by “Wired Clues” Abe

Late summer sunshine,
rich, barbecue aromas:
savory dining.

“Wired Clues” Abe is a haiku poet combining Japanese structure and English.


Near Papua, New Guinea
by Walibee Scrude

When I awoke, as if I had come from a daydream’s ream,
I saw a captain and his mate asea, or so it seemed.
Although I heard no word, it was as though he called to him,
as if he shouted on that barren skiff; it was no whim.
Yet there he was that rugged crewman seemingly far off,
but so close as to almost touch him with commanding scoff.
Still there he was as if he was ten-thousand leagues away.
Perhaps he had received some order he tried to obey.
I then presumed the captain threw a life-line to that soul,
there in the violence of waves, a long, but unseen pole.

What most astounded me who came so lately to this scene
was how remarkable both looks were in that raging sea.
The captain’s animated eyes surged forth with energy,
while his mate’s countenance was flat, without elan or glee.
Perhaps the captain tried to save this hopeless, drowning man,
perhaps the flounderer had flopped out far from sandy span.
It was as if he was completely unconcerned at all
about his being saved, as if succumbing to that squall.
Then I passed out. That’s all that I recall. Where had I been?
Where was I at? Was I the one who’d fallen out, now in?

Walibee Scrude is a poet of Australia and nearby nations.


South Park Kow-Tow
by Cawb Edius Reel

Trey Parker and Matt Stone of South Park have apologized
to China too, like Disney did. Was anyone surprised?
Just like the NBA, they welcomed Chinese censorship
into their homes, into their hearts, into their hopes and hips.
Like Hollywood, they too love money, more than being free.
They’d rather gain Chinese okay than have democracy.
In fact, they really treasure China’s ruler Xi Jinping,
who doesn’t look like Winnie Pooh—at all—in anything.
Long live the CCP and all it ‘s done for everyone,
like spying, stealing, lying, cheating, covert covid fun.

Cawb Edius Reel is a poet of Hollywood. Recently controversy raged around Disney’s “Mulan”. As usual the creators of “South Park”, Trey Parker and Matt Stone, are decidedly sarcastic and ironic.


Ballistic Heat Conductivity Paradox
By Alecset Durbew

Researchers from Saint Petersburg discovered recently
a brand new physical effect, explained conveniently:
in amplitude, mechanical vibrations can expand
without external fluency—no bubble rubberband.
The guys at SPbPU explained a swing needs rocks,
but not the Fermi-Pasta-Ulam-Tsingou paradox.
Researchers noted high speeds, in their nano-micro states,
as ultrapure and crystalline material inflates.
This strange phenom of heat-ballistic conductivity,
Vitaly Kuzkin noted, could be used, as in graphene.

Alecsei Durbew is a poet of Russia. SpbPU is the oldest technical university in Russia.


Shadows on the Wall
by Erisbawdle Cue

Our vision of this crass, chaotic cosmos is like as
we are suspended in a giant cave filled with light gas;
and what we really see are merely shadows on the wall,
as Plato thought so long ago, within this chthonic all.
In our pursuit of knowledge, there are times it seems we see
so clearly, even if it’s only momentarily;
but that is not the truth, despite all our endeavoring:
We can’t—not ever—never—see the Ubereverything..
And so we gage and contemplate each place we come to be.
That is the lot of being human in eternity.

Erisbawdle Cue is a poet of philosophy.


After Ernst Jünger
by Uwe Carl Diebes
“My name is No Man.”
—Homer, “Odyssey”

The storm raged all around the men, as he walked up and down
the sector where the men stood motionless, with stone-like frown.
The bayonets were fixed. Each stood with rifle in his hand,
upon the front edge of the dip, and gazed at No Man’s land.
When flares lit up the sky, he saw the helmets made of steel,
and glinting blades along the line where warriors kneedled annealed.
One overcome by feelings of invuln’rability
still felt that he could be crushed there upon that battlefield;
but never conquered, even though one might be shelled among
the rotting corpses strewn about, life in the trenches flung.

Uwe Carl Diebes is a poet of Germany. Ernst Jünger (1895-1998) was a Modernist/Postmodernist German poet and philosopher of war.“Francoise d’Amboise”.


At Nantes
by Claude I. S. Weber
for Margaret Coats

Two towers stretch up high above the terrace top at Nantes.
It is so bright, so white, in heaven’s light—majestic vaunt.
Late Gothic and Flamboyant, Romanesque, it rises up;
its brilliant, tall facade amazes, and surprises us.
How godly could its builders be whose lives were poor and mean.
How could they make its hard, cold stone appear so pure and clean?
The strong, foundation stone was laid, a song of praise to God
by John V Duke of Brittany and Bishop Malestroit
Begun in 1434, it wasn’t finished till
the year of 1891, with mighty love and skill.

Claude I. S. Weber is a poet of France. Margaret Coats is a contemporary poet and translator of French poetry.


To an SJB
by Wic E. Ruse Blade

Hooray—another tennos! and though awkwardly arrayed,
I’m thankful for the picture of the person that’s portrayed!
Its voice is entertaining, laughable, filled with elan,
much like the very understated essence of the man!
I am reminded of the words of Aristophanes
on figures as diverse as Aeschylus and Sophocles.
Forsooth, the tennos is a vehicle for comedy,
spot on, in fact, for British wit or Texan drama queen.
High standards often come off as disdain to those who pose
as social justice biddies both in poetry and prose.

Wic E. Ruse Blade is a poet of humouresque anecdotes. SJB is a con-temporary British American poet.


Earl Dolan Page
by Usa W. Celebride

He was the strangest indivi-dual I ever met,
a character whose qualities were such I can’t forget.
He had the oddest kind of speech. When he said anything,
no one responded to his words, which were quite quieting,
as if what he had spoken were forbidden oracle,
as if they would contract his plague, so deadly horrible.
Although not a barbarian—he was indeed refined—
each feared, if he approached too close, that he would lose his mind,
as if he had indulged too much realms of insanity,
a mania in which one could lose one’s humanity.

He seemed immensely out of sync in essence, thought or act.
He was unusual in that, in fiction or in fact.
In fact, he acted like he was an uncrowned king or prince,
who could not help but be what he was more than what he was.
He was so curiously formed by DNA and time,
most wondered how he came to be unearthly and sublime,
as if he were a phoenix fixed upon the desert floor,
intensely burning, turning, churning, yearning evermore,
caught in the throes of some enchanted spell he could not shake.
He seemed like one one should avoid, a-void for goodness sake.


Remembering 9-11
by Usa W. Celebride

Avenge those lately murdered souls, whose bones,
incinerated on the urban floor,
were ripped untimely from their daily chore
of work and service in those high-rising zones,
in those towering stones.
Do not forget their terror or their groans,
who like the sheep of yore, were killed not for
what they had done but who they were. No more
let us forget their hard, horrible moans,
in those harrowing tones.
Their blood and ashes sow the world with woe.
Oh, make the reticent, resolute, bold.
Such evil cannot be allowed to grow;
it must be nipped off at the bud, cut cold.
For only then can life continue, go
on, and the goodness of the world unfold.

Usa W. Celebride is a poet of American literature. More and more he seems to fall under the spell of Edgar Poe (1809-1849).