by “Clear Dew” Ibuse

Unearthly surprise,
in the distant western skies,
lightning strikes in c-loud-s.


          by “Clear Dew” Ibuse

Difficult to hold,
struggling with a pineapple,
a future delight.


A Found Haiku
          by “Clear Dew” Ibuse

Skaters, water bugs,
sparks between us and the moon
in the bluish sky.

“Clear Dew” Ibuse is a poet of Japanese poetic forms. “A Found Haiku” draws from a reflective John Stickney poem “From Thoreau’s Journal”.


          by E “Birdcaws” Eule

Getting nowhere fast,
a bird will fly in circles,
with only left wings.

E “Birdcaws” Eule is a haikuist.


          by “Wired Clues” Abe

Ready for a bout,
the fighter bounces about,
bee on a bonnet.


On a Tarmac at Kabul
          by “Wired Clues” Abe

Desperate displays,
upon faces in the crowd;
petals on a withered branch.


          by “Wired Clues” Abe

thirty-seven thousand feet—
above the lightning.

“Wired Clues” Abe is a poet of technology in English, using Japanese forms. “On a Tarmac in Kabul” draws from Modernist American poet Ezra Pound (1885-1972).


          by Sawceeb Dureli

O—taken aback—as he turned the television on;
the Taliban had won—like as Af-GHANI-stan was gone.
He sat in shock, as the reports continued coming in:
barbaric acts were chronicled, and madness, nasty sin.
At Kabul’s airport tarmac, frenzied crowds swarmed towards the planes;
packed thick, they lifted off, some fell to death—it was insane.
So, as that nation sinks beneath the yoke of tyranny,
ten-thousands longed to get away from it—o, to be free—
the situation dire, as the Americans depart,
those not enroute to points beyond, resigned, with broken hearts.


          by Swaceeb Dureli

Outside of Kabul Airport, Taliban insurgents shot
and killed three trying to escape the terror that they’ve wrought.
But countries aiding to remove Afghanis from their land
and Nationals who had been there to give a helping hand,
include the US, UK, Germany, Australia, France,
the Czech Republic, Denmark, Hungary, the Netherlands,
Spain, Turkey, Poland, India, as well as Canada,
and even tiny, landlocked, alpine nation Switzerland.
Where are the rest? They do not care…to front the Taliban.
And first in line to recognize them will be Pakistan?
Some Pakistanis called the coup a “blessed victory”,
like Imran Khan, who called it “breaking shackled slavery”.
The Chinese mocked US withdrawal from Afghanistan,
and called it smoother than Joe Biden’s coming to command.
Sergei Lavrov of Russia called its “signal positive”;
Iran’s Raisi said Afghanis now can “live in peace”.

Sawceeb Dureli is a poet of Afghanistan. President Ghani fled the country to the UAE. One month ago there were 2500 US troops in Afghanistan. Because of the unmitigated catastrophe, after the horrific scenes were seen around the Globe, Biden ordered 7,000 troops to protect Kabul Airport. Elsewhere around the Globe, the US troop approximate counts are as follows: 50,000 Japan; 35,000 Germany; 30,000 Taiwan; 28,000, South Korea; 7,000 Africa.


The black and green and red flag of Afghanistan was banned.
It was changed to the black-on-white flag of the Taliban.
There in Jalalabad, protests erupted in the streets.
Two people murdered, others injured, beaten too—at least.


A woman with no burqa was shot dead in Taloqan,
in spite of claims that have been just made by the Taliban.


The Afghan social media, abuzz with images,
showed fighters for the Taliban involved in scrimages;
some women have been forced, coerced into new marriages.

The Taliban is chasing women out of jobs and school.
They’re painting over women seen in ads across Kabul.


She Hid
          by Sawceeb Dureli

What hope was there for her?
She did not understand her fate.
She had a date with destiny,
but it had come too late.
She’d have to keep her head down,
hide her cellphone and her face.
She’d have to travel
through this time and place—
without a trace.
She feared the pickup trucks,
the vice and virtue signaling,
the roving gangs
with guns and ammo,
She felt like a nonentity
behind her burqa sack;
she felt sad that
the US soldiers
would not, no, be back.
She tried to hide
as best she could.
She felt like as a nil.
She feared the Islamists
would come to threaten
and to kill.
She worried for her life,
she feared that death
would come too soon.
This strife, this stress,
this angst, this strain—
the news was like a noose.

Sawceeb Dureli is a poet of Afghanistan. Kabul is a city of around 4,600,000.


In a Safe House in the Ukraine
          by Radice Lebewsu

In a safe house in the Ukraine, Wu Huan claimed she’d been held
eight days in a Dubai black site, run by a Chinese cell.
Abducted from her hotel, to a villa she was sent,
apparently because her fiancé ’s a dissident.
She was coerced to sign some documents while she was there,
incriminating her fiancé for “harassing her”.
When she was being held, she heard two other prisoners,
both Uyghurs who weren’t tourists, no, nor willing visitors.
Released, she was relieved that she could go to other lands;
and presently she seeks asylum in the Netherlands.

Radice Lebewsu is a poet of Ukraine.


The Room Was Very Dark
          by Sri Wele Cebuda

The room was very dark; most of the silhouettes were black.
He got in a bitilasana pose with stretched out back.
His head was high, turned to the right—What good was in his mind?
there striving to achieve the cave, o, of the pure divine.

His back rose up, his arms hunked down, his knees and thighs beyond.
He felt like as a lotus flower floating in a pond.
His inner eye was opened, ah—What could he not now see?
His strength was sure, his angst demure, his heels clean and free.

He saw the dewy water gleaming on a sunny day.
It was so beautiful it took his heavy breath away.
He felt like Ali Baba come upon a treasure pile
of diamonds, shiny opals, gold. O, he could stay awhile.


A Magician’s Kite
          by Sri Wele Cebuda

The door was open to the hallway; one could faintly see
the wood-floor lit, out to red carpet, light’s reality.
He was in an asana pose upon a roomy chair,
and leaned back into it, o, seemingly without a care.
The door was white, the door-knob silver, leading to a sight—
a pale pink and rosy vision, fission in the night.

He stretched his body to achieve a mental attitude,
to cause his spirit to attain a sweet beatitude.
He gazed into the cosmic flux; he longed to soak it in;
and though he wasn’t going anywhere, how he did spin.
Up high he flew into the view his inner eye could see.
O, he would go forth snappily right into ec-sta-sy.

Sri Wele Cebuda is a poet of meditation.


Tuomo Suntola
          by Lars U. Ice Bedew

Tuomo Suntola was born in Finland—Tampere.
He showed deep int’rest in technology when young and raw.
He liked to build wood replicas of aircraft from the war,
in which his country had partaken many years before.
When he became a teen he started studying new things,
like amplifers, radios, which stirred imaginings.

From there he went off to Helsinki University,
and, in semiconductor physics, got his PhD.
He made atomic layer epitaxy, ALE,
which he had then discovered in the 1970s,
researching and developing the thin film growth technique
now called atomic layer deposition, ALD.

Lars U. Ice Bedew is a poet of Suomi—Finland. Tuomo Suntola is a contemporary physicist and inventive engineer. Tampere, population around 300,000, and Helsinki, population around 1,000,000, are major cities in Finland.


The death toll from the Haiti earthquake now has risen past
two-thousand dead, ten-thousand injured, myriads depressed.


What Did He Like?
          by Sir Eel Da Buwec

O, Felix Klein, what did he like? I tried to understand.
I doubt it was dis-in-te-gra-tion in Afghanistan.
I doubt it was a little dose of fluid Español,
although perhaps the Ransetsu and Shiki, yes, Basho.
I doubt it was the carbon footprint of Red China’s step.
Could it have been the bear cub’s burnt paws, wild, wily pets?
It could have been a cup of coffee, and the lotus pose.
I doubt it was day-dreams of ancient Greece or Pluto’s hole.
I doubt it was corruption in Our Present Resident
or laureate Petrarca in ballata, hesitant.

Sir Eel Da Buwec is a poet of incongruity. The German Realist Felix Klein (1849-1925) was a mathematician known for his work in group theory, complex analysis, and nonEuclidean geometry. Matsuo Basho (1644-1694), Hattori Ransetsu (1660-1707), and Masaoka Shiki (1867-1902) are three noted Japanese haikuists. Franceso Petrarca (1304-1374) was an Early Renaissance Italian poet.

One of his favourite haiku is that by Ransetsu:

hito ha chiru / totsu hito ha chiru / kaze no ue:
one leaf falls/ ah, one leaf falls / to the wind


The Border Covid Crisis
          by “Wild” E. S. Bucaree

Each month since Biden took the office of the President,
the numbers of illegal immigrants takes its ascent
More than 200,000 came in the last month alone,
igniting Texas’ covid crisis—spread across the Zone.
And Texas is exporting immigrants across the land—
off to Montana, Minnesota, Maine and Maryland.
Homeland Security Mayorkas—on leaked audio—
told border agents the US is “going to lose” control.
The health care of America continues its descent
each month since Biden took the office of the President.

“Wild” E. S. Bucaree is a poet of Texas. As of August 16, 2021, there were over 3,300,000 reported cases of the Wuhan Coronavirus in Texas, with over 50,000 deaths. In the USA, there have been over 600,000 deaths, the highest reported in the World. Top states for deaths: California, 64,000; New York, 53,000; Texas, 53,000; Florida, 40,000; Pennsylvania, 27,000; New Jersey, 26,000; Georgia, 22,000; Michigan, 21,000; Ohio, 20,000; Arizona, 18,000; Massachusetts, 18,000.


T-Mobile said that hackers stole the data of a slew—
plus forty-seven million customers—yeh, quite a few.


Morning Exercise
          by Rudi E. Welec, “Abs”

He got into position to do morning exercise,
get up and shine, extend the mind, work out to flex and rise.
The early bird can get the worm, the early hound, the fox;
a basic uniform is fine—black tee down to black socks.
Make sure your trunks, whatever size, are not too tight to wear;
make sure that they allow for easy access to the air.
Then go for it. Do all your reps with joy and energy.
O, do them hard, but keep your guard. Jet forth, yet gingerly.
Perform your stretches, yeah, gut-wrenching clenches—all the way—
and focus on dawn’s warming yawn, as you go in to day.


Morning Chores
          by Rudi E. Welec, “Abs”

It was time for his morning exercises once again.
This was his fate, his karma, living in a world of men.
He got upon the platform, doing stretches to get warm.
He knew it was important to work hard and firm on form.
He did his push-ups, making sure his butt was not too high.
He worked his shoulders. He was hot. He was a panting guy.
He was dressed all in camo, from his hat down to his boots.
He had a farming job to do, and he would do it too.
That bit of work he had to do—it was to plant a bush.
He got straight into it with shove and shovel, crush and shrub.

Rudi E. Welec, “Abs”, is a poet of physical strengthening.