by “Wired Clues” Abe

Over the people,
lounging at and in the pool,
the moon is rising.


          by “Wired Clues” Abe

Slamming on the breaks—
automatic cruise control—
dominoes scatter.


          by “Wired Clues” Abe

Leaving behind work,
the cold, operating room,
the hot car’s welcomed.


          by “Lice Brews” Ueda

Against the sunset,
umbrellas and palms extend,
amidst cicadas.


          by “Lice Brews” Ueda

Upon the lounge chair
in hot Louisiana air,
an old lizard lies.


          by “Lice Brews” Ueda

Escaping the light,
the hardy cockroach presses
over the wood floor,
hur-tl-ing in a straight line,
rushing to meet its end.


          by “Clear Dew” Ibuse

Fragile, but hardy,
the orange-pink mimosa
branches out broadly.
In the afternoon sunlight,
one discerns the beating heart.


          by “Clear Dew” Ibuse

Large, white cloud-puffs pass
above the aqua pool where
clear fountain sprays splash.


At Kintaikyo Bridge
          by Lude Biwa Reeds

Five steep wood arches
cross Nishigawa River
on large stone-stacked mounds;
travelers pass overhead,
amidst the cherry blossoms.

“Wired Clues” Abe, “Lice Brews” Ueda, “Clear Dew” Ibuse, and Lude Biwa Reeds are haikuists and tankaists.


The Hong Kong Protest Hymn
          by Lu “Reed ABCs” Wei

The Christian hymn “Sing Hallelujah to the Lord” emerged
as anthem of the Hong Kong protests. It is not expurged.
The hymn is almost nonstop heard at the main protest site,
in front of Hong Kong’s Legislative Council day and night.
The Christian hymn, composed by Linda-Stassen Benjamin,
repeated in a minor key, four stanzas, praise to Him,
possesses a surprising power on the hopeful groups
that number in the millions—peaceful democratic troops.
The bill was paused, but Carrie Lam, the chief executive,
will not be leaving. How long will the peace of Hong Kong live?

Lu “Reed ABCs” Wei is a poet of China. Expurged is an obsolete tense according to Beau Lecsi Werd.


Near Cairns
          by Walibee Scrude

Cairns is the gateway to the Great Barrier Reef,
and access point to the Atherton Tablelands,
where elevations cool the tropical-like heat
and lush rainforests grow above the burning sands.
Here platypuses walk and swim near waterfalls;
and brown koala bears in eucalyptus stands
ignore the kangaroos and wallabies and calls
from colourful, spectacular, bright plumaged birds.
Here thriving happily amidst marsupials,
the Towering Cathedral Figtrees, flowers, ferns,
all on a ridge that juts up some four thousand feet;
Bruce highway’s terminal of all that is discerned.

Walibee Scrude is a poet of Australia.


A Tweet from Imran Khan
          by Waseel Budecir

Prime Minister of Pakistan, sports-figure Imran Khan,
has posted words that he attributed, Khalil Gibran:
I slept and dreamt that life was joy; but then I woke to tell
that life is service; so I served; and serving’s joy as well.
The problem is words close to these possess another source,
this phrase comes from the language of Rabindranath Tagore’s.
Khan said those who discover this, these words he cites below,
will live a life contentedly, this wisdom they will know.
But he was trolled by souls untolled, all twittering away:
How joyful it can be some times to serve the present day.

Waseel Budecir is a poet of Pakistan. Rabindranath Tagore (1861-1941) was a Bengali poet and polymath, Khalil Gibran (1883-1931) was a Lebanese-American poet.


          by Alecsei Burdew

Today in Russia’s western colonized Kaliningrad,
the statue of the gray philosopher ‘s in pink paint clad.
Kant has been branded as a traitor and a Russophobe;
as many do not want his name attached to their airport.
His plaque, his tomb, his statue too, have all been vandalized;
some want the planned renaming stopped. Abort the old boor’s ties.
The hubbub shows how passionate the modern Russians are;
they do not want old Königsberg’s philosopher to mar
their modern airport called Khrabrovo with his vulgar name,
their motives pure and practical, their judgment of his fame.

Alecsei Burdew is a poet of Russia. German Immanuel Kant (1724-1804), who synthesized rationalism and empiricism, is a central figure in World philosophy.


          by Uwe Carl Diebes

The Königsberg of Kant was turned into Kaliningrad,
no kingly mountain in a sea of kleptocratic fraud,
where seven bridges on the River Pregel in the town
no more exist as once they did when Euler was around,
who proved there was no way one could devise a walk that would
cross each bridge once and only once in that isl’d neighbourhood;
each land mass was replaced with an abstract node, if you please,
and each bridge with an edge connected to its vertices,
eliminating all the re-al features that once were,
conferring immortality on long-gone Königsberg.

Uwe Carl Diebes is a poet of Germany. Leonhard Euler (1707-1783) was a famous 18th century mathematician, physicist, astronomer, logician and engineer,


The Hedetniemi Conjecture Disproved
          by Euclidrew Base

A graph’s a set of vertices connected by each edge;
chromatic numbers are the minimums of hues unchecked,
that is, so no two vertices connect with same-hued points;
one wants a multicoloured group with alternating joints.
A tensor product mixes two graphs to get a new one.
Once Hedetniemi wondered if indeed it was true…hmm.
Is the chromatic number of the product of two graphs
the equal of the minimum of their chromatic facts?
Unanswered for more than some fifty-some years up till now,
it was disproven recently by Yaroslav Shitov.

Euclidrew Base is a poet of mathematics and mathematicians. American Stephen T. Hedetniemi is a retired professor, associated with Clemson University in South Carolina, Russian Yaroslav Shitov is an associate professor at the National Higher School of Economics Tikhonov Moscow Institute of Electronics and Mathematics.


The Idealist at Cannes
          by U. Carew Delibes

He stood upon the sandy granules, the dreaming man,
near by the Intercontinental Carlton at Cannes.
His trunks were light-blue, like the sky, but brighter in the sun,
against th’ imposing deep blue o’ th’ Mediterranean.
He stood akimbo, brown of skin, legs spread apart, secure.
He made his statement, this idealist of the azure.
But one could see, below his short, neat, dark-brown, close-cut hair,
a touch of dirt upon the padded, curving, lounging chair.
The sun reflecting off his back, the gazing of his eyes,
suggested he was looking down, instead of at the skies.

Above, the seven floors rose up seventy-seven feet,
reflecting brilliant white in the insufferable heat.
The windows dark, rectangular, in beaux-arts masonry,
gazed on the straining palms below the hotel’s vacancy.
The rough idealist squints in the glinting glittering,
the wrinkles vertical in the glabella’s knitted wring.
He turned his head off to the right, his look was sinister.
His hands held to a cylinder, that keen-eared listener.
Lined shadows crossed his black eye-brows and lashes nearly closed.
He held his muscles taut and tight, as if in air he posed.

He strained to hear the messages that passed about his head.
His lips were shut, his chest was tense, life’s meaning left him dread.
He tried to see what was behind him on that sandy beach;
but somehow it was too close to his end, and out of reach.
Clipped fingernails with half-moons gripped hard around the time;
he held with all his might brief moments of the earth’s sublime.
O, he would vanish in the dark, as quick as passing eel,
a filmy residue of image on the dharma wheel.
He held to its firm law as long as he was able to;
but how long could he stay up in the air, and hold that view?

Carew Delibes is a poet of France.


The Realist at the Redneck Riviera
          by Clubir Seaweed
          “…silvers and greens spread over the sea”
              —Wallace Stevens

He stood upon the bright, white sandy beach, the realist,
by the Majestic Sun at Destin, ah, no nihilist.
His trunks were blue with turtles, with green seaweed in between,
like as the Coast of Emerald, the Florida beach scene.
From Pensacola eastward off to Panama City.
along the Gulf of Mexico, this was his destiny.
He made his statement, this clear-headed visionary mole;
the seaweed clung to everything, his body and his soul.
He hung out in the shade away from th’ unrelenting Sun,
for he was looking out and did not want to be undone.

Above, a dozen floors rose up above one-hundred feet,
from aquamarine rooftop to the gray and burning street.
The windows, large, rectangular, beside each balcony,
above the palm trees far below the hotel’s chalced’ny.
The frail realist squints in the flitting glittering,
here in America far from the heart of Italy.
He turns his head off to the right and left, his look austere;
his hands hold nothing but the air, there’s little that he hears.
The boats and planes string advertisements through the azure air.
Occasionally one descries a seabird in the air.

He strained to hear the messages that passed about his head.
His lips were closed, his chest was loose, the bodies turning red.
He tried to see all who around him lay upon that beach;
but it was all too much for him, too much and out of reach.
Clipped fingernails with half-moons, relaxed beside the time;
he held not but the burning heat, and vacant stares to clime.
O, he would vanish in the light, unlike a passing eel,
a lobster cooking in the daylight, reddened, raw and real.
He held to life’s firm law as long as he was able to,
but how long could he stand up there, and hold that point of view?

Clubir Seaweed is a poet of the beach and intimate of W. S. “Eel” Bericuda.


The Sea
          by W. S. “Eel” Bericuda

The sea goes on indefinitely to infinity,
at least unto the world’s edge, where it ends finally.
The sea comes to the shore in waves, one on another one,
continually, quivering, and silver in the sun.
The sea shows up in diff’rent areas and continents,
where it infuriates or pleases, it is so immense.
The sea appears to vanish when you try to take it in,
you touch it and it disappears before an earthly spin.
The sea flows out in all directions, all at the same time,
you see it at one moment and the next it turns sublime.

W. S. “Eel” Bericuda is a poet of the beach.


The Sky
          by Air Weelbed Suc

It was the moment of the truth. We flew into the sun.
We had put on our gear and courage, each and every one.
I saw him sitting at the edge, above the floating clouds.
The roaring engines of the plane were the loudest sound.
I heard the rushing of the wind; and we went flying by,
as out we jumped, and everywhere about us was the sky.
The silver plane up overhead receded from our view.
We stretched out arms and legs full length. There was a calm. We flew.
I felt as if I were a fish inside a giant bowl.
I felt a pull, the chute popped open, down to green and…goaled.

Air Weelbed Suc is a poet of flight.