Haiku
by “Clear Dew” Ibuse
Distraction can be
very important at times
when it’s time to sleep.
Haiku
by “Clear Dew” Ibuse
He lifted the blinds,
in the middle of the night,
a rabit sped off.
“Clear Dew” Ibuse is a NewMillennial haikuist.
~~~
Haiku
by “Wired Clues” Abe
He smalls the washed hands
of the washed-up grandfather—
holly berry spruce.
Haiku
by “Wired Clues” Abe
Avoiding a car,
the driver veered aside,
but hit a squirrel.
“Wired” Clues Abe is a poet of NewMillennial construction. William Stafford (1914-1993) was a PostModernist American poet, who wrote the noted poem “Traveling through the Dark”.
~~~
Newsreel:
Pingping, the World’s longest-living crested ibis died,
in Beijing Zoo, at nearly forty years, he did reside.
~~~
A Flying Dodgeball
by “Scribe” El Uwade
The rain brings out the robins;
they hop across the yard;
more than a dozen plump ones,
they bounce before the bard;
and also little kitty
behind the window pane,
who patiently is sitting
inside, out of the rain.
Her gaze is very watchful;
his gaze is leisurely,
until a flying dodgeball
scatters everybody.
The robins fly to tree-tops,
the kitty steps outside,
the poet ponders Cheops
and his great pyramid,
Those builders all have scattered
that built great Khufu’s tomb.
How has it really mattered
from Cairo to Khartoum?
“Scribe” El Uwade is a poet of Ancient Egypt. Khufu or Cheops (fl. c. 2500 BC) was the second pharaoh of the 4th dynasty.
~~~
Death along the Highway
by Beadle W. Cruise
Stretched out lengthwise, as if prepared for a coffin,
a dead raccoon along the highway—State Route Four—
faced up, black-tipped nose out, as if it was off in
lost thought observing huge clouds in the great outdoors.
There was no visible crushed wound of pinkish hue,
though rigor mortis already permeated o’er ‘t,
that relative of cacomistle, kinkajou,
coati and the panda. Its black bandit’s mask
and bushy ringed tail, in the light, were inky new;
but anybody knew it wasn’t there to bask,
this recent kill of Procyon lotor, bare-skin
fingers together, prey to nature’s airy cask.
Beadle W. Cruise is a poet of the collision of car and animal.
~~~
To No Abode
by Cade Lewis Rube
The days go by at such a tic-toc pace,
one is amazed at how the time flies past.
It is as if one is clocked in a race.
One’s panting, though it doesn’t seem that fast.
Where did the time all go? How we did change.
The whole thing seems incredible and strange.
In fact, one can’t believe it happened so;
and yet you’re here. The time—it had to go.
And so, into another episode
we slide, and ride on down this road of life.
filled with events, and people, places rife,
that vanish into air to no abode.
How odd existence is, mysterious too.
I’m awed at how true and serious it is.
Cade Lewis Rube is a poet of the Country.
~~~
Hyperbolica
by Euclidrew Base
Lobachevsky and Bolyai, unenjoined,
made geometries that had infinite
numbers of parallel lines through a point,
made the non-Euclidean definite.
Euclidrew Base is a poet of mathematics. Russian Nikolai Lobachesky (1792-1856) and Hungarian Janos Bolyai (1802-1860) were Romantic Eastern European mathematicians. According to Beau Lecsi Werd, the neologism “unenjoined” here suggests independently discovered.
~~~
Hunters in the Snow
by Sir Bac de Leuew
“Brueghel the painter concerned with it all…”
—William Carlos Williams
I.
Three hunters are returning from an expedition with
their dogs and one fox corpse. They trudge along. The hounds are thin.
Are those the paw prints of an animal they’re following?
Black crows perch in the leafless trees; a magpie is a-wing.
Off to the left there is a blazing fire’s golden flame;
but all around is snow and ice, a bright white flow’s amaze.
The people outside of the inn are singeing pig to eat.
A broken sign hangs from its hardware: “Dit Is Guten Hert”.
About two-dozen people skate upon a square-like pond;
some kids skid by, there’s curling, hockey, sledding, and beyond…
there are rough peaks not to be found in Holland, but so sharp
they seem to scratch the sky with jagged slopes, so rough and harsh.
II.
The painting is an oil on wood by Pieter Breughel Eld.
The scene is set within the depths of winter, cold, beheld.
Spear-holding hunters are returning with their thirteen dogs.
Is there a quail in the near man’s pouch? The whole group slogs.
The painting—Fifteen-Sixty-Five—holds much within its frame,
including, in the distant town, a house which is aflame.
The villagers with ladders hope to put the fire out,
but will they be too late to do it. Of that there’s some doubt.
The painting now, located in Vienna, Austria,
presents a vision with no cross, Gehenna’s paucity.
The painting’s center holds a bird trap waiting for some prey.
Saint Hubert’s bright mind hovers over all, some people pray.
Sir Bac de Leuew is a poet of Dutch artistry. Pieter Brueghel the Elder (1526-1569) was a Dutch Renaissance painter. William Carlos Williams (1883-1963) was a Modernist American poet.
~~~
An Arc of Tombs
by Claude I. S. Weber
Along its boulevards and avenues, one sees,
among the many monuments and landmarks, much:
the Eiffel Tower, the tree-lined Champs Élysées,
Musée D’Orsay, the Sacré-Coeur Basilica,
Jardin du Luxembourg, the Place de la Concorde,
Hôtel des Invalides, the Paris Opera,
Gare St. Lazare, Palais Royal, and the Sorbonne,
the Louvre, the Notre Dame, and the Arc de Triomphe.
All of these things, and more, in one grand sweep, accord,
including the Centre Pompidou, Grande Arche and the Metro,
Tour Montparnasse, and the modernistic city’s
gathering of skyscrapers known as la Défense.
Claude I. S. Weber is a poet of France. The city of Paris has a population of around 2,000,000.
~~~
Newsreel:
From US strikes on narcoterrorist drug-smuggling boats,
an oil tanker has been seized off Venezuela’s coast.
For Her External Jots
Usa W. Celebride
There was an evening slant of light—this winter afternoon—
that flared into his face as he walked forth. It glared forsooth.
It blinded him, yet he walked forward down the narrow walk.
He felt he would be getting vitamin D with its warmth.
Here was a heavenly hope he held, in his awkward way,
sent through the atmosphere, near driving cars and trucks this day.
He saw his lengthy shadow, when he turned around toward home,
content to have had happiness in ‘s momentary roam.
Most of the leaves in these large trees had fallen to the ground.
so softly did they fall to earth, they hardly made a sound.
Soon he would be back in his house to type down varied thoughts,
including thanking Emily for her external jots.
Usa W. Celebride is a poet of America. Emily Dickinson (1830-1886) was a 19th century American poet.
~~~
A Cynic in Schenectady
by Dic Asburee Wel
I fear the World and what it does
to each and every one of us.
It draws us in and makes us bad
and leaves us feeling lost and sad.
Why must this be? Did Adam’s sin
mean we would fail and could not win
even before we would begin?
What kind of World is this we’re in?
Dic Asburee Wel is a poet of New York. Schenectady is a city in New York of around 65,000.
~~~
5-4-3-2-1 (SIX CLIPS)
by Ecwus Beal Ride
Each new day is the same I say, but it goes away,
and it will not stay. It ignites like a match on fire,
and then it takes off, going on and on come what may.
The pace is that of a heart racing with pure desire.
One is immediately jolted, then taken aback,
but one has to get up off the floor and close the door.
One has to scan the situation but can’t be slack.
One has to deal with each new reel spinning before one,
remove one’s wallet from one’s pocket, be right on track,
and looking at it, flick the switch in one quick motion,
push a button and sidestep the next problem coming
at one. It is the speed that causes the distortion.
and underneath it all is the pounding, the drumming.
The eye flinches; yet one goes on, troubles magnified.
One has got to be fast to stay in the race running.
Plug in the power, turn on a dime, open the ride,
before one slips and descends down 5-4-3-2-1.
Oh, the stairs, the stares. Grab the railing on the side.
At the keyboard the letters are typed, addressed, sent, gone.
Then there are the bills, bills, bills that must be paid, paid, paid.
The wires are clipped together. The recording is done.
Everything is changing constantly. Nothing is staid.
The day is young. One has just begun. The time is FIVE.
Even though they move, the new foundations must be laid.
Even the acted scenes in smart tuxedos are fresh, live.
Even the machines revealed that go up or count down
have some existence. They, too, have to start and arrive,
depart and contrive. One needs money to get to town.
And then one finds oneself amidst circuits and bottles,
clenching one’s hands tight, breathing as if one had a gun
pointed dead center at the back of one’s head, battles
raging all around. Pick up the glass. Now make the toast
quickly before that one there on the sidelines throttles
one off course, of course. Beware a ticket from the host.
The lights shoot past like bullets; volts fly in the hundreds.
One must be as fast and as agile as a cat most,
if not all, of the time. Finagle the blinds. Storms thunder.
Take off the mask. Hold the moment fast. Take a deep breath.
Have a vision. Input the data. Weave through the plundered.
Watch for the steamy. Don’t be dragged off the mine field’s breadth.
Put in the best you can. Pan the area. Pass up
the littered bits of paper, yet don’t be ticketed.
Don’t be corrupted by beauty. Do not interrupt
the mission. Don’t take off in pursuit of a balloon.
Drink, and drink deeply, but don’t be obsessed by the cup.
Use it as a guide, but don’t whine at the waning moon.
A cat in the hand is worth two in the hat. Watch out.
Steady, cool in the face of danger, if not now—soon.
Take a look at all the numbers. Be ready to count.
Don’t let the dumbed down dummies drown one in a hole.
Get clear through it. Side-step the noose of pearls at the mount.
This is the time for careful walking. Don’t lose your soul.
Draw forth the black box. Look at the words on the paper.
Hold the elevator doors. Get in before they close.
Shovel coal. Shuffle the cards. Shove the usher over.
Fight through the darkness with strong arm and hand and lamp.
Then stamp the map with hope. Grab a handful of dirt.
Don’t fear the Earth. Turn about even in the damp.
Clutch your heart closely. Snap its handle to the wall.
There’s always something that someone needs to revamp,
brown boxes, silver chains, the frontal None of All,
the circular Mandala, clear, glass, spinning wheel,
and the baton exchange between the very tall.
The fuse continues. It is odd because it’s real,
like incense burning, snapshots taken, or fine flaps.
Don’t pull the wool over one’s eyes, but instead steel
oneself for the capsule that comes from liquid taps.
One must go forward, though pushed on by forceful fate,
like putty in hard hands. Press on. Do not collapse.
Turn to. Pandora’s box is sitting at the gate.
Don’t wait for rocks will fall, fights flair. Give all. Grieve not.
Pull on the chain of life. Pick up the pace. It’s late.
Uncover what is the next in line. Don’t be distraught.
Follow the winding corridors. Pass the gold by.
Bring all together: sinews, energy and thought,
a fusion of the many focused in the eye.
Do not recoil from the toil, the broil or rockets.
Pass over springs. Drive like a speeding truck, in high.
Be wary of coffins, rifles, and pick pockets.
Repel the sides. Look up above. Jump in. Bend down.
Do what’s needed in order to reach time’s sockets.
Surmount the highest bars. Gun it. Don’t walk to town.
Swerve round grated manholes. Turn on the light and look.
Connect the pieces. Stack them. Hold a cold, stone frown.
Connect the parts together. Put them on a hook.
Bring up new contents. Focus like a laser beam.
Smack smug aside the head. Like a speeding car, book.
Here, there, near, far: we’re where we are. Avoid the dream.
Observe technology spread out. Pull up the nerve.
Kiss the moment. Press the butt on. Keep flat. Don’t scream.
Hit the light. Breathe in deep. Hold it in. Do not swerve.
Break it down. Knock it off. Place it in. Turn it on.
Against the curve, pound it out. Hold tight. Keep the verve.
Turn the right way. Push on forward. Take off. Pull strong.
Hold the key. Point the shot. Pour it out. Sweep the earth.
Pass the past. Put the pedal to the metal, down.
Be on the ball. Plan each move. Run for all your worth.
Abruptly change it up. Apply the light. Zoom in.
Throw the back in. Dig in for the long haul. Put forth.
Turn to. Unwind the real. Pull out the books. Quick, spin.
Extend the step. Bend the knees. Comb the environs.
Wrench the gut. Dodge the bullets. Lean in to the wind.
Grasp the situation. Dig in. Slip the tie-pins.
Clean up on the victories. Tamp down the problems.
Find peace amidst all the firearms, harms and irons.
Pick up on the clues and the fast pace. Watch for goblins.
Use maps. Take steps. Block hits. Cover the head and face.
Keep safe. Go fast, hard. Drink it up. Cover the ground.
Ecwus Beal Ride is a poet of movement.
~~~
December Desk
by Des Wercebauli
He sat up at his desk; he had some time to think and write.
with cup of coffee—nice and warm—on this December night.
Though there was much in sight about him there, he felt untrussed;
because the temp’rature was six degrees in Celsius.
He typed some letters as he took another focused sip.
He did not feel as if he were upon some edgy trip.
Indeed, he felt like as a snake, uncoiled in the grass,
a long whip-lash unbraiding in the sandy saxifrage.
He stretched his shoulders and his folded arms behind his head,
yet still his hips were slightly numb, as when he was in bed.
While finishing his final cup, he made a brupt dismount;
he left his sked upon his desk, and headed off to town.
Des Wercebauli is a poet of work.
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