Haiku
by “Wired Clues” Abe
The bright, full, round Moon,
at the touch of a finger:
electricity.
Haiku
by “Wired Clues” Abe
In the Metroplex,
this VW Taos
carries loud babies.
“Wired Clues” Abe is a NewMillennial haikuist.
~~~
Newsreel:
A water torrent tore through Gyirong Port, that China built,
between Tibet and neighbouring Nepal, in Earth’s great jilt
of mud and mire and rocks that crushed the local populace.
How many thousands lost their lives to Chinese workmanship?
~~~
The Dragon
by Leweca Derusbi
There it goes again, getting overly angry,
exploding like fireworks, burning the ground beneath.
Something is rotten in it, and it’s not gangrene,
it’s anger, that down under the surface does seethe,
like a volcano, ever ready to spew out
its fiery breath. Watch out when it starts to breathe,
because it sends out smoke, heat, and ashes throughout
the atmosphere, mucking up all, clouding the air.
Oh, do not invite a dragon to a luau.
It doesn’t care. It comes out frothing from its lair,
sanguine, vain thing that it is, disrupting shangri-
la with its frayed frustration, hatred and despair.
Leweca Derusbi is a poet of corruption.
~~~
At Tal Afar
by Abdul Serecewi
Perhaps it was ancient Tel-assar—Tal Afar—inhabited by Eden’s people in 2 Kings, I could not tell, but certainly it was afar off in the northwest of Iraq, near to Turkey and Syria, west of Mosul and “Nineveh,” a dry and yellow brown site of Shia Turkmen. Located at the center are the remnants of a castle of the Ottomans, where since the Brits and the Americans have found themselves within. Amidst the golden-tan rocks, one can accomplish its essential core. “Iraqis” have lived with that for ages, Allah, Qalah, this gritty city’s pit.
Abdul Serecewi is a poet of present-day Iraq. Tal Afar is located in northwest Iraq. The city has a population of around 215,000.
~~~
Hunt by Night
Buceli da Werse
Uccelo, like a bird, flies straight into
perspective in his painting Hunt by Night,
a tapestry of darkness, not quite true,
of horses, hunters, hounds—all in flight—
pursuing the receding stag right at
the point of vanishing…the frenzied scene
seen, seemingly calm in a distance that
is dec’rative, real, ideal, amazing.
It is at once Medieval in concept,
and yet, at the same time, strikes one as new.
It is a forest that can’t be, with depth,
a corridor of trees that opens to
a flat and geometrical Christmas wreath,
with something sheer, exciting, underneath.
Buceli da Werse is a poet of Italian Renaissance painting. Paolo Uccelo (1397-1475) was an Italian PreRenaissance painter and mathematician.
~~~
Der Feuersturm
by War di Belecuse
The weather was very warm and dry, when
in 1943, the RAF
attacked the German city Hamburg. Then,
the night was July the 27th.
The high explosive “cookies” that were dropped
caused a whirlwind of fire, der Feuersturm!
A blasting furnace flared as the bombs plopped
down. Asphalt in the streets began to squirm—
then burst into a raging, flaming blight
one hundred and fifty miles per hour
at fifteen hundred degrees Fahrenheit!
a second but more horrid Gomorrah!
twice fifteen thousand people sucked to death,
like leaves within a vacuum cleaner’s breath.
The Submareeners
by War di Belecuse
Before he had been born, though not so long ago,
there was a crew at dawn inside a submarine.
They all looked fairly grim, because they had to go.
There was a war, like now; but they had never been.
They had their various positions. One man steered.
Another looked at charts. Some others in between
poured over data. In a periscope one peered.
One’s torso twisted when the sub rocked but a bit;
one’s shirt was all in ripples as a depth charge neared.
Oh, Lord, help us to hold on to this moment’s seat,
before it all is blown to smithereens. Oh, no.
Why must life flow away just when you get to it?
War di Belecuse is a poet of war, “submareeners” a neologism.
~~~
Robert Lowell
by Cadwel E. Bruise
He had a strict and puritanical
streak—Robert Lowell—hated it, but lacked
the humor found in his great-granduncle,
this fierce, Hawthorny carbuncle shellacked.
Encouraged by R. Eberhart to write
at Saint Mark’s School, and escaped from Harvard,
he was Ransomed at Kenyon College site,
converted Catholic, and wed Stafford.
At first, he failed to enlist in the gale;
then refused induction—five months in jail—
forced, wearied, stayed, divorced, remarried, strayed,
a manic depressive on lithium,
with Elizabeth Bishop fishing him,
he studied life inside of Hades’ shade.
Cadwell E. Bruise is a poet of New England. Nathaniel Hawthorne (1804-1864) and James Russell Lowell (1819-1891) were Romantic American poets; John Crowe Ransom (1888-1974), Richard Eberhart (1904-2005), Elizabeth Bishop (1911-1979), and Robert Lowell (1917-1977), were PostModernist American poets. Elizabeth Bishop told Cadwel E. Bruise back in 1973 at the University of Washington, Seattle, that she thought Robert Lowell was the greatest American poet of her generation.
~~~
On John
by Dic Asburee Wel
He just went on…talking; and you never
knew what he was…saying, except for
the occasional comment that makes sense,
which is what I imagine is what he
would say matters: clever, dense, unfree bore.
I did not suspect for a minute that
anything important was going to
show up, but if it did, though true, ‘twas flat.
About the only thing I could forgive
him for was that, though he was pretentious,
he was not as pretentious as Allace, so
I didn’t ever have to take his grift
seriously. I’m not trying to be
contentious, although, well, you never know.
Dic Asburee Wel was a poet of New York.
~~~
Sgritty Aminals
by Bud “Weasel” Rice
I love brick houses in their rows around the neighbourhoods,
for all the needs of living well and wants of gathered goods.
but so do all the animals one daily has to fight
from rose sunrises at the dawn to pale sunsets at night.
I love the vultures gorging messy squirrels off the streets,
but not the harsh cicadas, chirping shrilly in large trees.
nor do I like red-tailed hawks leaving spoils on the lawn;
although dead rabbits aren’t as irksome as the living ones.
I love lawn mowers cutting grasses through most of the year,
but not the geckos, ants or frogs that constantly appear,
especi’lly not the hated wasps that constantly seek eaves,
nor flocking geese with excrement that pass in forceful vees.
I do not like wolf spiders in the kitchen or garage,
nor do I like the charging army worms in a barrage.
I do not like the snakes or crickets that dry up on walks,
nor even lone coyotes when they make their nightly stalks.
I hate mosquitoes when they buzz and stab the skin for blood.
Each one that’s killed makes one content to count each death as good.
Bird nests in gutters, chimneys, or wall-mounted outside lights,
though bad are not as fearsome as the hidden fierce ter-mites.
I love the concrete catchments and the reedy, man-made ponds
that are great engineering feats when storm-hit rain responds,
but dry up in the summertime and chase the ducks away.
There are so many animals one wants to keep at bay.
Bud “Weasel” Rice is a poet of animals. “Sgritty aminals” are neologistic terms.
Leave A Comment