil, Myanmar or Syria.
It wasn’t Congo, Ethiopia, or Vietnam.
It wasn’t Philippines, Myanmar, Thailand or the Sudan.
It was a hidden-in-plain-view shift to Das Kapital,
but not the patriot protesters in the capital.
The coup took place before our eyes, in Washington DC;
but this was not the LBJ scrub of John Kennedy…
Caud Sewer Bile is a poet of the Swamp.
~~~
Upon the San Francisco Bus
by Cal Wes Ubideer
Down cluttered Chestnut Street, the red and white bus chugged away,
past cars, shops, and electric lines, upon the pavement gray.
Inside, a woman desperate to reach the passengers
put her petition forth, intent to get some signatures.
In broken English, she went round to each one traveling,
explaining how in China there’s forced organ harvesting,
and Falun Gong practitioners are targeted because,
more disciplined, they’re healthier, and perfect for a cut.
One could not help but feel her immense anxiety,
amidst the honking vehicles and human trafficking.
Cal Wes Ubideer is a poet of California.
~~~
Another Group of Stores
by Carb Deliseuwe
“What would they say of her in the stores?”
—James Joyce, “Eveline”
He still remembers eating at the Denny’s restaurant,
in San Francisco, Fisherman’s Wharf, near the waterfront;
but due to dine-and-dashers, the last one has closed its doors,
Unpunished crimes have chased away another group of stores.
Carb Deliseuwe is a poet of dining. San Francisco and Oakland lost all their Denny’s restaurants in 2024. San Francisco has a population of around 800,000, and Oakland has a population of around 440,000.
~~~
Off the Pacific Ocean
by W. S. “Eel” Bericuda
I saw him in a sail boat, and leaning on the mast.
He was out fishing for some halibut. His line was cast.
His bait, on circle hooks attached, was hung at intervals
to his long-weighted line extending miles—several—
across the bottom. O, he longed to catch a nice, big fish.
To eat its flesh, the light pink mesh, was his desired wish.
{would be delish}
His patience was enormous, as he hung out on his boat,
unlike mad Captain Ahab, bobbing calmly there afloat.
“Oh, yo!” he called out when he saw the huge, white halibut:
no Moby-Dick, but what a fish! for one damn hungry gut.
W. S. “Eel” Bericuda is a poet of fishworld. Herman Melville (1819-1891) was a driven Romantic/Realist American proset and poet.
~~~
The End of a Game
by Cu Ebide Aswerl
They were lost in a game of chess,
my mother and my father, yes,
and they moved the pieces over
and over again. Oh, no, sir,
the game did not last forever.
One warm afternoon, my father
passed away. Yes, sir, it was sad;
but for my mother it was bad.
She sat alone at the table
for as long as she was able,
and then she went insane. No, sir,
no one was able to save her.
She fell into a dark river
from which no one could retrieve her;
and that is where she is now, sir,
floating downstream with chess pieces.
Cu Ebide Aswerl is a poet of games.
~~~
Beneath the Honey Locust Tree
by Dewie Arbuscle
He parked beneath the thornless honey locust in its shade.
Its compound leaves were hanging downward and pinnately shaped.
The August Sun was blazing hot, so he was thankful for
this natural umbrella open to the Solar Orb.
It was a good place to be at, the store not open yet.
He did a crossword puzzle in its branching silhouette.
He’d come to purchase Parmigiano Reggiano cheese,
some coconut, as well, hemp, pumpkin, and sunflower seeds.
And then the doors were opened, and the people walked within,
some all alone in shopping, others with their kith and kin.
Dewie Arbuscle is a poet of shrubs and trees. Parmigiano Reggiano is named for the cities of Parma (about 200,000) and Reggio Emilia (about 170,000) in northern Italy.
~~~
Only But a Whim
by Rudi E. Welec, “Abs”
He got upon the treadmill track—left-right, left-right, left-right.
He started panting, breathing deeply. There was no delight.
But there was real determination in his willingness.
He lifted up his spine. He thought about a silver ess.
His back was like a curving mountain slope. There was no snow.
He had a mind of summer’s heat. His feet were on the go.
He swung his arms and shoulders past the boulders of no road.
Here were no trees. Here was no truck. No hunters hemmed him in.
There was no wind, just air-conditioning. How could he win?
So he went on, along through dawn. Would it be good for him?
He thought it might; but maybe that was only but a whim.
Rudi E. Welec, “Abs”, is a poet of exercise.
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