Haiku
by “Wired Clues” Abe
Upon the sidewalk,
a cicada on its back
fought to get upright.
“Wired Clues” Abe is a NewMillennial haiku poet.
~~~
Newsreel:
Polaris Dawn touched down upon the Gulf of Mexico,
near to the Dry Tortugas, mini archipelago.
Aft five days out in space, the crew returned to planet Earth,
about 140,000 meters from their turf.
They were the first that burst into that place commercially,
in vast eternity, it was a brief convergency.
~~~
The Moon
by Drew U. A. Eclibse
He saw the lovely, Moon arising, lovely, full and warm,
surrounded by a white corona, circling its form.
Its beauty was spectacular, its craters and its light.
Aloof, afar, alone it shone in shadows of the night.
He longed to know that man, that smiling man up in the Moon,
whose cheeks were brutal, bruised, his head hard as a stone.
He longed to stand upon his face, like Neil Armstrong did,
if only for a moment’s trice, as happy as a kid;
but such will never be, and so, he’ll spend his life on Earth,
and gaze in awe up at that smile, remembering his dearth.
Drew U. A. Eclibse is a poet of the Moon. Neil Armstrong (1930-2012) was a PostModern American astronaut.
~~~
Newsreel:
This week the Moon’s eclipse occurred as Tuesday turned to night,
alignment of the Sun, the Earth and Moon withdrawn from light.
~~~
The River Merchant’s Elderly Wife
by Lu “Reed ABCs” Wei
When she was born, they said there were too many people here.
When she gave birth, they said they didn’t need more to appear.
When she went to find work, they said that she was far too old.
When she retired, they said that she was too young to do so.
610
by Lu “Reed ABCs” Wei
610 is there
to take it down,
the Falun Gong,
that touches Dao.
It’s clear to see
the dangers of
forbearance, truth,
compassion, love.
Lu “Reed ABCs” Wei is a poet of NewMillennial China.
~~~
He Needed to Unwind
by Sri Wele Cebuda
He got into the lotus pose. He needed to unwind.
He spread his legs and knees apart to open up his mind.
He sat up high, his head outstretched, his arms were at his side.
Behind him was a mattress edge, wherein he could abide.
He looked off to the left, but what he saw was hard to say.
It was as if he was in search of some sweet Mandalay.
The nearby floor was carpeted in red beyond his head,
below him where he sat tall on a pale white bed spread.
Like as a giant hungry thing, he hung out in that place.
Beneath cropped hair, there was no flair upon his rOunded face.
O, could he reach nirvana in such an immobile stance?
Perhaps he could discover love…liness, if not romance.
Sri Wele Cebuda is a poet of meditation.
~~~
The Scrivener
by “Scribe” El Uwade
He saw the dude in camo cap. Was he not in Ukraine?
Was he a crude interrogator? Was the dude insane?
A prisoner before him sat upon a dark brown chair,
whose arms and elbows were above his clothes and close-cropped hair.
The dude in camo pants stood tall. Was he Iranian?
Was he Assyrian? or maybe Palestinian?
Was he at work producing Apple products in Xinjiang?
Did the rude dude hit him in his shins with a long baton?
He thought about the history of tough, hard humankind?
It was no mystery that many here had lost their minds?
The dude in black boots carried on, as did his prisoner?
As misery loves company, was he the scrivener?
A Lesson by Hamas in 2014
by “Scribe” El Uwade
Their heads were covered and their hands were tied;
six people were shot dead by gunmen dressed in black,
right in front of a crowd of worshippers, outside
a mosque, just after prayers; justice killed, in fact.
These people were thought to have aided Israel;
therefore, they must be shot. Hamas insists there can’t
be peace in Gaza, in this Godforsaken hell;
so they began this policy called “Strangling Necks.”
Masked killers shoved their kneeling victims down; they fell
to AK-47 bullets. Who is next?
The lesson’s clear. If you don’t toe the line, you die:
a cruel pedagogy with a brutal text.
“Scribe” El Uwade is a poet of scribes.
~~~
Newsreel:
At least twelve people died, when pagers used by Hezbollah
were detonated on two-thousand-plus in Lebanon.
The next day more were killed and injured, fires too set off;
the two-way radios turned out to be a deadly boff.
~~~
Attempting To Git Off the Local Grid
Cause Bewilder
He saw the chain link fence. It was a sunny Sunday day.
Near Congress, he was ready for a chance to shoot away.
They took the red flag out. The caddy then put the club up.
The golfer there was even, he had had a birdie putt.
1:30 pm, “Pop, pop, pop, pop,” now the bullets buzzed.
It was September 15th on the green in Florida.
He had a scrubbed gun, SKS, a black van near his wait.
The blonde assassin runs; somebody sees the license plate.
How did he git there—to North Carolina, and Ukraine?
Did he come from Hawaii on a Trans-Pacific plane?
One wonders was the money just too good for what he did.
He headed north attempting to get off the local grid.
Cause Bewilder is a poet of the South. William Faulkner (1897-1962) was a Modernist American proset.
~~~
Like as a Thorny Rose
by Brac Lei Uweeds
It was another day, and he was thankful for it, yes;
for each day is a miracle, a chance to effloresce. bless
With coffee cup and coffee in it, he began to drink
the beauty of the morning’s blue into which he would sink.
He thought of roses flourishing, again within the year:
more blooms were budding, insects humming, daylight coming near.
He felt like as a thorny rose, a bony body up…
and at ‘em—atoms stirring—in his warm, poured coffee cup.
But so unlike that rugged plant, he had a lot of fat—
that subcutaneous beneath his skin, flush flesh and flat—
his cushion for his muscles and his energy reserve
responsible for each con-tour, each self-containing curve.
Brac Lei Uweeds is a poet of flowers.
~~~
Postlude
by Ubs Reece Idwal
The air is fresh and cooler after hottest days.
The termites fly about, like helicopter props.
The robins and the swallows make their bedtime praise.
The sunlight in the azure sky-set gradually drops.
The aches and pains of living shift into the dusk.
The perfume of petunias over porch steps stops.
The beauty of the evening settles into musk.
The alder leaves are scattered all about the place.
One hears the distant hums of coming cars and trucks.
A buzzing, small mosquito hovers near the face.
Though happiness be fleeting, so is the malaise.
If one but let it happen, one can feel the grace.
On Climbing Trees
by Ubs Reece Idwal
When he was young he used to love to climb up trees,
to pull himself up smooth, gray trunks and bounce on limbs
above the world below, up in a leafy breeze,
the sunlight filtering, like diamond diadems.
It made him feel alive. It made him feel so good,
those speckled, spangled, legs and arms, like shining gems,
the muscles of his body finding what they could.
O, how he loved that freedom—beauty bathed in brown.
And if he could he’d be right there. O, yes, he would.
But even the most agile creature must come down
from his excursions into realms of ecstasy,
though to the end he long to climb up off the ground.
Ubs Reece Idwal is a poet of the Pacific Northwest.
~~~
To Join the Early Morn Commute
by Bruc “Diesel” Awe
It was another day to join the early morn commute.
He opened his garage, and shot out down the driveway chute.
As he drove down the high-ways and the lo-ways of cement,
he saw so many vehicles merge with him, as he went.
On straight ways past the fields, past construction on the curves,
the bright gold Sun behind him shone on right and left hand turns.
Past lights and signs, the frenzied traffic sped along, or jerked.
So many were engaged in getting to their sites of work.
It was amazing just to see the interweaving show,
proceeding in amidst the din of fast, stop, slow and go.
Bruc “Diesel” Awe is a poet of transportation fascination.
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