Haiku
by “Clear Dew” Ibuse
You can’t help the cat,
if the cat won’t help himself.
The sound of water.
Haiku
by “Clear Dew” Ibuse
The red tailed hawk
flew across the patio,
gawking, and so low.
“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.
~~~
Haiku
by “Wired Clues” Abe
The distant mountains
are reflected in th’ eyes of
cardboard dragonflies.
Haiku
by “Wired Clues” Abe
At the start of war
a swarm of red dragonflies:
cardboard aircraft drones.
“Wired Clues” Abe is a haikuist, following in the foot steps of Kobayashi Issa (1763-1828) and Kaya Shirao (1738-1791) relating to NewMillennial technology.
~~~
In the Clefts of Solid Pink Rock
by Esecwiel Barud
You who dwell in the clefts of solid pink rock, with cliffs of purple in the background, you, too, in the future, shall fall and sink down so far you will not again be found, although you exalt yourself as eagles, though you set your nests high among the stars where hardly anybody ever goes, though you live in the mountains of Esau. Yes, you, too, in the future shall perish, not because you have sided with victors, not because of the things you cherish, nor because you had no benefactors. No, it is because the red dome you put your faith in is not as strong as you thought.
Esecwiel Barud is a poet of Ancient Western Asia and Egypt. Esau was the elder brother of Jacob.
~~~
Newsreel:
Ebola’s spreading in Uganda and the DRC;
WHO states the epidemic is not an emergency.
~~~
The Baker’s Map
by Euclidrew Base
The baker’s map is a chaotic map that maps
the unit square unto itself, in the way that
a baker cuts his dough into two halves, and graps
the two together after kneading, stack and pat.
The baker’s map is a dynamic system which
exhibits chaotic behavior—split then splat—
as a bilateral shift operator of
a two-state lattice model that’s bi-infinite.
The baker’s map is topologically linked
likewise to th’ horseshoe map. In physics studies, it
into determinist diffusion can collapse,
and, in a chain, explain a space’s active flit.
Euclidrew Base is a poet of mathematics. According to Beau Lecsi Werd, “graps” is an onomatopoetic neologistic trunc of 2015.
~~~
A Hulking Hunk of Junk
by Red Was Iceblue
The giant bronze sculpture outside of Termini
is brutal, nor does it look like the late Pontiff
either. What was Olivieri Rainaldi
thinking—a jig-saw puzzle piece that doesn’t fit?
Conceptual art can work in a public square,
though, that depends on the place where it is vaunted.
It’s not a violation of the land or air
outside of Termini, because it does make sense
there. That’s a place filled with weariness and despair;
and such a statue adds to th’ overall offense.
A place that’s combed with pickpockets and vermin is
the exact place for such art: ugly, hard and dense.
Red Was Iceblue is a poet of contemporary art. Oliveri Rainaldi, mentioned in the above bilding [sic] is a PostModernist Italian sculptor. Termini is a terminal in Rome, Italy.
~~~
The Rain
by Educable Wires
“Long as I remember/ The rain been comin’ down/
Clouds of mystery pourin’/ Confusion on the ground…”
—John Fogerty, “Who’ll Stop the Rain”
The rain pours down upon the tall adobe walls.
The leaves are green and shimmer shiny in its dew.
It keeps on dropping, dripping, drooping; on it falls…
and takes so many in its wake, its breezy brew.
It cools the burning walkways made of stone and brick.
Its misty spirit form arises in the pale blue.
Into the cracks of everything its wetness goes, so slick,
it licks, while blackest night envelops it in dark.
It is there only in the shadows. Dare one stick
one’s head around the nearest corner, naked, stark?
One steps so lightly, quiet, through the hidden halls
and only hopes there is a port where one can park
before the ark comes.
Educable Wires is a poet of contemporary music. John Fogerty is a PostModernist American composer.
~~~
Waiting for an Eye Appointment
by Éclair Dub W. See
Stuck in the midst of a down-pour, in a charged, lightning storm,
the rain beads up on all the windows. Outside it is warm.
Like rivers, water-flows go past, fast on the roads to drains.
One hears the intermittent drops: plop, plop, plop, plop—it rains.
Between the booming thunder bombs, a momentary calm;
that peacefulness is happily embraced, a welcome balm.
But then the bracing lightning strikes the silence once again.
How long with this go on? one wonders. Violence ascends.
And then it stops, and one is glad to get out of the car
to feel the faintest breeze, and smell the fresh and musty air,
to hear the distant thunder claps, and hear the chirping birds,
feel cloudy spray, see th’ welkin gray and the green shades of Earth.
One takes a deep breath, drawing in the full environment,
while sitting on a metal bench, a smooth, wrought-iron blend.
Éclair Dub W. See is a poet of th’ atmosphere.
~~~
On Aeschylus by Aeschylus
by Esiad L. Werecub
Euphorion’s son Aeschylus, this monument conceals
where he who died here in wheat-bearing Gela rests his heels;
but of his bravery the grove of Marathon reveals
or long-haired Mede who knew what acts his temper’ment unsealed.
Antique Greek Peeks
by Esiad L. Werecub
It didn’t make sense. He knew it was not
contra naturam; but it was so un-
expected, especially since he thought
he’d be a flopping little kid until
he died. But somehow he grew up, got old.
His face got thin; his cheeks fell in; and he
walked in to the shower and dropped unrolled.
It was as if the sky opened up wide,
and Zeus sent down a roaring thunderbolt.
He turned around to see what happened, and
he ended up with an electric jolt.
Goose bumps rushed through flushed flesh. He had been zapped.
He stood there panting. Up and down his spine
went tingles. An “S” had become a line,
and he’d stepped over into the divine.
Esiad L. Werecub is a poet of Ancient Greece. Aeschylus (c. 524 BC – c. 456 BC) was an Ancient Greek poet of tragedy.
~~~
The Army Man
by War di Belecuse
I still remember him, though it was many years
ago. He ran along a trail gray and wide.
He wore an army cap upon his head. Dark smears
were made around his face, dark marks upon each side.
And he was running, running, running out of hope,
of time, of chances to achieve an easy stride.
His dog-tags slapped against his chest. He hit the slope
with camouflaged pants and black boots, bound-up and tense.
He asked himself, time and again, if could he cope.
Would legs and arms and guts make up the difference
between the belly and his fears between his ears?
Could he keep running on adrenalin and sense?
War di Belecuse is a poet of conflict.
~~~
Upon the Battlefield
by Edwe Bleca Ruís
Upon the Battlefield of Salamanca, sits a pile
of bricks, gray, weathered, rough, the colour and the hue of bile.
Upon three flat, white, steps, the prism stands, triangular,
upon a cube and plane, Iberian, peninsular.
Upon los Arapiles, but one hard reminder of
the victory of Wellington, and drab, blue skies above.
Upon the scene, the thousands dead are gone, the Portuguese,
the British, French and Spanish, all have vanished from the scene.
Upon the faint green fields are rocks. Where is the blonde sandstone—
those creams and caramels that shine like gold—this site so small, and lone?
Edwe Bleca Ruís is a poet of Iberia. Arthur Wellesley (1769-1852), the Duke of Wellington was a noted British Romantic, Anglo-Irish officer and statesman.
~~~
On DamOn RunyOn
by Usa W. Celebride
He stepped out of the world that O. Henry inhabited, the writer who became known as Damon Runyon, whose tales tried to capture New York; but stab at it as he might, each hard-fought fight, he never won one round. Still, he managed to express the newspaper, rough-and-rumble, tough-and-tumble world of printdom with his slangy gab, formal jab and rapier wit. Though he’d as likely have a cigarette in his fingers, sending up its blue-gray vapor, as a pen, pencil, or black typewriter ribbon, he stared at the City’s broad ways with stern, vapid eyes, tart as a chider, yet smart as the chidden.
Usa W. Celebride is an American literary critic and proset, as in the above prosem. Damon Runyon (1880-1946) was a Modernist American proset. According to Beau Lecsi Werd, printdom was a 20th century neologism.
~~~
Timothy Green
by Cal Wes Ubideer
Another veined contemporary with
a nonchalant, uneffervescent view
that’s broken into fractals, like the myth
Paolo Giordano tried to fuse,
whose touched by Eastern “psylo-slopsis” ways,
and shakes his rattle at the world, as if
he were a baby in a drainy draze—
no Jason Wrought, nor Chad ApParently.
His is a syncretistic chemistry
of psycho-bio-babble buzz and sense
entangled in his runes of mystery,
less messy than Ashbery, though as dense;
and piqued by platitudes, except his own;
who whispers them through LA’s vast smog horn.
Cal Wes Ubideer is a poet of California S-un-dreams. Paolo Giordano is a contemporary Italian
proset. John Ashbury (1927-2017) was a PostModernist American poet. Timothy Green is a
NewMillennial poet and editor.
~~~
The Racer’s Hedge
by Rudi E. Welec, “Abs”
He placed his hands as close to the line as he could,
his shoulders arms, and fingers tensed, taut as a bow.
Then placed his feet, in shoes, back where he thought he should,
in readiness for this the race, prepared to go,
his legs tensed up, bent knees and ankles, firm and sure.
He lifted up his head to look ahead, although
he knew exactly where he was. His goal was pure
and simple. He desired to be the first one there,
to beat the other fellows to the cynosure,
the finish line. ‘Get set,’ he heard in ear and hair.
The time was here, was now at hand. Would he be good
enough to… ‘Go.’ His calves and elbows sprang on air.
Rudi E. Welec, “Abs”, is a poet of sport.
~~~
The Sounds of Eve
by Leeb Sircadeuw
One overhears the aerojets arriving overhead;
the air-condition generators worked in overdrive;
the sirens droning in the background, every now and then;
the baseball players and their fans aroused, until the end;
the dogs are barking in the distance and the near at hand;
the friendly barbecues are folding in to nighttime’s quive;
the swish of wind, the evening trees are setting down to dusk;
the revving traffic, horns and honks, collide in skid and scud;
in readiness for preparation, going off to bed,
bird calls are winding down to whistles, chirps and cheeps and and…
Leeb Sircadeuw is a poet of sleep.
Leave A Comment