SCIFAIKUEST
MAY 2025
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NAKED CLOCK BY DENNY MARSHALL
Happy Spring!
It’s been the windiest, most icy winter that I can remember, here in the northeast USA, but I hope that May finds you in warmer, more spring-like climes, and that the Winds of Change bring you happy days, indeed!
In this issue, you will find amazing poetry and artwork dealing with the issues of change. As always, our contributors will delight you with changing times during the recent time-change, when we move toward that period of longer days.
So, sit back and relax in the extended daylight, and enjoy another Scifaikuest!
Scifaikuest finally has its own ISBN!!! Please inform your local book stores and library that they are now able to ORDER SCIFAIKUEST!!!
You can always find us here, at Hiraeth Books at: https://www.hiraethsffh.com/home-1
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If you don’t have a subscription to our PRINT edition, they are available at:
https://www.hiraethsffh.com/product-page/scifaikuest
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And, if you would like to join the select group of contributors by submitting your poetry, artwork or article, you can find our guidelines at: https://www.hiraethsffh.com/scifaikuest
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Pssst! Looking for something good to read?
You can get t.santitoro’s newest book, The Red Foil, a SF mystery, at:
https://www.hiraethsffh.com/product-page/red-foil-by-t-santitoro
and you can find her novella, Those Who Die, at:
THOSE WHO DIE by t. santitoro | Hiraeth Publishing (hiraethsffh.com)
You can also order t.santitoro's novella, Adopted Child, at:
https://www.hiraethsffh.com/product-page/adopted-child-by-t-santitoro
And you can still get a copy of her vampire novelette, The Legend of Trey Valentine, at: https://www.hiraethsffh.com/product-page/legend-of-trey-valentine-by-teri-santitoro
Let’s welcome our newest Scifaikuest contributor: Tony Daly!
May Day on Triton
one hundred and forty-four hours
of missing Earth
-sakyu-
***
SCIFAIKU
cold moons
humming the martian song
mom taught me
Umi Agawa
***
First Landing on Proxima b IV
Herb Kauderer
exhaustion: who knew
waking up from cryo sleep
could be so tiring
***
sudden solar flare
people's cybernetic brains
shut down globally
Ngo Binh Anh Khoa
***
snail mail
I receive grandma's letter
some lightyears later
Ngo Binh Anh Khoa
***
frightful green-lit snow
whispered warnings and prophecies
for Saint Patrick’s Day
Tony Daly
***
nuclear winter...
the bird feeder
still full
Greg Schwartz
***
hydraulic fluid
with an energy bar
my robot’s breakfast
Guy Belleranti
***
"Good Manners cost Nothing"
Matthew Wilson
thank you Alexia
letting you live
after robot rebellion
***
out of cryo
looking like death warmed over
freezer burn
John H. Dromey
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SENRYU
deep space travel
in the capsules
sleeping beauties
Umi Agawa
***
wife’s cheerful voice
played a thousand times
last message from fateful mission
Richard E Schell
***
AI partner
seemed detached today
something I said
Richard E Schell
***
HORRORKU
"The Haunted House"
Matthew Wilson
a tap on the shoulder
the worst thing
when living alone
***
despair
a black hole
swallows the sun
Rick Jackofsky
***
a full-moon nightmare
silver bullet six-shooter
seven werewolf pack
John H. Dromey
***
TANKA
AI judges–
incorruptible logic
devoid of mercy
filling up more graveyards
than prison cells
Ngo Binh Anh Khoa
***
from a distant base
emergency signals
when all contact lost
families pray
it’s a false alarm
Richard E Schell
***
OTHER FORMS
(including: Sijo, Fibonacci, Cinquain, Minutes, Diminuendo, Ghazals,Threesomes, Brick, etc.)
inside the mind of… (cinquain)
Herb Kauderer
board games:
the aliens
study intensely as
if their invasion plans depend
on this
***
head on a pike (fibonacci)
Herb Kauderer
wall
of
oil
paintings shows
the path of conquests
across spiral arm, stars dimmed as
warning to rebels,
invaders
and those
to
come
***
revenge awaits (gogyohka)
Herb Kauderer
Independence Day
fireworks destroy membranes
of alien ears
overtures for peace
go unheard
***
self-confidence (gogyohka)
Herb Kauderer
It is impossible to label
wormhole exits
so pilots are chosen
by their answers to the test question
“Do you feel lucky today?”
***
Fibonacci
we
saw
seven
alien
moons clearly tonight
no ifs or ands just lots of butts
Guy Belleranti
***
HAIBUN
HAIBUN DREAM SEQUENCE
I Dreamed the Universe: 28th August 2022
I dreamed the Universe and I were climbing a concrete staircase. We made our way up through a grey building's cold metal interior and, so far, all was well. Then we reached the door at the top. Behind which a tarantula was waiting, bulbous and hairy. It guarded a ghost-white cobweb. I insisted that a spider wouldn't hurt us but the Universe had already started down the stairs. It yelled, 'There's no way. There's just no way through that door.'
Later, it was the Universe’s 10th birthday. It was my job to throw the party. We were an hour in and there were no guests. Just paper plates, bowls of stardust for the two of us, and one chair in the middle of the room, ready for us to dance around madly.
Things weren't looking too festive, but before I could feel sad, sure enough, one by one, galaxies began to arrive. The party got into full swing. We were quietly thankful that the spider was a no show as we munched on Saturn’s Party Rings.
daytime anxiety—
the creeping night
behind us
R.C. Thomas
***
I Dreamed the Universe: 1st September 2022
I dreamed the Universe chased me. We ran through an abandoned night club, from one blackened room to another, floor after floor after floor. I made my steps light and exact as each floorboard threatened to give way. Eventually I reached the final floor, just a short ladder to the rooftop.
On my phone, I'd downloaded an app to find out where the Universe was hiding. It showed that it was just feet away and simultaneously nowhere to be seen. Then it came tearing through doors, up ladders, through windows. Its clawed fingers caught me by my trouser cuffs. I pulled myself free and climbed up on to the rooftop.
As I looked over the city, I could hear the hiss and huff of the Universe grow louder. I turned to find it behind me. All the lights in the city went out.
the candle burned
at both ends
crow's rising alarm
R.C. Thomas
***
The Universe Dreamed I: 1st September 2023
The Universe dreamed I hadn't pre-booked our seats on the train. It was packed full of all-knowing galaxies who scoffed at us. After a short stay in Andromeda, we were heading back to city for the day and, as the train began to move, I realised we were rolling down the tracks in the wrong direction. I turned to alert the Universe, but it had already jumped off. I saw it run across the platform and board the correct train. It was too late for me. I sat on a galaxy's armrest, waiting until we reached the first stop before I could redirect my journey.
Thirty minutes later, the train slowed to a halt. I pushed my way down the crowded aisle. The galaxies, having planned their journey better than me, made petty jibes. I ignored them and hopped off the train. I was back in Andromeda, on the opposing platform to where I had started.
Möbius strip—
a topologist's view
bites them in the ass
R.C. Thomas
***
I Dreamed the Universe: 5th September 2022
I dreamed the Universe was fixing the QR code in my digital book manuscript. There were formatting issues at the top and bottom of the pages, in the margins and in the gutter, and in the centre of the page where the meat of my text should have been. My paragraphs were all out of joint, line spaces were disfigured, and my choice of font was no longer my choice of font.
I'd made a QR code to reveal my inner self to readers, but my QR code had become irrational. It refused to function and was throwing the rest of the book out of shape. The Universe was at a loss at what to do. It tried everything it could think of, which was no different to a quick Google search. Then, in a whip-crack of thought, I suggested to the Universe that if we removed my QR code, my most inner self, perhaps the rest of my book would fall into line. Sure enough, that was the answer.
I felt put out paying the Universe £39.95 for a solution I came up with myself. My digital book manuscript, QR code-less, was now just a shell of its former self, but I guess at least readable.
connecting me
to you…
our concerning matter
R.C. Thomas
***
The Universe Dreamed I: 14th September 2023
The Universe dreamed I laid in bed. It handed me an open blister pack of safety pins and needles. In my weakness and exhaustion I dropped the pack and they scattered out of sight. It wasn't until I went to bed though and started tossing and turning that I felt my skin pricked over and over. I pulled back the duvet and found them all over the mattress. They were embedded in my legs. Desperate for sleep, I began to gather them. I kept telling myself there were just a few more to pick up. Then I could comfortably sleep. Of course, with every batch of needles I tidied, I spotted another batch, nesting in the folds of the linen. As this was all going on, the Universe shoved a smartphone in my face, with galaxies on a video call. They acknowledged my situation, commiserated, wished me luck, and then went on with their lives.
airplane mode—
navigating
the radio silence
R.C. Thomas
***
Drifting. Stars everywhere... unfamiliar constellations. Something beeping. Far away, or just seems like it? The oxygen display slowly counting down.
Memories. A birthday party. Flight school graduation. Baseball.
The stars dimmer now. Everything dimmer. A few more breaths, maybe.
bedtime story
his father closes
the book
Greg Schwartz
***
***
ARTICLE
FLYING WRIGHT
Robert E. Porter
I came across a book of Richard Wright’s haiku in the library and looked twice. I knew of the man in a round-about way, from my research of the “republican” factions and international volunteers in the Spanish Civil War. It’s said that Richard Wright based a character in Black Boy on the Black Bolshevik Harry Haywood. I don’t know if that’s true. But I approached those haiku with a Hokusai “wave” of unspoken historical context -- and alternate historical extrapolation -- rather than the usual “Aha!” that comes from being in the present moment. I couldn’t help myself. I kept going back.
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Years ago, I read “In Black and White,” a knock-out piece by Pulitzer prize-winner by New Yorker’s Hilton Als. Dateline: “Paris, 1953. Three black American writers—Richard Wright, James Baldwin, and Chester Himes—are sitting on the terrace of Les Deux Magots, drinking. All three have left home for France, where the dollar is strong and there is no apparent Jim Crow.” (Als)
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Of the three, Himes was my favorite. He “produced male characters who really were noir—in fact and in sensibility. Unapologetic and testosterone-driven, they weren’t hard-done-by; they were in love with having been done wrong.” (Als)
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Himes wrote realistic, humane noir before cranking out Harlem caricatures more appealing to Hollywood, once upon a time.
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“Interestingly,” says Als, “the protagonists of these stories are never falsely accused; Himes made sure that, like him, they were serving time for crimes they had committed, thereby forestalling any possible liberal interpretation fuelled by notions of injustice.” (Als)
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I associate Baldwin, and Wright to a lesser degree, with that liberal interpretation; with the fads and fashions of political correctness, righteous dog-piles and poseurs for accolades. Baldwin and Wright deserve better. But they’re no strangers to moral posturing and hypocrisy.
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Wright joined the John Reed club and the communist party in the 1930s, during the Depression. Maybe he fell for their claims of racial equality. But he went along with their about-face, when the party leadership showed their true colors by joining forces with Aryan racists for the invasion and partition of Poland -- kicking off the second World War in Europe. Wright only broke with them, or allowed his party membership to lapse, years later. Then he cared so little about politics that he vacationed in Franco’s Spain.
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Wright was born 43 years after the American Civil War, and in the Deep South. “His love of nature since his Mississippi days, his unchanging quiet and simple life style, and his preference of peasant life to urban life were somewhat deeply rooted in his experiences long before he met the unique aspect of Zen.” (Kiuchi, 31)
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For ex.,
The crow flew so fast
That he left his lonely caw
Behind in the fields
(Wright, 254)
Mississippian professor Zheng says “the south in Wright's haiku is a place full of dreams, memories, hardships, and loneliness.” (Zheng)
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A voice in the wilderness…
“In the last four years of his life, while living in self-imposed exile in France, Wright wrote thousands of haiku, nearly all in a strict 5-7-5 format and under the influence of Blyth’s Zen-infused translations of the Japanese masters.” (Kacian, 324)
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Under the influence?
Wright lived near the American Hospital of Paris -- with the souvenir he brought back from a trip to Africa: amoebic dysentery.
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An empty sickbed
An indented white pillow
In weak winter sun
(Wright, 252)
The illness kept coming back to him. No doubt it contributed to his death in 1960.
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“Today the goals of Wright’s protest have all been won — in principle — but in principle only,” said Kenneth Rexroth, in his eulogy. “Today the struggle is no longer against the lynch rope, the blowtorch, tar and feathers; those victories lie behind us, morally — but morally only. If you are being raped in the kitchen or burned alive in the woods, it is small consolation to know that all the world condemns your persecutors as evil men.” (Rexroth)
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Men and women being born as Wright died have now grown old enough to retire. Looking back over their careers, can we trace “the arc of the moral universe”? or Mars in retrograde? Imagine: Plowshares dug out of the rust-red clay, hammered back into sabers for the partisans of General Lee, Bedford Forrest, and John Wilkes Booth.
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How much has changed? Or could have? Or still might? And how should we go through these changes? Like a Band of Gypsies? For a Skylark?
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“Humor is an indispensable element not only for Zen but for haiku.” (Kiuchi, 29)
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And that was something Wright had down:
With a twitching nose
A dog reads a telegram
On a wet tree trunk
(Wright, 254)
Before Han Shan, Han Solo, or Ecclesiastes, “Killroy was here” -- in the primordial forest. While there is nothing new on the sun, no one has smelled everything yet. Here we are -- “Aha!” – exorcising our demons with our twitchy noses and nature-nurturing ku. If it’s not the “Strange Fruit” in a bowl on the counter, it’s the snap of a wet dish towel that awakens something in those Travelers huddled over their coffee and buttered grits. One swivels on his red vinyl stool to look out the window and see just how far he’s come. From the traffic on I-75, heading out of Atlanta, to a Lagrange point 464 million miles from old Sol.
WORKS CITED
Als, Hilton. “In Black and White.” The New Yorker, 4 June 2001.
Kacian, Jim. “An Overview of Haiku in English.” Haiku in English: The First Hundred Years. W. W. Norton & Co., 2013.
Kiuchi, Toru. “Zen Buddhism in Richard Wright’s Haiku.” Valley Voices, 2012. Volume 12, Issue 2.
Rexroth, Kenneth. “Richard Wright and the Persistence of Racism.” Assays. New Directions, 1961.
Wright, Richard. Richard Wright Reader, edited by Ellen Wright and Michel Fabre. Harper & Row, 1978.
Zheng, Jianquing. “The South in Richard Wright’s Haiku.” Notes on Contemporary Literature, 2007. Volume 37, Issue 2.
***
FAVORITE POEM chosen by editor, t.santitoro
wife’s cheerful voice
played a thousand times
last message from fateful mission
Richard E Schell
Such a sad sentiment and so much story in a short poem! Well done!--teri
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