Haiku
by “Wired Clues” Abe
He walks to the car,
opening the garage door.
There’s a dead cricket.
“Wired Clues” Abe is a NewMillennial haiku poet.
~~~
Newsreel:
The US has just sent Taiwan two-billion-dollars fare—
a missile system package of Advanced Surface-to-Air.
~~~
By an Isle of Pines
by Sri Wele Cebuda
He got into the lotus pose, he longed to have some peace.
He wondered if continual wars ever would…Oh, see.
How long could ever wars continue? How long would they go?
At times, he felt like as he was in an imbroglio…
upended on a ledge enduring vertigo and more,
like as a jet plane on a tarmac powerless to soar.
But here upon this mat perhaps nirvana could be reached;
although at times he felt like as a whale flopped and beached.
He lifted up his spine, his back his shoulders, neck and head.
O, how he wished he could spread out upon a featherbed.
Still he would linger in this pose for but a little while,
and mentally leap, like a dolphin by an isle of pines.
Sri Wele Cebuda is a poet of India.
~~~
Newsreel:
There was unprecedented air pollution in Lahore
where Pakistani citizens were urged to stay indoors.
Schools were closed down, and office workers told to stay at home—
a nineteen-hundred reading recommended masks and more:
construction halted, rickshaws banned, and quash of rev and vroom,
keep doors and windows shut, avoid unnecessary moves.
Lahore is a city in northeast Pakistan of around 13,000,000.
~~~
Jehu Destroys the Temple and Statue of Baäl
by Israel W. Ebecud
—What did that madman want?
2 Kings: 9: 11
He saw Jehu Destroy the Temple and Statue of Baäl,
the print by Maarten van Heemskerck of darkness to appall.
He saw the flames inside the Temple—from windows pouring forth—
the headless form fanned by high billows, burned in blazing force,
the pedestal torn down like Ozymandias before,
the bearded men, in violence, the head and leg parts shorn.
He saw Jehu stand on the steps before the fire and stones,
off to his right within the light of might and bright backbones,
the crowds around, both near and far, observing this great feat,
and this grand crown come tumbling down onto the cobbled street.
Israel E. Ebecud is a poet of Israel. Maarten van Heemskerck (1495-1574) was a Dutch artist.
~~~
Newsreel:
Kamala Harris has conceded to Trump’s victory;
but Russia’s Putin won’t confer a benedictory.
~~~
A Constant Brew
by Acwiles Berude
As time was ever going forth and life a constant brew,
he had to go, to go, to go; there was so much to do.
How could he keep up in the morning, opening each lid,
and floating on a piece of wood, like as Ulysses did,
a single mast past Scylla and Charybdis—life is hard—
for perilous adventures even happen to the bard.
Life ever is a constant battle, as th’ Ancient Greeks well knew.
Forsooth one has to press forth through—at times, without a clue.
There is no time to rest upon one’s laurels—floral, burled—
because they too disintegrate into the underworld.
Acwiles Berude is a poet of Ancient Greeks.
~~~
He Paused to Lean
by Alec Subre Wide
Oh, he was not in britches when he didn’t cross that bridge,
Manhattan over the East River. No, he would not jib.
Nor did he jig upon the Golden Gate when he was there.
Would he experience no vertigo in that warm air?
As for the Tower Bridge in London, he avoided that,
although he paused to write a sonnet on Westminster’s plat.
And though there were so many gorgeous bridges he’d not seen,
or been to, still, upon old Vecchio he paused to lean.
Alec Subre Wide is a poet of bridges.
~~~
Newsreel:
The UK state states Peter Lynch’s death was “suicide”;
but was it child-killer scum, the reason why he died?
~~~
His Free-Verse L/i/n/e/s
by Lew Icarus Bede
It was the early morning; it was raining, it was WET.
His eyes were barely open, and the light bulbs made him squint.
He thought of William Carlos Williams, and his free-verse l/i/n/e/s.
He recognized the doctor’s attitude and his designs.
He loved his clear, translucence and his fine, reflective shine,
and longed to capture in his mind some of its curve and spine.
He thought of Walter Whitman’s webs unwinding as t(he)y went;
he loved the breadth of his long-winded breaths and what that meant.
He wished that he could take them both into the firmament,
but also move beyond them in this New Millennium.
Lew Icarus Bede is a poet and literary critic. Walter Whitman (1819-1892) was an American Realist poet; William Carlos Williams (1883-1963) was a Modernist American poet.
~~~
Cub Report:
Mark Longo had been sheltering a squirrel and raccoon;
so New York DEC grabbed both in a raid at high noon.
~~~
He Loved to Be
by “Blue Cedar” Siew
When he was young, he used to love to play out in the words.
He felt so good, free from the stress of school and neighbourhood.
he loved to play among the very trails that he made.
He loved to run, to walk, to be, within its dappled shade.
For there he could achieve new things, new heights he could attain,
a momentary happiness on airy, woodland lane.
by “Blue Cedar” Siew
He stood up at the forest’s edge, beyond both hogs and hedge,
beneath incoming jets upon their quests—chansons de geste.
He loved to hear their tales flying overhead his head,
excitement in their each adventure, filled with thrills and dread.
He longed to greet the day with greatness past the open gate.
He had a date with destiny he would anticipate.
“Blue Cedar” Siew is a poet of trees.
~~~
He Loved His Socks
by Irbee C. Swaudel
He loved to wear his black crew socks, protection for his feet,
from wooden doors to tiled floors, and everything between
From parking lots, hard concrete roads, a world replete with stone,
socks in his shoes provided even more defensive notes.
He loved his socks on cooler days, when he feet might get cold;
They were secure on carpets to from slipping—gripping good.
From hallways to large living rooms, they offered safer fates,
For walking faster, almost running, or for surer stays.
He loved his socks; they helped him feel, as if were dressed up,
Not naked, like a wild animal, or dolphin pup.
Irbee C. Swaudel is a poet of the ordinary.
~~~
His Journey’s Dure
by Bruc “Diesel” Awe
He was dressed all in camo from his bottom to his top,
as he sat at a table with his hot, taupe coffee pot.
He was prepared—that hunter gatherer—to git aired out.
He loved to go out hunting for food for his foaming mouth.
He stretched his muscles and his spine, he lengthened arms and legs,
as he kept sipping from his coffee cup, down to the dregs.
There on his ass. he sucked in abs; he sat without duress.
He was prepared to face and drive into the wilderness.
Though he was in a quiet part of the great Metroplex,
he still could hear the trains, jet planes, and highway vehicles.
He guessed that it was very busy from all the noise he heard;
yet he was ready to embark upon his journey’s dure.
Bruc “Diesel” Awe is a poet of transport.
~~~
Another Morning Coffee, Exercise, and Wash
by Rudi E. Welec, “Abs”
It was another morning, coffee, exercise, and wash:
some caffeine and some flexing, stretching, breasthing, and some splosh.
He felt it was important to workout before he went
off to his work and daily chores; he had to orient.
Of course, there were so many other things he had to do;
but if he had at least done that, it was a mighty brew.
Up-down, up-down, and all around, his hips, his dips, his lips.
at times, he certainly enjoyed his warm, creamed coffee sips.
And though it only was a start to each new day he faced;
if nothing else, at least he felt as though he had been braced.
Rudi E. Welec, “Abs”, is a poet of exercise. According to Beau Lecsi Werd, “breasthing” is a blend.
~~~
Kaua’i Postcard
by Cruse Wadibele
He wished he could stay here forever, but he can’t:
the palm trees swishing overhead in brisk, fresh winds,
skin ever verging to the scarlet or the tan,
the ever-surging ocean waves’ dull, roaring din,
the driving rain that pours for a short interval,
though not depressing as in Somerset Maugh’m’s mind,
or Twain’s or Robert Louis Stevenson’s fern hell,
invigorating. Everywhere the flora thrives;
and though this paradise is not eternal, pure;
still it is beautiful to watch the mynas strive,
see the mix of plant, animal, and man on land,
against the crashing water, happily alive.
Cruse Wadibele is a poet of Hawaii. Mark Twain (1835-1910) was an American Realist proset, Robert Louis Stevenson (1850-1894) was a British Victorian proset, Somerset Maugham (1874-1965) was a British Modernist proset.
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