Haiku
by “Clear Dew” Ibuse
The little toddler
kneels upon the grassy lawn.
He don’t want to leave.
“Clear Dew” Ibuse is a NewMillennial haikuist.
~~~
Haiku
by “Wired Clues” Abe
All day long pounding,
roofers are weather proofing,
echoes resounding.
“Wired” Clues Abe is a poet of NewMillennial construction.
~~~
On Lightning Striking
by Éclair Dub W. See
Like as when lightning strikes nearby and shakes the atmosphere,
one wonders, ‘Am I dead or not? Am I still living here?’
A golden shaft blasts fast and hard and outward radiates
a cylinder tornado, like a zapped tsunamic taze.
One looks around to check and see just what was it that hit,
and then the thunder rumbles loud in an unsettling fit.
It seems the very Earth has twitched, as in an earthquake’s shift,
and knocks one down with growling sound and an alarming lift.
That jolting spark that cracks the dark with its bright bolt and start,
electric’lly and momen-tair-ily splits us apart.
Aft the Electric Storm
by Éclair Dub W. See
Aft the electric storm, the leaves were scattered all around,
red, orange, yellow, green and brown, on streets, sidewalks, and ground.
Cold Autumn’s western being’s breath drives branches, limbs and twigs,
across the barren landscape; countless people take a swig.
These multitudes, alive to pale colours, keep their form;
in pastel houses, brick and vinyl-siding walls stayed firm.
About them wild powers roar; they hold on to the Earth.
Against such mighty dominance, they held for all their worth.
They saw the lightning, heard the thunder, felt the pelting rain,
and understood the forces of their World and its reign.
The summer dreams have gone away, replaced by those of Fall.
The lulling streams have been replaced by raging water’s law.
The clouds fly high up in the sky, so wide above the plains.
The crashing cymbals of the gods are madding and insane.
The Earth is growing colder in the Northern hemisphere,
but in the South, Spring springs to life and grows in full career.
The hail crashing here, o, hear, hails forth a brand new day,
and what seems over overhead begins to make its way.
There is no rest from pestilence, nor help from too much hope.
From ever changing seasons, we the people have to cope.
Éclair Dub W. See is a poet of weather events. Percy Bysshe Shelley (1792-1822) was a British Romantic poet.
~~~
A Phantom Kangaroo Sighting
by Walibee Scrude
I saw a phantom kangaroo pause from his frisky jumps.
He turned around and looked at me on haunches big as stumps.
He stood upon his powerful hind legs, and his strong tail,
and looked as if he wanted to kick, box, o, to assail.
His height was over five feet tall; his feet upon the ground.
I wondered just how far he could leap in a single bound.
Although he was bare, but for very little fur at all,
it looked as though he wore a shirt, short hair, au naturel.
I was alerted by his look, and turned away as fast,
as he turned in to marrow and then presently went past.
Walibee Scrude is a poet of Australia. Joseph R. Svinth is a contemporary martial arts historian.
~~~
Flowers of Snow
by Wu “Sacred Bee” Li
As Han Ying wrote two thousand years ago, flowers of plants and trees are five-pointed usually, but those “flowers” of snow that fall from the heavens are six-pointed. Snowflakes have a particular structure due to their hydrogen and oxygen content, where their arranged architecture forms always a crystalline hexagon.
Wu “Sacred Bee” Li is a poet of Ancient China.
~~~
A Mere Decade Amid Myriads
by Acwiles Berude
The Trojan War, a mere decade amid
myriads, is still remembered after
three millennia, like the pyramids.
Though no monument, it was a chapter
in time of the clash of human titans,
characters immortalized by Homer
in his Iliad: Achilles, Hector,
Odysseus, Ajax, Diomedes,
Menelaus and Helen of the Spartans,
Paris, Agamemnon, Priam, Nestor,
Andromache, Hecuba, Thersites,
and many others, including the gods,
all struggling on that barest of stages,
below Troy’s wall on the surrounding clods
for one brief time and for all the ages.
Acwiles Berude is a poet fond of the Greek epic poet Homer (c. 8th century BC).
~~~
In Moscva in the Vest
by Alecsei Durbew
He didn’t want to be a rushin’ fool. He could just stay
in Moscva for a little while, for part of a day.
Perhaps he was not free. So what? Let him strap on the vest.
Let him lean back into the pain. He’s ready for the test.
He saw the men in camo tops and shades. There were two men.
He thought that they were spies. O, God, the agony again.
They were about to blow his cover all to smithereens.
His heart was beating. He was freezing hot, and shivering.
He would be bare, lean, in Berlin; but here he had to break…
into the beauty of a terrible explosion’s snake.
O, One Unlucky Dude
by Alecsei Durbew
He was, o, one unlucky dude, dressed in his ammo vest,
when he got blasted from a missile in that viper’s nest.
His head and shoulders fell back hard; pain filled his empty stare.
His legs flew up and out, as he went flying through the air.
His camo buddies rushed to him to see what they could do,
to give him all the help they could, when he was coming to.
One grabbed his back, the other grabbed his legs, to lift him up.
They longed to move him fast before the scene be interrup-
ted, ripped from time. He grasped at hope. But gasped when trouble came…
and he was caught between the fearsome thrower and the flame.
Alecsei Durbew is a poet of Russian scenes.
~~~
The Carnivore
by Wilude Scabere
“Thou shall not gormandize/ As thou hast done with me.”
—William Shakespeare, The Merchant of Venice
He stood up at the window, gazing at the grazing cows.
A little further over, he observed a sun-glazed sow.
He put on his food-handling gloves; he was about to strip
the seasoned, hot, rotisserie boned-chicken in his grip.
O, let it rip. He pulled and tore. He separated it.
He used his fork and knife as he cut and serrated it.
He rated it a decent haul; He was a carnivore.
He was as happy as a fox in coop with chicks galore.
O, yes, he loved to eat cooked meat for his replacement parts.
He was prepared to start right now his gormandizing arts.
Wilude Scabere is a poet of British tradition. William Shakespeare (1564-1616) was an English poet and proset.
~~~
An Ugly Homely Man
by Usa W. Celebride
Abe Lincoln was an ugly, homely man
who come out of Kentucky and went to
Illinois. He showed what the comely can,
he could, and what they can’t do, he could do.
His humor was plain, ol’ American,
homespun homilies; and although uncouth,
his honesty was genuine, common;
it could hoodwink people into the truth.
But Lincoln was a complex man. Beyond
the tall, lanky outlines of his body,
he often fell into depths of despond,
feelings of gloom and doom. He was moody,
like Hamlet, dressed in black, having to fix
a world again up to its no-good tricks.
Usa W. Celebride is a poet of Americana. Abraham Lincoln (1809-1965) was an American President (1861-1865) leaving office when he was assassinated by John Wilkes Booth (1838-1865) who considered him a tyrant.
~~~
To the One of Fictive Musing
by Bruce Weasel Id
Is it a bird? Is it a plane?
No, it’s absurd. It is insane.
It’s Superman and Lois Lane.
Bruce Weasel Id is a poet of comical rhymes. Jerry Siegel (1914-1996) was a PostModernist American comic book writer, and Joe Shuster (1914-1992) was a PostModernist Americal illustrator.
~~~
Flashback: Ten Years Ago
by Cal Wes Ubideer
R. Adams planned to take his daughter soon to Disneyland.
D. Kaufman was a worker at the coffee shop he manned.
B. Betbadal, a mom of three, had come some years before.
H. Bowman left two daughters when his body hit the floor.
S. Clayborn was a lady only twenty-seven years.
J. Espinosa left his job, his family in tears.
A. Godoy, only twenty-six, had one son at her grave.
S. Johnson cried, “I’ve got you,” to the worker that he saved.
D. Meins remembered on the helmets at his former school,
while T. Nguyen planned to be engaged and married too.
N. Thalasinos shared his views, but not maliciously,
while Y. Velasco was shot down in cold blood viciously.
M. Wetzel left behind six children and his loving wife.
I. Amanios left his old land for a better life.
Cal Wes Ubideer is a poet of California.
~~~
Sagewood
by Bilee Wad Curse
He was a rake, a roué, if not as thin or as straight,
while raking leaves or taking leave of his quaint senses, mate.
He struck one as a sailor or a used-car salesman,
who’d try to get you in a lemon or catamaran.
He was absurd, acerbic, like a character within
a Flannery O’Connor story shot through with chagrin.
If he was from the South, he hadn’t always been from there;
but definitely he was what one would call a character.
Although he stood up tall, he always seemed a seated dude,
a con man with an overdose of underarm sagewood.
Bilee Wad Curse is a poet of crime. Flannery O’Connor (1925-1964) was an American PostModernist proset.
~~~
Mixing Coffee and Exercise
by Rudi E. Welec, “Abs”
“mixing chemistry and desire, stirring resting roots…”
B. S. Eliud Acrewe, “The Waist Land”
He had another cup of coffee; he was feeling cool.
He loved its creamy warmth. He did some exercises too.
He did some stretches round his edges, if he wasn’t rushed,
and even touching toes and ankles; but he never gushed.
He did some standing marches; they would be good for his hips;
and in between his pauses, he indulged in caffeine sips.
He next worked on his chair lifts, which were good for quads and glutes,
although he was in socks and shoes, and wasn’t wearing boots.
This sit-to-stand helped his command; he used his arms and hands.
He found this helped his strength and balance in his back and calves.
At last, he did some short-step walking, raising head and spine,
along with slowly rolling rocking; forth and side-to-side.
Rudi E. Welec, “Abs”, is a poet of exercise.
Leave A Comment