Newsreel:
The Artemis II astronauts are leaving lunar space;
they swung around, enroute to home, to reach Earth’s special place.
~~~
Haiku
by “Clear Dew” Ibuse
They kill wolf spiders;
therefore, the man was glad for
for toad companions.
Haiku
by “Clear Dew” Ibuse
The empty branches
of the flowering pear tree
sprout white, bright blossoms.
“Clear Dew” Ibuse is a poet of Japanese sentiments. Masaoka Shiki (1867-1902) is sometimes credited with coining the term “haiku” as a stand alone poetic form.
~~~
Newsreel:
Apparently with no surprise the Chinese help Iran
with rocket fuel ingredients and AI data plans.
~~~
Clark Kent
by Sid Cee Uberawl
When Clark Kent gets out of the bath, he lifts his arms to fly;
but he is only stepping out upon a tow’l to dry.
He looks dynamic and dramatic, by the shower door,
but he is just a dude who’s making contact with the floor.
When Mister Kent gets dressed in body shirt he likes to use,
he doesn’t mess around with capes, and puts on socks and shoes.
He puts on underwear to cover up his private parts.
Why does he have to get involved in others’ stops and starts.
When Clark Kent goes about his daily business, clean and dressed,
he purchases what he can find to make him feel his best.
Sid Cee Uberawl is a poet of heroes.
~~~
Flashback:
We Waved Good-bye to Those Who Left
by Drew U. A. Eclibse
It was about the outset of December it began;
we heard about it through the gossip on th’ e-lec-tro-span.
In ordinary discourse we would talk about it then,
but not that much; there was a lot more on the Internet.
They said it came from Wuhan, China, from a restaurant,
but darker voices claimed it was a biolab spin-off.
And then it surged, and sprang upon us, like a w-i-l-d cat;
and were we well within it then, yes, this Year of the Rat.
It mattered not from whence it came; it mattered it was here;
and the coronavirus spread—and spread—this was the year.
Ten-thousands were infected, and some thousands of them died.
Though it was not a tsú-na-mi; it was indeed a tide.
We had no trusted papers in those days; the media
was fact-loose, clothed in half-truths, rumour-mill expedient.
And the official sources out of country were much worse.
You couldn’t trust their propaganda. O, that was a curse.
We struggled on, while those around succumbed to the disease;
and economic losses deepened exponentially.
As February finished up, one saw in the night sky
the slender smile of the new moon; and we waved good-bye.
When No One Stopped to Visit Me
by Drew U. A. Eclibse
There were some weeks when no one stopped to visit me at home;
and I was very much, oh, yeah, oh, very much alone.
But at those times, I could look back and think of those who’d come
before, and paused to say hello, and think on what they’d done.
Like lovely PMu from Liverpool, a doodler…scribbler too,
or MeRaw smiling by the wooden pilings—not bamboo.
or Priya Varshney in the lotus pose with teddy bear,
or Kooky Art Blog, beautiful and gorgeous, unaware.
O, at those times, he could look back and gaze upon such pics
of sneaking cats beneath the Moon, nocturnal donkey kicks.
Drew U. A. Eclibse is a poet of the Moon.
~~~
Newsreel:
The Artemis II astronauts are leaving lunar space;
they swung around, enroute to home, to reach Earth’s special place.
~~~
O, Citta
by Earl Aldon Page
He went down to the cellar where the casks of wine were stored.
He wanted so to tap into one—o, that it be bored.
And he could drink that golden wine Amontillado, yes.
O, Fortunato was excited; he would soon be blessed.
He had just come from partying in fancy suit and tie.
He’d been directed to some casks. He was a happy guy.
But while he rested in corner niche he was shoved in,
the only things that he could feel were anguish and chagrin.
This pat trick with a trow’l and mortar took him by surprise,
and in the catacombs he felt fate fingering his life.
O, Città, I’ve been taken in and shoved against a wall.
O, Città, I have done all this but for some alcohol.
Like Arthur Gordon Pym
by Earl Aldon Page
Like Arthur Gordon Pym, he used too many words at times.
He needed Ethelred to smite the Dragon and his crimes.
Sir Launcelot of Canning came to help him in his plight.
Perhaps New Journalism’s strength could shed a little light.
O, Ethelred, by angel led, then take this as thy goal.
The crash! it sounded terrible, a horror to behold.
He hit the door; it fell before his mighty knightly swing.
Upon the floor, there shattered, o, it was so frightening.
But would he be much happier, delivered from this Beast;
that now its rampant ram-bl-ing continues to increase.
Earl Aldon Page is a poet of dark places. Edgar Allan Poe (1809-1849) was a Romantic American proset and poet.
~~~
Austin Traffic
by “Wild” E. S. Bucaree
At times the traffic down in Austin, Texas, can be bad.
you’re stuck, you cannot travel forth; you must stay where you’re at.
You sit there waiting to go north, or south, or on off ramp;
but all you do is idle there in lines, a wolf pack plant.
You try to make the best of it. You pause and bide your time,
and wonder just how long you will be i-d-l-i-n-g in line..
Before you, giant semis sit and wait their turn to move.
Behind you drivers press upon you. O, what will they prove?
And so, you count your blessings; you’re alive and maybe loved,
despite the fact you fe-el that you’re only being shoved.
“Wild” E. S Bucaree is a poet of Texas. Austin, Texas, has a population of around 1,000,000.
~~~
The Thief
Cawb Edius Reel
He saw The Thief, and immediately thought of Hitchcock—
so many props were items found in Dial M for Dock.
Although there was no spoken dialogue for Ray Milland,
the cinematic story was not soundless, nor was it bland.
There was the focus on the telephone, its ringing bell.
Surreal moments and the tone moved slowly into hell.
A lone-ly a-li-e-na-ted man-upon-the-run was plagued
by city noise and flashy signs, with alleys dark and vague.
The thief’s whole world was a vile and chaotic slum-p
into which early 1950s films plumbed filth…and bumped.
Cawb Edius Reel is a poet of film.
~~~
Cheapest AAA Regular Gas Prices 8 April 2026
by Bruc “Diesel” Awe
l
Oklahoma: Regular, $3.43 – Diesel $4.72
Kansas: Regular, $3.44 – Diesel, $4.75
North Dakota: regular- $3.56, Diesel, $4.84
Nebraska: Regular, $3.60 – Diesel, $4.92
Missouri: Regular, $3.62 – Diesel, $4.88
Iowa, Regular, $3.64 – Diesel, $5.10
Arkansas: Regular, $3.66 – Diesel, $5.18
South Dakota: Regular, $3.66 – Diesel $4.83
Minnesota: Regular, $3.69 – Diesel, $5.11
Georgia: Regular, $3.75 – Diesel, $5.32
Mississippi: Regular, $3.77 – Diesel, $5.31
The Building Site
by B. S. Eliud Acrewe
I
Midspring is not eternal, as the days increase in length,
here, too, between the tropics and the poles requires strength.
The Sun flames overhead, the concrete way hard underfoot;
the wind blasts through one’s very soul, a howling, growling whoot.
The glare’s mind-blinding here on Trinity, when facing east;
one half expects some serpent to attack one at one’s feet.
One fears the shadows up ahead, the dark things on the road,
the sudden snapping of a banner shakes one to one’s soul.
There are no houses here, no workers building brand new homes;
this is the zero spring we’d heard of not so long ago.
If you had come this way, the route you took and you would take,
come from the place where you had been, and all that did you make,
in May, it still would be the same, the journey is required;
not knowing what you came for was not dreamed of nor desired.
Perhaps you were a broken king, a damaged, ravaged queen,
mad scientist, philosopher, or priest of the unseen,
whatever were your circumstances matters not at all,
nor the locale, an empty city or a woodland sprawl.
If you had come this way, at any time, from anywhere,
you, too, would take this odyssey, America or there.
II
Here where there are no houses yet, earth, water, air, and fire,
all live in mouth, nose, ears and eyes, the fingers of desire.
Cleared lots are yielding to wild flowers, grasses, shrubs,
like as great brier patches, prepping for both wood and bush.
the water tower in the distance, closer than the Moon,
above the fire hydrants, sewer covers, run-off too.
There in a drainage ditch a yellow-crowned night heron stands,
until disturbed, and then flies into azure sky-flight bands.
The block electric boxes sit beneath the crossing wires,
where scissortail flycatcher greets brilliant solar fires.
In these days of hands washing, social distancing and masks,
near Calvary at Sunrise, a lone traveler is passed.
In the uncertain hour, the lone traveler goes on
before the blin-ding, daz-zl-ing, un-ra-vel-ing of Dawn.
The traveler proceeds along the silver cyclone fence,
rust-coloured Indian grass there, ghost-like and thin, but dense,
bindweed, like tiny morning glories, sulphur cinquefoil gold,
green johnsongrass, star thistles, purple, shapes and colours bold,
then pauses at the intersection, Crown and Trinity,
a prayer at the breaking day—time and infinity.
III
The walking, biking, driving, far from daily press of news,
indifferent to Internet, detached from clashing views,
here in the freedom of the present, past and future haze,
renewed, transfigured, in another pattern of these days;
of no immediate concern, the strife and fight of life;
the vacant land, all workers gone, with vegetation rife.
And yet the silence and the emptiness is grand and vast;
so many are the things we see and make that will not last.
Why strive to purify the language of the human tribe?
Who wants it, cares to find it, or refine it, by and by?
And when the heavy rains appear, up swells the little creek,
and it becomes torrential, exponential to its peak.
It pours along, and roars so strong, in a relentless rush;
the trickle turns into an urgent, surging, crushing, whoosh.
The ditches rise to creeks, the creeks, like raging rivers run;
the grasses and the sedges bend until the swell is gone.
No herons sit upon their banks, no egrets fly above,
no crickets chirr, no swallows chirp, there coos no mourning dove.
Beneath the sewer covers, plashing waters hasten on,
and charge across the landscape till the hurly-burly’s done.
IV
Each day is a chance to achieve a new discovery,
and this day is a chance for hope and some recovery.
The morning dove breaks Sunday’s air, ascending once again.
The atmosphere is flushed, fresh, present, post-diluvian.
The black-eyed Susan starters take the building site by storm,
as these days lengthen and become increasingly more warm.
The Sun is back to dry this tract of land and love and life;
The Sun is blazing, it’s the true inventor of the fire.
The earth is heated, water dried up, air warmed thoroughly.
One pauses momentarily beside the stately tree.
V
As every poem is an epitaph, so are its parts;
and as one nears the finish line, resigned to flaws and starts,
amidst the morning bird-calls, like incessant ringing phones,
and highway traffic roaring past with its loud blasting tones,
one comes to see, in this the land’s vast span of dirt and plants,
utility poles shiny, silver, cross-like in one’s glance,
that everything depends upon the blinding, blazing Sun,
concisely, everything that everyone has ever done;
and so we make these visits, take these transits, wake to be,
filled with profound, acute humility diurnally.
We learn the vulnerable are not just only the diseased,
but shall not cease from exploration till we are deceased,
When the last of earth to discover is that which we find
in the beginning was the end to which we set the mind,
we shall be satisfied that we have tried all that we did.
All will be well, though it be hell, within this power grid.
The droning of the plane, the moaning of the train unseen,
the groaning trucks, the going flux, the constant changing scene,
here by hackberry, honey locust, post oak and mesquite,
box elder, cedar elm, and ash, one still can feel complete.
B. S. Eliud Acrewe is a poet of time.
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