Haiku
by “Clear Dew” Ibuse
An Easter basket
has pale pink primrose clusters
in bluebonnet fields.
Haiku
by “Wired Clues” Abe
Artemis splashed down,
off San Diego’s coast, and
left the Moon behind.
Sedoka
by “Wired Clues” Abe
He saw the drone port.
It was highly technical.
Would it be used for good or bad?
Tanka
by “Wired Clues” Abe
Hovering over
countless rooftops of the World,
are whirled whirligigs,
casting down their ductile threads,
or exploding into shreds.
“Wired Clues” Abe is a NewMillennial poet. Walt Whitman (1819-1891) was an American Realist poet.
~~~
Th’ F-47
by Air Weelbed Suc
Technology does not stand still, and so it’s no surprise
to find the Air Force launch th’ F-47 to the skies.
Th’ F-22, the Raptor, needed to improve somehow,
and so the new stealth fighter has its cover broken now.
Th’ NGAD was made to be fast and more capable
with longer range and greater stealth, yet more sustainable.
The program had been flying tests for more than five long years;
the X-planes had logged many hours, flushing out most fears.
The building contract of the jet has not gone to Lockheed;
but Boeing got it—$20,000,000,000 for the deal.
Was that because the nation wanted to spread out the wealth,
as well as the responsibility, for future health?
Air Weelbed Suc is a poet of jets. NGAD is new generation American air defense planning.
~~~
Newsreel:
Two people from the CCP have been arrested—sigh—
for smuggling toxic pathogens to target food supplies.
~~~
Without a Map
by Bic Uwel, “Erased”
You pass somebody on the street or in a bar;
there is a gaze beyond the world upon their face;
and you depart and travel off in truck or car;
and they will disappear in time without a trace.
How odd the many vagaries of life unfold.
One moment you are lifting up a cup of grace,
an offering to an acquaintance you’ve consoled;
the next you find yourself caught in somebody’s trap,
and life becomes nightmarish, harried, uncontrolled.
You drive around a corner. Hold on to that strap.
And then you haven’t an idea where you are,
but still press on with all your might without a map.
Bic Uwel, “Erased,” is a poet of the ordinary anonymous.
~~~
Through Diff’rent Realms of Light
by Ubs Reese Idwal
Who lives within these houses? and then why do they live there?
Was that the only place each one could find in this grey drear?
And then how do they live there? How does each one set up shop?
What is the day-to-day experience? How do they cope?
What is the meaning each has found within this building site?
And why does it remind me of the first place I lived at?
It seemed so right and orderly and that was simply that,
but how did I and others manage living hand to mouth?
And now I’m here, so far away; I’ve gone much further south,
like migratory birds who fly through diff’rent realms of light.
Ub Reese Idwal is a poet with questions.
~~~
Lightning
by Éclair Dub W. See
Lightning is a giant spark
that heats the air around it.
It brightens up the gloomy dark
and leaves one awed, dumbfounded.
A single stroke of lightning can
make air explode convulsively.
A flash expands a shock wave’s span
and sends it out impulsively.
The loud result is thunder’s roar
that shakes us to our very core.
Electric lines, a lit pitch fork,
it stabs, attacks, and pops life’s cork.
Éclair Dub W. See is a poet of lightning.
~~~
Newsreel:
The US military has begun to block the ports
of the Iranians—Hormuz as well— along its shores.
~~~
The Glass of Water
by “Scribe” El Uwade
The glass of water, round and full,
sits on the table, clear and white.
The light from the afternoon pours
through the window, brilliant and bright.
The interplay of displayed forms
and designs is quite beautiful.
Though simple, and seemingly slight,
the patterns are truly artful,
as lovely as those of Luxor’s.
“Scribe” El Uwade is a poet of Egypt. Luxor, Egypt, is a city of around 285,000.
~~~
The Sacrificed
by Esecwiel Barud
Into the zone, a body’s thrown, acute and wan.
He’s readied, steadied, set, before the judgment seat.
The scene’s intense, electric, lit, the curtain’s drawn.
The lookers-on gaze at the throne. It is complete.
Upon the wall, the figures scrawled raise hope, inspire.
The possibilities seem wonderful and sweet:
to leave behind forever hell for heaven’s fire.
The lovely lamb with lowered head is led ahead
and sacrificed upon the altar of desire.
Dark figures stand around—the meeting of the dead.
It’s time. One after one they place their hands upon
the babe. Oh, Isaac, see the dripping blood drops red.
Esecwiel Barud is a poet of sacrifice.
~~~
The World Homer Sang Of
by Esiad L Werecub
In the orange twilight of the dawn in darkest night,
out of the gloom of bleak eternity, he came,
a poet who could sing out verses in that blight
of heroes, like Odysseus and those of fame.
In sun’s first flame of three millennia ago,
a mythical and splendid world arose to claim
attention to its supernatural rose glow:
it was the world that Homer the Greek poet sang
of—Troy’s turmoil, Odysseus’ travail and soul,
the body’s many crucibles, the heart’s hard pang,
the woes of war and sail, the foes one has to fight,
the mix of joy and pain upon which life must hang.
Esiad L Werecub is a poet of Ancient Greece. Homer (c. 8th century BC) was an epic poet of Ancient Greece.
~~~
Newsreel:
Viktor Orbán congratulated the victorious
Péter Magyar for the Prime Minister of Hungary.
~~~
One Must Keep Fighting
by War di Belecuse
One must keep fighting, even when one is bleeding,
like as the wounded soldier on the battlefield,
even when pressing on is not what one ‘s needing;
for if one doesn’t go on, one may have to yield
his ghost to him who goes on to the very end.
Although one be kneeling, nailed to the spot, annealed,
even slammed down hard, still one must try to ascend,
get up off the ground, rise upward tough, forced to bend;
for only when one struggles on can one be true
to life, no matter how much dust one is eating,
or what one’s ceding, feeding on defeat or rue.
An Epidose of War
by War di Belecuse
In seat belts on a plane, the captain speaks.
The target is located up ahead:
a copter crossing shimmering wave-peaks.
It’s nice in France. It seems to us he’s dead
already—elevator going down.
He stands next to the water’s rippling green.
Out comes the bomb. Up climbs the body brown,
which drops into the bay’s display unseen.
The champaign flows and glows in faint sunlight
beneath where table conversations go.
And then it happens. It explodes in flight—
a fiery inferno blazing gold!
The lovely prostitute adjusts her breasts;
and, at the webby edge, the pilot rests.
War di Belecuse is a poet of fighting. According to Beau Lecsi Werd, epidose is a neologism.
~~~
A Western Hanging
by “Wild” E. S. Bucaree
I. Le Pendu
Upon the dusty road filled with pale golden sand,
the wheels rolled on beneath the wagon. It was hot.
The Sun was blinding all those under his command.
A chicken dashed by. Nothing was but what was not.
A goat stood at the gate. A carpenter cut wood.
The journey took us past a noose tied in a knot.
Three men looked down from cross-beams on a hill. We could
not see their faces. Expeditiously we moved.
past people in a line. A man paused in a hood.
It was the time to weigh his sins. His face was grooved.
“To hang a body ain’t as easy as some think,”
the Justice said. “Man’s body has to be improved
before it falls forever from the gaping brink.
There are the judgments, snapshots taken, forms filled out.
The sheriff has to make assessments writ in ink.
A silver star sits on his chest. Though he is stout,
it weighs him down. He walks across a crowded street.”
Beyond, a group of three are in the graveyard, bowed.
Bare crosses stand about. Their losses are complete.
Their messages in stone are clean, straight forward, clear.
The Sun beats down. Unbearably it sends its heat.
We pause, we look, to life, to death, so far, so near.
At times it seems like we could touch our shadow’s length;
and then those sweet and lovely moments disappear,
and we are left with nothing more than the Hanged Man
who steps across the blazing square in gray and black.
The thing that most amazes us here is his strength.
How is it that he can go forth who can’t go back?
We hear the shouts of shoddy shapes who have no souls.
How vile and ugly are the vulgar and the slack.
What hope is there for those long buried in their holes?
He looks up thirteen wooden steps and sees the sky.
No, do not ask what are the costs of life. It tolls.
Let that suffice, and count it good as time goes by.
Note the varied landscapes the closer that you get,
and do the best to note all that comes to your eye.
Do not forget to take a chance, to make a bet.
II. The Pendulum
Tick-tock, tick-tock, the pendulum goes back and forth.
Around and round the hands revolve. Time arches on.
From in his cell, the prisoner looks to the north-
northwest. His ministering angel is not gone. 22
She’s come to him with food and love. She holds him close.
He holds her in his arms. Together they are one.
The only thing that separates them is their clothes.
They fall into a long embrace. They kiss and kiss.
Who knows how many times? Their pale pink cheeks turn rose.
The lovely woman steps aback. She looks amiss,
and speaks out slowly, “Your avenging angel won’t
be coming to your aid to break you out of this.
He’s gone to Goshen—permanently. Do take note.
He is not ever coming back again—Never.
I know you had put all your hope in him. But don’t.”
The prisoner begins to chuckle to himself.
“Perhaps we’ll meet upon the road t’ eternity.
I sever all my hopes forever now. Oh, well,
my luck. He might just as well have gone to Abilene.”
A messenger appears. “There’ll be no clemency,”
he says, “Tomorrow execution will take place.”
A deputy leans back upon his chair, and strums
the strings of his guitar, his boots upon the safe.
The darkness settles round his shoulders as he hums.
Beyond, the gallows fate is tested once again.
A priest shows up. He says, “One day our Savior comes.
The soul is an immortal thing. It does not end,
though life be taken from us. Go down on your knees
and pray for mercy. Pray to God that it descend.”
The priest continues on, “Death will be a release
from all of this: the bane, the pain, the vain. You’ll gain
sweet immortality, the kingdom’s keys, and peace.”
The clock ticks on. The coffin is prepared and planed.
The prisoner falls fast asleep. He has a dream.
In it a Madam So-and-So starts to explain
the Tarot cards that she has dealt. “What does it mean?
I see the Hanged Man on a tree. This is your card.
There are no laurels round his head. His heart is green.
He is not dead.” She turns some more. “Here is the Bard.
He is a Dane, who deigns to reign. He pulls the reins
o’ th’ Flying Horse in blackest Night. The rain is hard.
Yet here’s Eos. Her rosy fingers light the Plains.
I see no more.” She stops. He starts. He shakes and wakes.
He thinks of Joseph first, then Paul locked in his chains.
He rises up and looks about. His heart beats, aches.
III. The Impending
It’s time to go. He takes a swig. He leaves his cell.
The prisoner is led out to the brilliant light. 23
So many come to watch. It’s like a festival.
Above the town a mountain towers, a hard height.
He faces all the people watching him step out.
He goes along without a hitch. He has no fight.
Near by the church’s steeple stands tall and proud.
He stands beside the thirteen steps. He has no words.
He has no thing to say, and neither does the crowd.
One, two, three, four, five, six, seven. There are no birds.
Eight, nine, ten, eleven, twelve, and thirteen. He’s there.
He’s been found guilty by a jury of his peers.
He has been sentenced to hang by his neck in air.
until dead.
Blessed are the poor in spirit for theirs is the kingdom…See the sky.
Blessed are the meek…See the dry dust.
Blessed are they that mourn…The noose is tightened.
Blessed are they that thirst after justice…A loose, black bag is placed upon his head.
Blessed are they…Down drops the door.
His body hangs down taut. The rest is silence…faced.
The body swings a bit, about: north, east, west, south.
The spirit is invisible. And Lazarus
turns back and forth. There is no air upon his mouth.
One in the audience begins to weep. “I shall
come back to pick the body up.”
“Oh, comest, Thou,
now that the hanging’s over?” “Did he have no pal?”
They pull the listless body down out from the rope,
the priest, lawyer, doctor, sheriff, and the gal.
They listlessly perform their acts. They have no hope.
They haul the body to the undertaker’s store.
They are all having a hard time trying to cope.
They do not seem prepared to take just one thing more.
But then it comes. The spirit of the body moves.
A finger twitches. An eye opens. The dead soar.
The priest prays, while the lawyer says, “It all behooves
each one of us…” The doctor thinks, ‘I gave him drugs.’
From off his dark brown vest, the sheriff first removes
his star, and afterwards takes out his pistol’s slugs.
The woman runs away. She did not count on this.
Her heart pounds. Her mind swims. The undertaker shrugs.
He will not be preparing him for the abyss.
We can’t believe that this could happen. It’s unreal,
but credible because it is ridiculous.
“Wild” E. S. Bucaree is a poet of the West. Matthew (c. 1st century) was an apostle and evangelist. T. S. Eliot (1888-1965) was a Modernist Anglo-American poet, proset, and playwright. Ken Trevey (1929-1992) was a Post Modernist proset and movie scriptist. Chris Lowry is a contemporary American genre novelist and adventurer, whose work spans westerns, sci fi, crime mysteries, and zombie-centered tales. According to Beau Lecsi Werd, “scriptist” is a neologism realized in context.
~~~
Walt Whitman
by Usa W. Celebride
An old and scrappy individual he was,
his great, long, scraggly, gray, unwieldy beard unleashed,
his floppy hair unkempt beneath his scarecrow hat,
like some odd, sleezy geezer walking down some street
in boots. We’ll find him there beneath those worn-out soles,
a lover of the road, uncovered by time’s sheet.
He makes his presence known, alike to all of those
who happen to be there, aware that something’s raw.
Although he wears such rugged looks and ragged clothes,
he captivates the outcast with his crowing jaw,
because he’s willing to upset the apple cart
and tell the lost his tale of woe and what he saw.
Usa W. Celebride is a poet of Americana. Walt Whitman (1819-1892) was a Realist American poet.
~~~
The Skateboard Rider
by Rudi E. Welec, “Abs”
The roller-boarding guy—he’d never tarry long.
He shoots up walks and streets past traffic, heeled and wheeled,
a bat out of a bell that starts to ring ding-dong,
he slips and slides like a banana being peeled.
He jets down alley ways, like he is being chased.
He flies fleet, lightning fast he has no time to yield.
He seems as if he’s always running, racing, braced.
He’s gone before one even has a chance to say,
‘Hey!’
The Handball Players
by Rudi E. Welec, “Abs”
The handball players change into their shorts and shoes.
They sit on benches in the locker room and pull
their socks up. Neither thinks he’ll be the one to lose;
but only one wins in the end. They shoot the bull.
One taunts the other, “You’re neat enough. Let’s play.”
They walk out to the court. The walls are tall, flat, dull.
One hits the ball. It bounces off the gray cement. “Hey!
Watch where you’re going.” One slams into th’ other one
again. They play for keeps. One goes out of his way
to shove the other, who swings back and knocks him on
his back. It’s hard to say who has the shortest fuse.
I’d say it was the one who knocked the other down.
Rudi E. Welec, “Abs”, is a poet of sport.
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