Haiku
by “Clear Dew” Ibuse
There is no wailing.
The drought has been curtailed.
Hooray. It’s raining.
“Clear Dew” Ibuse is a poet of traditional haiku.
~~~
Haiku
by “Wired Clues” Abe
As I drive my car,
a flock of starlings descends.
How far have I come?
“Wired Clues” Abe is a NewMillennial haikuist.
~~~
Newsreel:
The South Korean Constitutional Court overturned
th’ impeachment of Prime Minister Han Duck-soo—number two.
~~~
Rupees from India, or Rubies from Myanmar
by Sree Leci Budwa
Was it a dream, or was he armed, while walking down that hall?
Was it a cornucopia? How was it bountiful?
He opened up that treasure chest to see the gems inside,
gold, silver, bronze and platinum—Were those real diamonds?
Where those rupees from India? or rubies from Myanmar?
or were they porous chondrite particles, the dust of stars.
Was he on the red planet Mars, or on some rocket ship?
Where was he going to? Where had he come from on this trip?
He looked out of the great glass eye. Were there ten billion burns—
white candles covering night’s sky, what the young boy discerns?
Sree Leci Budwa is a poet of South Asia. Ray Bradbury (1920-2012) was a PostModernist American proset.
~~~
The Circus Act
by Sirc de Wee Balu
The two went for a ride upon a gray-white horse.
They rode bareback. The tall dark-haired one in the front,
the shorter, stockier one in the back. Perforce
they paused upon the warm sand to perform a stunt.
They looked like actors in a circus of delight.
The tall one leaned flat forward; he would take the brunt.
The other wrapped his arms around the other’s height;
and then he rose up high upon the other’s back.
It can’t have been comfortable; but what a sight.
They looked like they had practiced long and hard that act,
two people bent like puppets in the tent of Thor’s;
and then the one on top collapsed in packed hard fact.
Sirc de Wee Balu is a poet of circuses.
~~~
The New Frontier
by Aw “Curbside” Lee
The ancient Silk Road city of Kashgar
is being renovated, modernized,
by cash, in Xinjiang¸ the New Frontier.
The old is being changed and energized,
from dun, mud houses and tight alleyways
to straight streets (openness is highly prized)
with fine, crisp buildings, neatly placed and spaced.
One finds at People’s Park an oversized
statue of Chairman Mao, his right hand raised,
stretched out before the newly realized
locales, along with Abakh Khoja Tomb
and Id Kah Mosque, as yet not Sinocized.
Aw “Curbside” Lee is a poet of China. Kashgar is a city of around 700,000.
~~~
Newsreel:
In Thailand, state officials planned deporting Uyghurs to
the Chinese, while denying that was what they schemed they’d do.
~~~
At Wonnapha Beach. Bang Saen
by Ruslee Daw Cibe
It is an evening view—Wonnapha Beach, Bang Saen,
Chonburi, Thailand—peach, pink, roseate and mauve,
cloud streamers stretching cross the heavens. Graham Lawrence
has caught the peaceful beauty there beyond two palms.
The Bangkok Bight rolls off into the distant light,
as ripples from it undulate like gentle alms.
Some figures wade, two others stand together right
at th’ edge of wetness, talking possibly, or not.
Upon the sand, a dog-sized animal delights
in sniffing in the sand. Other souls lost in thought
stand near, or sit, on lounging chairs. This scene in sense
is cast. It will not last, but hasn’t been forgot-
ten quite yet.
Ruslee Daw Cibe is a poet of Thailand. Graham Lawrence is a contemporary writer and publisher of literature of Southeast Asian literature.
~~~
Newsreel:
Why has Imamoglu been jailed by Recep Erdoğan?
Has he used courts t’ imprison those he wishes would be gone?
~~~
The Sniper
by War di Belecuse
He made himself strong early, that truth-seeking stud,
who’d been a wrestling champ and master in kung fu.
But he still yearned for more, poised, gung-ho, free of crud.
So he decided to become a sniper too.
He trained to be a stone-cold, killing, jeaned machine.
In mission after mission, his essential view
was to kill or be killed, be stream-lined, lean, and mean.
He’d dig holes in the ground, then get in them, and wait
for days on end to get the perfect shot unseen.
It’s not like in the movies: When you see the bait,
they’re right up in your face; you’d better be a good
shot, spitting out your bullets, fast, exact, and straight.
War di Belecuse is a poet of war.
~~~
Newsreel:
Are they unfounded, that beneath the Giza Pyramid,
those myriad of claims, there was a city underground.
~~~
Ode on a Roman Book Collector
by Aedile Cwerbus
You icky beaut, do you long for Arabian
rich oils? Are you preparing for a foray to
subdue insane terrorists in Saba, Yemen,
and battle holocaust-denying Persians too?
You may as well forge chains for the barbarians,
for virgin wives whose husbands have been slain by slaves,
or boys who want to blast their capillaries’ runs
to smitherines for some crazed seer’s vicious knaves.
You ask what is the Chinese arrow pointing at.
You say I can’t deny the bow string is pulled out.
Once it’s released it can’t be taken back, What’s that?
no more than Tiber could the Apennines surmount?
You, of all men, who bought from all your storied name,
you sell Panaeti’s books, and tomes on Socrates,
exchanged for armor formed by hot Hispanic flame,
you, yes, who gave such promise of much better things.
Aedile Cwerbus is a poet of Rome. Horace (65 BC – 8 BC) was a Golden Age Roman poet.
~~~
The Poser
by Ib Claus Weeder
He was a puzzle to all those who ever met
him anywhere he turned up, even in the North,
upon the North Sea, say, where one might find him set
upon some marks upon a post, a modern Thor
or Hamlet, struggling to decode a message. He
was always trying comprehending, putting forth,
his shoulders back enfolded in a mystery.
What could he fathom that had not been known, or shown?
What chance had he to solve enigmas at the sea?
What would he find in such a place—a man alone?
For all his questions and his quests, what would he get?
Perhaps a bed of sand, a monument of stone.
Ib Claus Weeder is a poet of Denmark.
~~~
As He Sat Up
by Esca Webuilder
He sat up at his monitor, he longed to write some things;
but what they were he was unsure. Who knows what fortune brings?
He took a sip of coffee. He was focused on his tasks;
but, though he was relaxed a bit, he had no time for basks.
Before him on the breakfast table, he was able to
observe the vase of Easter flowers, golden-rose in hue.
He liked to see the gorgeous beauty of the morning come.
It made him feel, o, more alive. He loved Spring’s lovely thrum.
Once motivated he could start his typing of the day.
Would it be good? Would it be better than a grand bouquet?
He didn’t know, as he sat up, beside the rounded edge,
and heard above, beyond his roof, the rushed sound of a jet.
Esca Webuilder is a poet of the Internet.
~~~
The Meter Reader
by Urbawel Cidese
The meter reader reads electric, water, steam or gas.
Now he is walking down the street, and checking usages.
When he was young, did he watch meter readers from his sill?
When he was young, did he dream of this job to pay his bills?
Why did he get more tattoos on his right arm than his left?
Was it a prodding for more muscles, since he had to heft?
He uses a hand-held device, that’s electronic, mete.
Today he checks the water used by households on the street.
He opens up the iron manhole covers—bending knees.
It seems so random, which households he chooses for his reads.
Is he now seeking seasonal irregularities,
determining leaks—Are there other possibilities?
Does he know how to deal with stray, aggressive animals?
Does he know how to troubleshoot and what that all entails?
The meter reader reads electric, water, steam or gas.
Now he has vanished from the street. Say, did you see him pass?
Urbawel Cidese is a poet of urban lanscapes and people. Donald Barthelme (1931-1989) was a PostModernist American proset.
~~~
Inside His Cubicle
by Brad Lee Suciew
He sat inside his cubicle, and upright at his desk.
He faced his monitor, while thinking of an odalisque.
O, how he wouldn’t love to be next to his chambermaid;
but he had work to focus on and numbered grades arrayed.
He stretched his legs. The coffee dregs had vanished from his cup.
He couldn’t dream of loveliness; he needed to wake up.
He had to function in the real world; there was much to do.
He couldn’t sit back in his chair and contemplate some view.
He didn’t have time to explore his feelings or his form.
He had to type incessantly, and then to type some more.
Keyboarding through the morning rush, he did not take a break,
but he e-mailed messages: f, g, h, i, j, k.
Brad Lee Suciew is a poet of business.
~~~
The Old Mechanic
by Des Wercebauli
The old mechanic went to work, as he had done before.
He took his key out of his pants, and then unlocked the door.
Once in, he opened the garage to boss and working men;
but he moved slowly as he did so; he was no fast Ben.
And yet he was dependable; they could rely on him;
so they were glad that he was there; he was a steady Jim.
All liked to work with him, because his pace helped them as well;
for they could only go as fast as he did—that was swell.
And though there were long lines and creases in his face’s cheeks,
they were okay with that; besides he still had his obliques.
Des Wercebauli is a poet of work.
~~~
Newsreel:
It was not Cavalry, but at a park where they were stilled;
Las Cruces, in New Mexico, police say three were killed.
Las Cruces, New Mexico has a population of around 110,000.
~~~
In the Mania Commute
by Bruc “Diesel” Awe
He pressed on in the darkness, in the mania commute,
the myriads of buses, trucks and cars, in hot pursuit,
ten thousand plus enroute to jobs they were intent to reach
on time, as well as with a modicum of comely cheer.
The route was new to him; he had not been this way before.
But for the lights, he hardly knew where he was driving, o.
Yet on he drove. He had to get the post-op notes to one
who needed them A-S-A-P, before the rising Sun.
He didn’t know the turn to take; he missed it sev’ral times;
but finally he made it to his destination, aye.
The Driver of a Compact
by Bruc “Diesel” Awe
Last night I had a nightmare. It went like this.
I dreamed that I was driving down a road,
when up ahead a giant semi was
passing another semi. Oh, my God!
I drove right through, between the two huge trucks.
Gigantic metal pieces flew by me.
It was a miracle I was not struck,
crushed in my tracks by such machinery.
I was so thankful my old, little car
was not destroyed. I made it out alive.
But so horrific was the pictured charge
of hurling heaps, I’m lucky I did survive.
When I awoke I was unnerved, for I,
I had witnessed a near death experi-
ence.
Bruc “Diesel” Awe is a poet of traffic.
~~~
Newsreel:
Some scientists are using light in order to control
how starfish egg cells shape themselves, and jiggle, as they go.
~~~
A Daily Ritual
by Rudi E. Welec, “Abs”
It was a daily ritual, when he arose at dawn,
to wash his hands and face between his open eyes and yawn.
His eyes discharged their gunk at night, because they did not blink,
and left behind their sleep debris, there at the eye-edge brink.
A soapy washcloth then relieves him of the crusty stuff,
trapped in the mucus of his eyes—con-junc-tiva junk.
He was so glad it kept his eyeballs lubricated well,
preventing irritants from entering past moisture’s gel.
Exercises
by Rudi E. Welec, “Abs”
It was time for his exercises. He was ready now.
He did his stretches, back to front, and top to bottom down.
He head was slightly flushed and rushed, a fleshy pale red.
He touched his toes. He bent in half, like as a quadruped.
But he was not on the savannah, scouting out for food.
Out in the shed, his flesh was freshed. It made him fe-el good.
While exercising, he saw shovels, rakes, et cetera,
an oily letter jacket, with a giant letter R.
There were some balls, a ladder too, rags hanging on its steps;
and near the window was set up a cozy place for pets.
But he continued on…his stretching, lengthen his spine,
some twisting and some ab work too, beside loblolly pines.
No Hercules, Nor Jupiter
by Rudi E. Welec, “Abs”
He thought it vital to work on his posture all the time,
when he was standing, and he felt he had to lift his spine,
He felt he needed to be upright, stretching, fetching sky;
for if he wasn’t all that mighty, he might strive for height.
As he was bound to Earth, he wondered how high he could rise,
as are all Earthlings presently comprised and compromised.
But still, he wondered would he ever master the sublime,
when he, or others like him, could git off his bed and shine.
Perhaps he was no Hercules, nor Jupiter, to boot,
but like a shooting star…some day…he could both shine and shoot.
The Baseball Batter
by Rudi E. Welec, “Abs”
He stood up tall beside the plate; his socks and cap were black.
His uniform was brown. He was prepared to swing his bat.
He longed to smack those balls that came across in sweeping arcs,
to blast those balls that soared past him, o, yes, out of the park,
those changeups, fastballs, forkballs, screwballs, knuckleballs and curves.
Indeed, he even long to hit those nasty sliding slurves.
But was he up for it? Was he prepared to taken them on?
He wondered if his skill was good enough; he was no brawn.
He felt the wind. He took a swing. The bat swung through the air.
But when it came to the collision, there was nothing there.
Rudi E. Welec, “Abs”, is a poet of exercise. According to Beau Lecsi Werd “freshed” is a trunc.
~~~
He Felt the Need
by Rudi E. Welec, “Abs”
He felt the need to poop and pee, as it was what he ought.
it was one of those many things he did with little thought.
He didn’t want to pee his pants, or make a mess elsewhere.
He knew it was important to keep cleanliness, bel air.
And yet this was a challenge for the child just leaning how
to go…off to…the bathroom to…“I think I must go”…now.
Rudi E. Welec, “Abs”, is a poet of bodily functions. According to Beau Lecsi Werd “freshed” is a trunc. The quote comes from Harold in “Young and Innocent”, directed by British Modernist film maker Alfred Hitchcock (1899-1980).
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