Haiku
by “Wired Clues” Abe
Water cushion—chomp!
It is a chilly ocean.
So long, three demons.
Haiku
by “Wired Clues” Abe
The Korean ship
stops, drops cars off, turns back, and
heads into the mist.
“Wired Clues” Abe is a haiku poet of the New Millennium. Saitō Sanki (1900-1962) a Modernist Japanese haikuist, Yosa Buson (1716-1784) was a poet and painter of the Edo period.
~~~
Newsreel:
Although there’s little water now—Mars atmosphere is dry.
It’s covered in red dust because it once was oxidized.
But as there are no rainy skies, dust can’t be swept away;
though once upon a time there was, and water had its day.
~~~
If Every Atom
by I. E. Sbace Weruld
If every atom that we are, was once part of
a star, then every atom that belongs to me
as good belongs to you; and our hearts made from love
are parcels of the universe, eternity.
If on this journey through space-time, we wonder at
where we are at, then simply take this odyssey
to where it goes, and notice what we pass in fact,
what matter mattered, energized our energy.
If this vast cosmic astral set, in which we’re cast,
is endless or is ending soon or later, we,
as tiny as we are, or insignificant,
can still move on with purpose, pride and dignity.
Mr. I. E. Sbace Weruld is a poet of cosmic concerns.
~~~
White Lilies
by Sri Wele Cebuda
Here white lilies in this wide lake float peacefully on on
aquamarine green waves, bob up to the lift of the water,
down to the dip’s drawn drop, smooth blue ululations expanding
moving to newer positions, a setting of saucers and cups, yes,
fit for a keen mind’s eye, I, drinking the scenery’s meaning
deeply and breathing the air in, a gaggle of geese in the wet mists,
huge clouds passing above, walk slowly alone, sad,
glad for the hope of a union, a fusion of beautiful lives—love.
Sri Wele Cebuda is a poet of balance. One finds allusions to Walt Whitman (1819-1891), a Realist American poet, in the bilding [sic] and the unrhymed, eight-lined sixteener.
~~~
Newsreel:
Three French-made Rafale jets were shot down by Pakistan.
Now India must think about what packs a greater punch;
since J-10 Chinese jets and PL-15 missiles can
together do a lot of damage, when they both are launched.
~~~
The Crown Prince of Nabonidas
by Esecwiel Barud
He sat up on the sofa’s edge; he watched the TV screen.
Was it a movie he was watching? O, what had he seen?
He lifted up his legs. A coffee table held them up.
O, was there coffee in his coffee cup to sip, or gulp?
He seemed a rather flexible, lithe individual.
Was that a pretzel on the couch, or a residual?
He sat erect, alert. The setting of that nasty noir—
was it some scene of ancient times, like those of Belshazzar?
Was he exalted, the crown prince of great Nabonidas,
or was he an ex-soldier in his camo cap and duds?
Esecwiel Barud is a poet of Ancient Israel. Nabonidas (c. 615 BC – c. 525 BC) was the last king of the NeoBabylonian Empire.
~~~
Newsreel:
The US sanctions will be lifted off of Syria:
Who knows what else will come from Trump’s trip to the Middle East?
~~~
Fighting in the Trenches
by Badeew Ciel Rus
Because I’m fighting in the trenches, I don’t know
who I am shooting at, what messages I’ve sent.
Forgive me one more missive, please, then I will go.
I just remember you as one who heard me vent;
and so I send this poem. Use it or abuse
it; this one’s better than the one before…
and means more what I meant.
A Stalin Epigram
by Badeew Ciel Rus
Our lives no longer feel the ground that lies down under them.
We cannot hear our words more than ten paces in this realm.
But when we speak, we speak of him—the Kremlin mountaineer—
his fingers, ten thick worms, his words like weights, but heavier.
Upon his lips are huge cockroaches, laughing heartily,
above the glitter of his boot rims, shining cartilage.
Ringed with a scum of chicken necks, one whistles, this one meows,
a third one snivels, as he points his finger and goes pow.
He forges edicts in a line, like horseshoes thrown about,
one for the groin, one for the forehead, temple, eye—all out.
The executions of his tongue, like berries, pink rosette,
roll off his tongue above the broad chest of this large Osette.
Badeew Ciel Rus is a poet of Russia. Joseph Stalin (1878-1953) was a Modernist Russian Communist dictator. Осип Мандельштам, i. e., Osip Mandelstam (1891-1938), from whom this poem comes, was a Modernist Russian poet.
~~~
The Mountain Climber
by Ewald E. Eisbruc
He held himself by just his fingers to the mountain shelf.
Would he be able to maintain his weight? to feel its felt?
He felt like as a torso of Chirico at that height.
He did not want to fall from there. He held with all his might.
His plight was real, and yet surreal. How could he make it through?
He needed to be tough there on the edge of nothing new.
If only someone could pull him from this predicament…
but he would have to climb himself up to the firmament.
If only there was some support to keep him from that fall;
but, no, there was nobody there, nobody there at all.
Upon the Wall
by Ewald E. Eisbruc
He sat up tall upon the wall, for all that he could see.
He was no Humpty Dumpty Egg upon the Salton Sea.
He stretched his elbows to the Sun. He was a hampy man.
His legs and feet were dangling in the air—an ampersand
on ample sand. He did not know where he was going to;
but he felt like a meditating Yogi in the blue.
He felt like as he was upon a magic carpet ride.
He loved to climb up high to look about, no hare, nor hide.
His knees reached Nietzsche in that lotus pose. His heartbeat rose.
On such a strong foundation he felt secure, and froze.
O, yes. But time pressed on ahead; and he was not yet dead.
It was exhilarating to be rugged, rough and red.
Ewald E. Eisbruc is a poet of Central Europe. Giorgio de Chirico (1888-1978) was an Italian Modernist painter of the Metaphysical School. Friedrich Nietzshe (1844-1900) was a German philosopher and classical philologist.
~~~
Newsreel:
The Spain and Portugal blackout was triggered by the loss
of fifteen gigawatts of energy. The grid collapsed.
Was it renewables? dark sabotage? What was the cause?
Was it the disconnection of some solar plants? Perhaps.
It happened in Granada where three incidents occurred;
but what were they that caused the power outage to ungird?
~~~
Alas, Poor Y—rick
by Bic Uwel, “Erased”
Alas, poor Y—rick, whom I did not know, has disappeared.
Where has he gone, that fellow of no finite jests endeared.
Abhorred in my imagination, he has now become,
since vanishing the 14th of July. Where has he gone?
His phone went off. Accounts of his have been deleted too,
as if he’s been erased, by deep state op’ratives, from view.
Who now recalls him being trained at Clairton Sportsman Club?
Acquaintances, like tRouth and wRiddle, left. Aye, there’s the rub.
Where are the real crooks and his many handlers? Ubi sunt?
From this scene, the performers and the actors exeunt.
Bic Uwel, “Erased”, is a poet of missing people, on which AI has very little information, and absolutely no understanding of.
~~~
Upon the Dance Floor
by Dube Eric Walse
“Jim Angleton…apparently begins…to realize that
comp mil ser might give…a respite from responsibility.”
—E. E. Cummings to Ezra Pound
He stood upon the dance floor. He was not a sexy stud.
Beneath that turning disco ball, his dance-moves weren’t that good.
There was nobody he could dance with. He was all alone.
He felt like as a hungry dog who did not have a bone.
From pecs to abs, he was uptight; his shoulder spread was locked.
He felt so awkward standing there, Was he so badly frocked?
What were his thoughts as he stood there? Would no one dance with him?
Again, he would watch others dance, who pranced around the gym.
He wondered what it would be like to dance upon that floor,
but he would never know, there in his own stark Idaho.
Dube Eric Walse is a poet of dance. James Jesus Angleton (1917-1987) was a PostModernist American CIA officer.
~~~
The Man in the Black Coat
by Urclad Beweise
He wore a long black cloak. He turned his collar to the wind.
It was so cold outside, he wished instead that he was in.
The black coat was so dark and shiny. It made him feel new.
And yet it was no more than but an ancient frock askew.
He made his way through the gray day. He kept upon the path.
He felt so dirty, very nasty; he needed a bath.
He was quite a dark figure, shadowy his silhouette,
as he proceeded forth, upon his course, with firm intent.
He focused on his traveling, unraveling before
his open mind and open eyes. This trip he would abhor.
And yet, he felt he had to take it. He must now be bold.
Go forth, or else he’ll be himself in his black cloak, so old.
Urclad Beweise is a poet of clothing.
~~~
The PiloT
by Air Weelbed Suc
He had to do his exercises if he wanted health.
O, in the throes of energy, he felt he had such wellth.
Not hell-bent in his mission, still he longed to fly that plane.
And if he could, o, yes, he would do it again, again.
His uniform was spare; there was so much he had to bear.
He needed lots of bravery to fly up in that air.
But his big jet was so enormous, how could he fly it?
It was gigantic, grand and mantic, powerful, sky-lit.
Not only did he need a clear mind; he must be serene.
Just how much was he in control of such a great machine?
He looked across the broad horizon. What did he not see?
He was a amazed to find himself up there, aloof. Ah, Tee!
Air Weelbed Suc is a poet of flight.
~~~
Fragment
by Leeb Sircadeuw
He woke up from his college dream, those knowledge schemes of old,
when he was back at university, deep Time unscrolled.
He climbed that broad, wide, moving spiral staircase once again
up to the floor wherein th’ elevation would begin.
Leeb Sircadeuw is a poet of sleep.
~~~
Mugginess
by Eber L. Aucsidew
He felt so sticky, he was hot, the mugginess was thick,
the atmosphere electric, humidity was rich.
Such water vapor in the air, he felt such nastiness,
because the concentration was so bloomin’ gaseous.
He wished he could relax, but he felt such uneasiness;
it wasn’t pleasing. He felt like he was a beastly mess.
Eber L. Aucsidew is a poet of weather.
~~~
A Game of Chess
by Cu Ebide Aswerl
It was a game of chess. O, yes. What was his opening?
He wondered if he had the stamina, the coping skills.
He definitely needed patience, and dexterity,
as well as brash, rash dash, panache and sheer temerity.
The first move always was a pawn. Would it move one or two?
and which pawn would it be. What was the plan that he would use?
He wondered what his opening would be. Would it be good?
and just how good of all the possibilities he could?
He contemplated his first move and his opponent too.
What kind of animal was he? How wild was his suit?
And then he did it, made his move. The game had now been launched.
He hunkered down for the long haul, he was prepared and haunched.
Cu Ebide Aswerl is a poet of games.
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