17 Haiku

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Contributor: "Wired Clues" Abe

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Damn, he did it again;
he hit the delete button,
and all his files were gone.

My laptop screen can't
keep out all of those damn bugs
trying to get through.

My computer purrs
with activity amok—
cicadas' voices.

The music I make
is a quiet tip-tapping.
I play the keyboard.

I need a new mouse.
Mine's by the same company
as my computer.

My programming stinks,
because I have spilled Java
all over the place.

They're cutting down trees
in order to make books @
Amazon-dot-com.

I'm being turned on
by somebody's warm fingers:
control-alt-delete.

You are not my type.
When I hit the print icon
I get an error.

He sat high upon
the chair before the counter,
as the rocket launched.

The radiant moon
is slowly going away
from the earth's orbit.

Plate techtonics crash
below; above one can see
snowy Mount Fuji.

Blue plums, purple grapes,
and red raspberries gleam on
the computer screen.

My smart phone still shows
the weather in Kaua'i,
and I understand.

While I move my mouse,
the cat rubs its fur head on
my laptop's top. STOP!

On the bed at last
after hours of working,
doing sudoku.

I drink from the stars.
The arc of the Big Dipper
curves above tree tops.


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"WIRED CLUES" ABE is a poet of Japanese haiku in a postShiki world. His kigo, or season word, is a word or phrase associated with the particular season Postmodernism. He is friends with Chinese leaning Li "Web Crease" Du and American webster Esca Webuilder.

Run-Off

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Contributor: Hillel Broder

- -
Tearing down the face of my building, dripping from fire
Escapes, catching on my window’s blinded eyes. Bickering cats
Hushed, muffled horns and sirens, all the sharp city’s
Sounds all stilled, while the murmur of the sky’s sighs drips onto

Brick, pavement, glass, into punctured puddles. My dim lamp hangs
Its head and weeps in the window, running-off forever into the roaring
Rivers beneath these streets, about this island.

Drizzled drips collecting in stilled
Browned pools on
Worn, bumpy yellow lips:

Gold stepping stones clutch loosely
The edge of this yawning abyss.

Later, the sky is still alight when street lamps flicker on
Spotlights stray cabs, headlights brighten and cross-walks
Darken on shadowy faces in the glow of cornered stones

And stores. Only the very tips of towers are still splashed with a
Coat of deep orange, catching a falling sky along a line that recedes
As rapidly as the dull navies swallow the purples and reds.


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Hillel is a doctoral candidate at the CUNY Graduate Center and a high school teacher in the Bronx.

Fast Food

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Contributor: J. K. Durick

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We make such easy targets of ourselves
Waddling away, with a big mac and fries
On our breath, evolving in our stomachs
Comforted, satisfied, our fast food slows
Us down, makes the best of our obesity
Our measured gait, our treasured weight
Enough for us to stop to smell the roses
But bend down just so far, to a whopper,
Double-whopper, junior whopper, all
All with cheese, digesting as they please;
Our fast food solves the day, the dilemma
The where, the when, how much, and why
Of our almost casual dining, part lifestyle
Part guilty pleasure, part choice, part reflex
Fast food becomes us, as we become what
We eat, super-sized, with special sauce
Hold the lettuce, hold the tomato, plenty
Of mayo, and all that on a sesame-seed bun.


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J. K. Durick is a writing teacher at the Community College of Vermont and an online writing tutor. His recent poems have appeared in Eskimo Pie, Pacific Poetry, Ink Sweat and Tears, and Muddy River Poetry Review.

Undocumented Zombies

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Contributor: Donal Mahoney

- -
The nice thing about being dead
is you no longer care if the doctor
mucked up your diagnosis and the

pharmacist gave you the wrong pills.
You're cozy now in a comfy casket
six feet below all the carnage

in the world, without a worry, when
a mastodon tsunami rolls over your
peaceful cemetery and uproots

thousands of caskets, tossing them
high in the sky and forcing you
and all the other zombies to float.

You discover no port will take
undocumented zombies.
You have no papers, after all;

you can't prove who you were or are
so you and the other zombies float
for God knows how long since

God may not believe in zombies.
This is a rupture not a rapture.
And while you float, your lawyer

meets with your relatives who
no longer weep about your passing.
They smile as he reads your will.

They plan on taking a family cruise
with the proceeds from your estate.
They'll dine on lobster and steak,

lay waste continuous buffets while
you and the other zombies float
further out, unable to find a port

where citizens will bury the likes of you.
Property values will drop, they shout.
They can't drop their signs and let you in.


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Donal Mahoney lives in St. Louis, Missouri.

The Living

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Contributor: Gary Thomas Hubbard

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When death invades our very soul
The living are left with an awful hole
Moving on is really hard to do
Can't hide the tears that fall anew

*

Healing is something that takes time
To not move on would be a crime
Hold your head high, firm, and strong
Memories of good times are never wrong

*

This is how we honor their passing
Showing that our love is everlasting
Take the next step in the healing
You can do it if you are willing

*

Peace will come and life goes on
Waking up to a brand new dawn
As the sting of loss begins to fade
When you feel the bill is fully paid

*

Take a deep breath and begin to feel
Friends and family can help you heal
You lifted the pain now start giving
It's not wrong to walk among the living


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Born and raised in Ohio, now living in Florida. Father of two and a PawPaw. Don't get any better then that.

My Imbas Lover- To Haddayr with all my love

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Contributor: Shannon Barber

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I see through her pale breasts and strong raging heart.
I love her because her blood is molten and the flames flicker between her teeth.
She- she wants to be a dragon.
A phoenix rising from the ashes of her rage and pain to fly.
I love her because she runs-
flaming and raging. Driven by fear and hate and love.
She runs and dives into the sand trying to snuff the fire.
and I love her desperately.
As she saves herself, she flays herself.
Screaming.
Flaming.
I fear her.
I loathe her.
I want her.
I love her.
she is my mirror.
she is myself.
And oh, how I love us.
I love her.
I love me.
love in flames.
love in ash.
love complete.


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Shannon Barber is an author from Seattle Washington where she lives with her partner and a small collection of oddities. She is an avid writer, reader and blogger. She has recently embarked on being a regular contributor at Luna Luna Magazine.

Honeydew Sherbet

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Contributor: Donal Mahoney

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Down the patio walk,
white stones, through the garden,
under the trellis toward me
yellow frock, yellow hair
rising and falling

I lie in my lawn chair,
spoon honeydew sherbet, sip
pink ade from a tall glass,
cubes circling

She is almost upon me
I look up and I tell her
I have sand, sea, skies, laughs,
all paid for and nothing
nothing at all to do.


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Donal Mahoney lives in St. Louis, Missouri.

The Insane Mathematics Of Sobriety

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Contributor: Paul Tristram

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Without a drink life becomes weird
day to day life becomes so very strange.
I need a drunken gap in the proceedings
I need to section and to re-arrange.
With soberness comes a bad conscience
with indulgence another need for more.
More hazy days from this bright reality
for another trench within life’s floor.
Although I succumb to the call easily
though I retire from the sober fight.
I seek the warmth of unconsciousness
not an easy way to make things right.
Life to me has always been a battle
I expect certain things to go wrong.
I only ever really feel uncomfortable
when placed somewhere I don’t belong.
In alcoholism I find a short holiday
where I can just relax, swim and float.
where I can shout “Enough is enough!”
and pull the hand away from my throat.
I have tried to abstain from my habit
several times have I tried to give up.
But the insane mathematics of sobriety
simply and absurdly just don’t add up?


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Paul Tristram is a Welsh writer who has poems, short stories, sketches and photography published in many publications around the world, he yearns to tattoo porcelain bridesmaids instead of digging empty graves for innocence at midnight, this too may pass, yet.

My Granny's Island

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Contributor: Clyde Kessler

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My granny dreamed a shooting on an island
where nobody lived. A moonrise lugged the shore
towards our boat, and it was the barren light
that surfaced onto the old woman while she slept
that reminded me that I was hungry again.
She told me to peel some turnips by the campfire.
My daddy was too drunk to remember how.
And there were no turnips anywhere, just mud crabs
and one flighty rail sneaking towards the reeds.
I was little, and watched the smoky embers sizzle
in the lake, more like wild orange fish eyes
anchored somewhere on a huge monster’s head.
I wanted to dream something, so I imagined the sand
walking up like a soldier holding candy in his helmet.
I told my granny how sweet the chocolate was.
Then she said a stray bullet would hit somebody.
The sunrise might push him right over us like snags.
The lake was cold all morning. I dreamed a rifle
aimed at our boat. We all felt more than dead
with our lives as we snuck into the world again.


- - -
I live in Radford, VA with my wife Kendall and our son Alan. I'm a founding member of Blue Ridge Discovery Center, an environmental education organization with programs and projects in western North Carolina and southwestern Virginia. BRDC can be "discovered" at http://blueridgediscoverycenter.org/

I Argue with God

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Contributor: Art Heifetz

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I'm sick of all your sophistry
your stories of how suffering
somehow ennobles the spirit
your assurances that we're
your chosen people.
Chosen for what - the camps?
OK you created death
as the price we paid for knowledge
as payback for the apple
you warned us not to touch.
Or to prevent this small blue sphere
hung like a glittery ornament
in empty space
from becoming overrun.
Malthus would have approved.
But why inflict so much pain
before the final sweet release
on those who never ceased
to praise your name?
On small children?
On babies?
We were supposed to be
a little lower than the angels.
Why make us grovel like the beasts?
What is the purpose in all that?
Tell me.


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Art Heifetz has published 140 poems in 11 countries, winning second prize in the Reuben Rose competition in Israel. See polishedbrasspoems.com for more of his work.

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