Haiku
by “Clear Dew” Ibuse
The crying baby,
when taken to the backyard,
turned silent, and stared.
Haiku
by “Clear Dew” Ibuse
Round the pine tree trunk,
a young girl chased a squirrel.
Too fast did it run.
“Clear Dew” Ibuse is a poet of traditional haiku.
~~~
Haiku
by “Wired Clues” Abe
As I drive my car,
an eagle flies overhead.
How far have I come?
“Wired Clues” Abe is a NewMillennial haikuist.
~~~
Newsreel:
Duterte was arrested at Manila’s airport, and
then taken off to th’ ICC in The Hague, Netherlands.
~~~
The Aussie
by Sbede Cawlie Ru
I met him on the outback centuries ago.
He rose upon the morrow of a future clime.
He wore a robe of white, long flowing, glowing, oh,
so bright and brilliant did it shine, it was sublime.
He stood up at attention, his hard hands at his waist.
He turned his head off to the right, as if all time
had stopped and knew no haste. How could his stance be faced?
On raced my heart. His eyes were puffed. His mouth was small.
How could he see or eat? Upon what was he based?
He seemed so tense, yet so relaxed and natural.
I felt as though I would explode to see him so.
How could a life form be—so narrow and so tall?
The Deadly Snakes
by Sbede Cawlie Ru
“A sort of horror…
Overcame me now his back was turned.”
—D. H. Lawrence, Snake
Australia has ten of the most deadly snakes
that crawl across its barren landscape’s naked egg.
Just one alone ‘s more than enough to make one shake;
but all of them are scarier than any plague;
nor are those th’ only ones there that are venomous.
When walking through their realm, one better watch one’s leg;
for they will strike—they are such vicious enemies.
be careful where you lie, or sit, or even stand.
Although they may seem beautiful in cinemas,
or even gorgeous at a distance, austere, grand,
beware their unforgiving bile, for goodness sake.
They yield only to the desert’s hard command.
Sbede Cawlie Ru is a poet of Australia. D. H Lawrence (1885-1930) was a Modern English poet and proset.
~~~
Mount Ararat
by Darius Welebec
Mount Ararat, the Hebrew form for Urartu,
Assyria’s name for that kingdom of the 8th
century BC arising beyond the Araks,
a special place for Armenians, and their faith,
where Noah’s ark finally came after the flood,
in Turkey, now watched over by a wrathful wraith,
a constant white and blue reminder, in cold blood.
So hard and heavenly it stands above the plain:
volcanic rocks, air, oxygen, and all are good,
both great and little mountains up against the grain,
below the homes of confiscating Kurd and Turk,
the mounds of 1915, some have called a gain.
Darius Welebec is a poet of Armenia.
~~~
Newsreeling:
How many people are the Islamists now murdering?
More than one thousand people have been killed in Syria.
Men, women, children—what’s the reason all these people died?
The two-day killing spree has targeted the Alawite.
~~~
The Way Out
by Esecwiel Barud
And not a thing about the trip made sense.
Beneath our very feet the hard Earth quaked.
Those were the times that tried men’s soles. In tents,
we slept. Awaked by light, at morn we baked.
We left behind our beatings and disease
to go into the desert lands. The sand and rock
were everywhere we looked. We ached. Our knees
and hips gave out; our feet began to balk.
It seemed that we were going into worse.
Why should we follow someone with a rod?
How could we understand this universe?
How could we ever hope to reach our God?
We’d never heard of Santorini’s blast,
nor gas leaks that could turn the waters red
and kill the fish, while fleeing frogs enmassed,
and lice and flies arose to reach the dead.
We fled the epidemics plaguing us,
but overhead an ash-gray cloud had formed.
The hail of fire and ice haranguing us,
like swarms of locusts, choked us as it stormed.
And darkness covered all. Where were we at?
No heavenly Avaris filled our eyes.
Our mouths and words were dry. Nobody spat.
And then carbon monoxide fumes did rise.
Who were the Hyksos who had been expelled?
Did Pharoah Ahmose let God’s people go?
Did Sapair expire when he was twelve?
What did his brother think—Amenhotep?
And here we sit upon this reedy shore.
What chance have we against composite bows,
great warriors riding chariots, and more?
What chance do we have up against all those?
What chance is there a tsunami’s coming
where cactus thrives and camels just survive?
where desert winds blow dust in swirls thrumming?
What hope’s there when we finally arrive?
Why do we chase the unrelenting Sun?
for though our toil was hard and deadening,
we could drink water. Oh, what have we done?
The sky is blank. The sea is reddening.
Between Migdal, the sea, and opposite
Baal Zephon, here near Pi Hahiroth,
we see a cloudy pillar compass it,
and fire beyond Rameses and Succoth.
Upon the hard horizon billows rise.
The land before looks like the land behind.
By day and night we chase the steamy skies.
What is that phyzz that we shall come to find?
Israel E. Ebecud is a poet of the hopeless land.
~~~
The Goat
by Aleš Eduw Rebič
“…ca misli jedan mali covik, ki cilu bozju noc proplace za kozon.”
—Mate Balota, “Koza”
The small Croatian wore no raincoat in the pouring rain.
It wasn’t very strange. He didn’t have one to his name.
And when his mother told him that a family goat died,
for three whole days he couldn’t stop; he cried and cried and cried.
Aleš Eduw Rebič is a poet of former Yugoslavia. Mate Balota (1898-1963) was a Modernist Croatian poet.
~~~
Newsreel:
The CEB, that is, the Central Electoral Board,
Romania, has just rejected Cǎlin Georgescu.
~~~
A Mirror of Reality
by Cale Budweiser
He gazed up at the fancy clock he’d gotten from his job.
It was a show of some appreciation from his boss.
It stood next to some fake, green, plastic plants, a wooden block;
but it no longer worked. Its hands were stuck near six o’clock.
Beneath them was his cabinet of glass, fine wood and air,
like that bar by Èdouard Manet at thé Folies-Bergère.
He stared at all the bottles—many sizes, colours, shapes—
a multitude of spirits in a sumptuous display,
liqueurs, vermouth, and whiskies, bitters, vodka, rum and wines;
here was a mirror of reality before his spine.
He realized it wasn’t an ideal in any way,
and yet it was where he was at, a man in time and spaaaaaaaaaa…
Cale Budweiser is a poet of alcohol. Èdouard Manet (1832-1883) was a French Realist painter.
~~~
Newsreel:
The Trump administration canceled grants and contracts to
Columbia for antisemitism gone askew.
The First Day After Daylight Saving’s Time
by Ra Bué Weel Disc
It was the first day after daylight saving’s time began.
Though it was after six pm, the Sun rolled on a slant.
He walked along with a blue shadow by the red tailed hawk,
the mockingbird, the cawing crows; they had no time to gawk.
He passed the tiny, purple henbit grow by sidewalk lines,
amidst the coarser grasses and the dandelion vines.
He saw the pale, cratered Moon above the silver poles,
that carried the electric power over hilly rolls.
He wondered at the mighty Sun that flamed up in the sky,
so blinding and magnificent, so dominant and high.
Ra Bué Weel Disc is a poet of the Sun.
~~~
Newsreel:
The US Agency for ID in the government
reportedly has started shredding beaucoup documents.
The General Electric College Bowl
by Ira “Dweeb” Scule
He still recalls the General Electric College Bowl,
the question-answer competition quality control.
One had to have the answer to the toss-up question to
just have a chance to answer bonus ones that then ensued.
So many years, so many colleges across the land,
from Michigan to Georgia, Oregon to Maryland.
And here within my city of two universities,
one can find many names of roads, drives, boulevards and streets:
Ann Arbor, Georgetown, Chapel Hill, Tulane and Bowling Green,
Amherst and Stanford, Fordham, Carroll, Princeton, Trinity.
Ira “Dweeb” Scule is a poet of colleges.
~~~
The Ornamental Pear Tree
by Dewie Arbuscle
“I think that I shall never see
a poem lovely as a tree.”
—Joyce Kilmer
The ornamental pear was turning green this spring again.
Its leaves were bright against the winter blue—a glossy gain.
And now the blossoms, turning white, shine high above the fence,
and comment quietly with brilliant peace, and common sense.
But hardly anybody notices them as they rise,
spectacular, if not oracular, in azure skies.
Who cares about their silent messages—perhaps the birds?
but otherwise their statements flounder, lacking any words.
And so another year goes by, another flourishes,
where one can find a sight that both delights and nourishes.
Dewie Arbuscle is a poet of trees. Joyce Kilmer (1886-1918) was an American Modernist poet.
~~~
Brought Trouble
by Des Wercebauli
The change to daylight saving’s time brought trouble to his house.
The coffee didn’t work. No cups would reach his lips, alas.
The heating-ventilation-and-the-air-conditioning
had stopped on this cold day; it needed recommissioning.
The door to the garage could not opened manually;
he had to take it off of working automatic’lly.
His stove top wasn’t heating up; his microwave was slow;
and many lights throughout the house weren’t working, lacked a glow.
There obviously were some probs with th’ electricity.
But it was Sunday; no one could be called to fix this mess.
At Work
by Des Wercebauli
He sat down at his desk to work; for he had bills to pay.
He needed to git down to work; it was a brand new day.
In black shoes and black socks, up to his olive army cap,
although he wasn’t in the army, he wore camo pants.
He pulled his shoulders back and lifted up his pecs and spine.
He stretched his chest, to do his best; so much was on the line.
Extending his head upward, he was focused on his stance;
good posture, even sitting, was of value to enhance…
one’s health; because alignment mattered for correct control,
attempting to achieve all that one could when on patrol.
Positioning was vital; ergonomical success
came with the satisfaction one was able to progress.
Des Wercebauli is a poet of labour.
~~~
The Weighty Scales
by Rudi E. Welec, “Abs”
It was another day to face the weighty scales again.
He stepped upon the flattened surface, to check for loss or gain.
Each day there was a loss; another day had run its course;
but also there was gain; another day of life was more.
He stood upon its tempered glass, his body open to
its data and its stats, a glimpse into the moment’s view.
The calibration was precise, allowing him to see
pinpointed readings with a mount of, o, accuracy.
He was informed about his fat-free mass and body fat,
and muscles he retained, smooth, skeletal and cardiac.
It was a chance in life’s brief dance to see where he was at;
and if it was time to git down on to the mat, in fact.
Rudi E. Welec, “Abs”, is a poet of physical education.
~~~
To Play an Online Game
by Cu Ebide Aswerl
He kicked back for a little while to play an online game;
he wanted to relax his feet and to relax his brain.
He sucked his stomach in, as he leaned back into his chair.
He put his legs upon his desk to rest them way up there.
O, yes, he felt some joy, if not a flow of happiness.
It was a chance to pause from all the stress and crappiness.
And though the game was mindless, it was helping to relieve
the tenseness he was feeling, thankful for the brief reprieve.
He pulled his stomach in again, and held the muscles tight.
It was time to git back to work, but now he felt delight.
Cu Ebide Aswerl is a poet of leisure.
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