Haiku
by “Clear Dew” Ibuse
A white butterfly
flaps past th’ ornamental pear,
fresh, bright, white petals.
Haiku
by “Clear Dew” Ibuse
I fear the haiku.
It absorbs your mind and leaves
a tall, naked tree.
“Clear Dew” Ibuse is a poet of Japanese sentiments.
~~~
Haiku
by “Wired Clues” Abe
One lone, black crow caws
atop th’ utility pole—
solo ‘caw caw caw’.
Haiku
by “Wired Clues” Abe
They swarm—the grackles—
on the massive parking lot,
What they want are snacks.
Haiku
by “Wired Clues” Abe
A man’s eyes are dry.
He is eating hamburgers
with yellow mustard.
“Wired Clues” Abe is a haikuist focused on NewMillennial observation.
~~~
Of Man in Mania
by “Wired Clues” Abe
Of man in mania, in arms and war I write,
who first came to Hawaii from Japan, back in
December 7, 1941, to fight
in utter enmity against America.
Such suffering came to Oahu’s shores upon
that quiet Sunday morn; but as luck would have it,
in that dawn’s light, all aircraft carriers were gone.
O say, what was the cause Pearl Harbor was ransacked?
Could there have been so much hard hatred in Japan
that in their mad divinity they would contract
to try and crush America’s own naval might?
Was there such anger in their minds when they attacked?
Approximately 60,000,000 people died in World War Two, a majority were civilians. The United States lost around 291,000 troops in combat, and around 113,000 civilians were killed. The US wounded were about 670,000.
~~~
Newsreel:
Mojtaba Khamenei was chosen leader of Iran,
but who is he? and where is he? and is he still alive.
~~~
The Asiatic Lion
by Darius Belewec
Do you not know Iran is not my dwelling place today?
I’m now extinct in the wilds there. My feet have gone astray.
I once roamed there, but now survive in only Gujurat.
Gir Forest Park, in India, that is my habitat.
The World’s not under my command, the Sun’s, my only shield.
What art belongs to Persian lands may it not elsewhere yield.
God-fearing, doing good deeds with no fear of evil’s fee,
the Mobed states, it’s better dying under one’s foe’s feet.
It’s best to fight one’s enemy, it’s better to be free.
If it’s your time to die, then do it on the battlefield.
Darius Belewec is a poet of Persia.
~~~
Flashback:
Upon her shoulder was a dove
that drank blood from her mouth—Neda.
It was a murdering of love—
a Basij soldier murdered her.
Her voice in Farsi, her last words
were, “I’m burning. I’m burning.” Sup
with the martyrs for freedom, bird
of golden song, fold your wings up.
Nedā Āghā-Soltān (1983-2009), was a philosophy student murdered among thousands in 2009. One wonders how many tens of thousands of children have the mullahs and the IRCG killed in these last 47 years, even sending twelve-year-old boys to war in the Iran-Iraq War.
~~~
Newsreel:
The forty-seven-year-old war heats up again against
the forty-seventh President, indignant and incensed.
The costs of war, the price of oil—all are rising fast.
One question is: How long will this destructive power last?
~~~
Excerpt
by Esecwiel Barud
Get up and amble through the city of the massacre,
then lock your eyes, and, with your hands, touch what you’re passing there,
the clots of blood upon cooled brains, dried on tree trunks and rocks.
Go to the ruins, gaping breaches, fences, hearths and walks.
All shattered, as by thunder’s crash—the blackness, naked, thick—
a crowbar is embedded in the walls of broken brick.
Black wounds for which there is no healing or a doctor’s help.
Just take a step and you will sink your foot into this hell.
Here are the fragments of utensils, book shreds, rags and toys;
these things through arduous work massed, and in a flash destroyed.
And you will come out to the road, acacias bloom and smell,
and their sweet fumes will reach your breast, and beckon you to health.
Esecwiel Barud is a poet of the land of Ezekiel. Hayim Nahman Bialik (1873-1934) was a Modernist Russian-Jewish poet.
~~~
Midnight in Saint Petersburg
by Waldi Berceuse
From the grand landscapes that are Russia, come
the late nineteenth and early twentieth
century Russian composers, who drum
their brash selves into modern consciousness
unabashedly, their flying troika
driving madly against the sleet and snow
with the father of the mythic Five, Glinka,
across the steppes through wars both hot and cold.
In the background playing balalaikas,
Cui, Rimsky-Korsakov, Borodin,
and Mussorgsky, led by Balakirev,
race after Pushkin’s Eugene Onegin,
a mighty, little heap of Russians steeped
in air, from Siberia to Saint Pete’s.
Waldi Berceuse is a critic of Eastern European music. Pushkin (1799-1837) was a noted Russian Romantic poet and proset. Glinka (1804-1857), Cui (1835-1918), Rimsky-Korsakov (1844-1908), Borodin (1833-1887), Mussorgsky (1839-1881) and Balakirev (1837-1910) were noted Russian Realist composers. “A Midnight in Saint Petersburg” was a noted novel by long-lived British PostModernist writer Len Deighton, who was born in 1929.
~~~
He Was No Francis Bacon
by Wilude Scabere
He was no Francis Bacon, the first English essayist.
He was no Euclid demonstrating proofs, like SAS.
He was no Aristotle breaching philosophic spans.
He did not have the gravity that Newton would command.
He was no Thomas Edison who helped light up the Globe,
nor gaseous discoverer frocked in a Priestley Robe.
He was no sage Herodotus creating history,
nor Leonardo in his notebooks, or his artistry.
He was no Einstein with his relativity in tow,
and yet held firm his brandished lance, as any matched with those.
Wilude Scabere is a poet of English letters. Francis Bacon (1561-1626), Euclid (fl. c. 300 BC), Aristotle (c. 384 BC – 322 BC), Newton (1643-1727), Edison (1847-1921), Priestley (1733-1804), Herodotus (c. 484 BC – c. 424 BC), Leonardo da Vinci ( 1452-1519), and Einstein (1879-1955) were noted World writers and discoverers.
~~~
Barely Awake
by Leeb Sircadeuw
It still was night. The only light came from the high lamppost.
He opened up the shutters, that the shadows interposed.
Between the figure on the wall, not walking there at all,
barely awake, but still okay, who stood upright and tall?
It all seemed so mysterious. What was he doing there?
To what degree could he see what was there, barely aware?
He bent down to the window sill to see what he could see:
a car, with scarlet pinpoints, backing up onto the street.
He saw the limbs of barren trees, their leaves had been removed;
but this was in a neighbourhood; there was no nearby wood.
Leeb Sircadeuw is a poet of Circadian rhythms.
~~~
To Avenge His Brother Morgan
by “Wild” E. S. Bucaree
Born on his father’s farm in 1848,
he was the fourth of seven children, Wyatt Earp.
That was near Monmouth, north Illinois. By his late
twenties, he had been waggoner, stage coach driver,
hunter, and peace officer throughout the wild West,
and was known as a gambler and a gunfighter.
In 1881, he was in the contest
at the OK Corral, Tombstone, Arizona.
With brothers Morgan and Vergil, close to the vest,
and friend “Doc” Holiday, in the name of the law,
they got three Clanton clan members dead in their sights.
To avenge the ambush of his brother Morgan,
Earp killed several well-known outlaws in gunfights.
Then left for ranching and saloon-keeping, this great
marksman and gunfighter, who in ’29, died.
“Wild” E. S. Bucaree is a poet of the Southwest. Wyatt Earp (1848-1929) was an American Realist lawman. David Hayden is a contemporary writer.
~~~
Exertions
by Rudi E. Welec, “Abs”
He went down to the local gym for exercising some.
There were a lot of exercisers there who felt they must.
They did all kinds of exercises, shaking bodies up.
Build arms and shoulders, legs and hips, hearts pounding hardy pumps.
He longed to get a workout in before he had to leave.
In shirt and shoes, and other clothes; he moved with energy.
He did not like to be around so many customers.
He did not like exhausted moments, or butt-busting bursts.
And yet, he kept on at it, even though it was not fun;
and so he did the best he could to force his torso on.
Rudi E. Welec, “Abs”, is a poet of exertions.
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