Haiku
by “Clear Dew” Ibuse
The young child showed up
at the gingerbread house with
frenetic energy.
“Clear Dew” Ibuse is a trad haikuist.
~~~
Haiku
by “Wired Clues” Abe
The three-year-old came
to the grocery store when
the bomb threat phoned in.
“Wired Clues” Abe is a NewMillennial haiku writer.
~~~
Newsreel:
In Kazakhstan, th’ Azerbaijani aircraft crashed and killed
more than three-dozen near Aktau. Were birds or fog the cause?
Aktau is a city in Kazakhstan, of approximately 270,000.
~~~
“A Car Was Driven…”
by Ewald E. Eisbruc
A car was driven…through a Christmas market once again—
this time in Magdeburg, in Germany, AP explains.
A Saudi Shia, named Taleb al-Abdulmohsen killed
as many Christians as he could. Five people’s lives were stilled,
including one boy nine-years old—this was a deadly fact;
and then more than two hundred souls were injured in his act.
Ewald E. Eisbruc is a poet of Germany. Magdeburg, Germany, is a city of around 235,000. According to the UK Parliament, totalitarian regimes in China, Eritrea, India, Shia Iran…have ramped up repressive measures against Christians. Of the approximately 1,500,000 in Syria in 2011, only 250,000 remain; and the 1,000,000 in Iraq, only 200,000 remain. Where have they all gone?
~~~
At Attention in the Service
War di Belecuse
I still remember having to stand up tall at
attention in the service: head straight, shoulders back,
arms tense, hands at your hips, chest out, heels clicked, abs pat;
and then you must remain immobile as a tack.
Your uniform, whatever it might be, was starched.
You felt at all times as unforgiving as a fact;
and though you might be thirsty, you’d take being parched.
Your neck was red, your head erect, you were as taut
as is a slingshot string that’s swung until its arched
so far it can propel its rocks to any spot.
You had to be as ready as a loaded gat,
and never sweat—no matter what—how hot you got.
War di Belecuse is a poet of the Army.
~~~
Another Bonk upon the Bean
by Dr. Weslie Ubeca
“a bonk upon the bean”
—Michael Redgrave, in “The Lady Vanishes”
Another bonk upon the bean, he needed to beware,
including when he got in cars or when he cut his hair.
He needed to heed damages to his head, ducking low,
whenever he went in to places, interrupting flow.
Although he was no football player, he still did not want
a coma or concussion on the field of life he’d haunt.
It was so easy to bump in to overhanging lights
or metal playground structure beams, unseen and out of sight.
But if he accidentally hit his head on pavement,
he’d fast to get autophagy to save his head. Amen.
Dr. Weslie Ubeca (not a mainstream doctor) is a poet of physical ailments. Michael Redgrave (1908-1985) was a British Modernist actor and Alfred Hitchcock (1899-1980) was a Modernist British filmmaker.
~~~
Newsreel:
Between Aguiarnopolis and Estreito, Brazil,
the Juscelino Kubitschek de Oliveira Bridge
collapsed. Nobody knows how many people there were killed.
The towns of Aguiarnopolis, about 6800, and Estreito, about 42,000, are in northern Brazil. “The Bridge of San Luis Rey” is a novel by Modernist American writer and dramatist Thornton Wilder (1897-1975).
~~~
The Swimmer
by Wilbur Dee Case
He sat at the edge of a pool bathed in blue light.
His hands and arms were taut behind his furrowed back.
He’d just gone for a dip; his shoulders out of sight;
all that he could not see was all that he would lack.
he watched the waves of rippling water undulate.
He stretched out straight ahead; he clenched his muscles tight.
He tried to catch…his breath…it had yet to abate.
the old man’s hair was cut on top, short to his skin.
His chest was heaving—crisp, cool air,
City trips would have to wait.
He tried to contemplate—what did it mean to win?
His back was golden red. Was life a constant fight?
There were so many places he had been. Who was he?
At the Tourist Site
by Wilbur Dee Case
It was a long, long time ago when I was there—
a tourist soaking up the local scenery:
I looked out over tree tops in the open air,
upon a vast paved stage—cement and greenery.
The tourist guide then took us to a nearby Inn,
where we could pause to get a load off of our feet,
perhaps a bite to eat, away from all the din.
He showered me with his enthusiasm for
the place, so much so that my mind began to spin
with his acute perceptive, penetrating pour;
but it was way too much, much more than I could bear;
so it was some relief then, when that tour was o’er.
Wilbur Dee Case is a poet of touring.
~~~
The Art Critic
by Red Was Iceblue
1.
I saw th’ art critic at a makeshift gallery.
He was a rather large man, or should I say huge?
in physical appearance—high in calorie—
but, o, so low in salary, a centrifuge.
He was explaining me art from his point of view.
I felt like I went through a visual deluge
just trying to keep up with him—shape, movement, hue—
revealing lots of insights and analysis.
Right here the line was exquisite; there it was true.
He was a veritable catalyst assist.
The swirl of his thought, so grand and scholarly,
quite left me in a puddle of paralysis.
2.
He moved about the gallery as if he were
a whirlwind of enthusiasm, swirling, free.
I tried my best to keep up with his hurricane
of comments that he hurled out, overwhelming me.
I hung on for dear life, lest I be left alone
without his keen perceptive, powered energy,
and huge pronouncements—a veritable cyclone.
He was an Atlas of such sensibility;
that flabby bastard left me flabbergasted—blown
away with such reality and realty,
I felt like Pecos Bill upon a maelstrom,
attempting to hold on to vast eternity.
The Sentimental Yearner
by Red Was Iceblue
The Sentimental Yearner by Grant Wood,
in pencil, black and white conté crayon,
and painted white around the image viewed,
reveals a man smelling a carnation.
With fine-combed hair, and upturned eyes behind
a pair of thin-rimmed glasses, yellowish,
his suit, bow tie, his well-shaved face and mind,
he’s an aesthete. What does the fellow wish?
His bony fingers hold a pale stem.
He looks absurd, but neat. His forehead holds
a squint, his lips, the faintest smile. Ahem…
what’s buttoned in are puffy, fleshy folds.
Although he seems both artificial and
austere, one sees that he is still a man.
Red Was Iceblue is a poet of art. Grant Wood (1891-1942) was an American Modernist painter.
~~~
The Little Engine That Could
by Bruc “Diesel” Awe
“…full of improbable lies, and I hardly believe a word of it.”
—A. W. Decius, “Rebel”
There was a little engine who thought that he could
pull trains. He’d back up to a line of cars and link
himself to them; and then with all his might he would
pull, pull, pull, smuttering, ‘I-think-I-can, I-think-
I-can, I think I can do it, o, take this load.”
Decked out in coal-black zinc, his armour had a chink;
but he would work and work, until the rooster crowed;
and then he’d go some more—up hills, down hills, through hills.
When he was done, he’d start another episode,
and deal with hard hauls, close calls, waterfalls, and thrills.
And yet, despite it all, he thought that it was good,
because he had one of the pluckiest of wills.
Bruc “Diesel” Awe is a poet of transportation. According to Beau Lecsi Werd, “smuttering” is a neologism best understandable in context.
~~~
The Night Before the Day of Christmas
by Cu Ebide Aswerl
It was the night before the day that Christmas would appear;
but it was not the greatest wonderful time of the year;
it was just one Moore day, inClement weather at the least;
there was no Santa Claus or Saint Nick; though there was a feast.
There was a salsa with green peppers…overpowering,
some lightning, thunder, and a blast of raindrops showering.
There were some presents wrapped, like games, a coat, and footwear too,
a game of trains, a fluffy jacket, and black, cushioned shoes.
One drove home in the darkness…past the shining, coloured lights…
no present, past, or future spirits in that rainy night.
For Santa Claus…When Off He Went
by Cu Ebide Aswerl
We put gigantic cookies out for Santa Claus,
anticipating his arrival in the night,
in hopes that he would have a little chance to pause,
partake himself in the excitement and delight.
He works so very hard; he too deserves a gift.
And when he came, we were so thrilled at such a sight.
He dropped his heavy load, and took one long, deep whiff;
then brought the cookies happily up to his nose.
In all the madness of his toil, he got a lift;
and started munching. He was hungry, I suppose,
because he ate them ravenously. And we saw,
we thought, a twinkle in his eyes, spring in his toes,
when off he went.
Cu Ebide Aswerl is a poet of leisure. Clement Clarke Moore (1779-1863) was a Romantic American poet, Charles Dickens (1812-1870) was a Victorian British author.
~~~
Moving on to Virgo
by I. E. Sbace Weruld
Day turns to night, while orbiting the Sun,
unraveling along the Milky Way,
here in the Local Cluster, moving on
toward Virgo and the Cosmos going gray.
Mr. I. E. Sbace Weruld is a poet of the Universe.
~~~
So Cold Outside
by Rudi E. Welec, “Abs”
Because it was so cold outside, inside he wore his coat,
draped over regular attire, thick socks and shoes in tow.
He toted his warm heater too, as he walked on the tiles;
he did not move about the house in ecstasy or style.
He microwaved his coffee cup, and exercised for warmth.
He wore this thermo-weather gear, like as a Mars or Thor.
But when he did git hot enough, he doffed his winter wear,
although he kept his feet well wrapped, no rapture captured there.
However, his sides still were cool; the air around them chill;
outside the hills were bathed in freezing understated thrill.
Rudi E. Welec, “Abs”, is a poet of exercise.
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