by “Lice Brews” Ueda

Orange skippers flap
about the lavender spikes
above the green leaves.


          by “Lice Brews” Ueda

Bed bugs were spotted
on second, third and fourth floors
of the New York Times.

“Lice Brews” Ueda is a writer of haiku and tanka.


The Drone Show
          by Aw “Curbside” Lee

In Chongqing, people watched two-hundred-fifty drones take flight,
above the south bank of the Yangtze River Monday night.
A dozen images were lined up in the evening sky
with giant drone formations built up to impress the eye:
a high-speed railway; the Yangtze River cableway;
an AI robot with its hand extended on display;
the dazzling light-show even had some phrases in Chinese;
computer science engineering’s giant SCE—
Smart China Expo drew in companies both far and near;
the show went for ten minutes, while in bursts, spectators cheered.

Aw “Curbside” Lee is a poet of Chinese industry. The Chongqing municipality has an approimate population of 30,000,000. Hundreds of companies from round the World came to participate in the South China Expo.


Indonesia’s New Capital
          by Budi Eas Celewr

From Java in the south, up north to East Kalimantan,
the plan’s afoot to move the Indonesian capital.
The hoped-for deadline time-frame would be 2024,
according to the President, Ir Joko Widodo.
There are both reasons, economic and political;
besides, the situation in Jakarta’s critical;
although the move may be more critical for animals,
like jet-black sun bears, long-nosed monkeys, and orangutans.
Still, the new capital will be strategically planned,
centrally placed, near Samarinda and Balikpapan

Budi Eas Celewr is a poet of Indonesia. Joko Widodo thinks that Jakarta, with 30,000,000, has so many burdens, pollution, traffic, city sinking, water, etc. that the capital should be moved. “Ir” is an honourific indicating an engineering degree. Joko Widodo was born with the name Molyono, but it changed because he was a sick child; and in Indonesia parents will change the name of their children if they get very sick. Perhaps not joking some have suggest the capital could be named for Joko Widodo.


          by Waseel Budecir

It sits upon the Bengal delta, largest in the World,
where Brahmaputra and the Ganges are together hurled.
Like as a man with mighty span, the country, flat and rich,
with fertile farmland, stretches out, a vast, fantastic ditch.
Rangpur up in the north, its head, Rajshahi its left arm,
connected to its right Silhet by Mymensingh’s great charm.
The beating pulse, its heart is Dhaka, in the central hub,
its right leg Chittagong kicked out, its left leg Khulna up.
And last, at bottom, Bangladesh, the Venice of Bengal;
the paddy, river and canal, three things make Barisal,

Waseel Budecir is a poet of South Asia. With 160,000,000 people, Bangladesh is the 8th most populous nation in the World.


          by Aedile Cwerbus

He was an old, gray, fuzzy-headed dude, a polymath,
who had gone down to cleanse his body at the Roman bath.
He’d lived a long and fruitful life, and written many things;
above five-hundred volumes came from his imaginings;
perhaps none more important than his prose and verse within
saturae in the manner of Menippus’ deep chagrin.
Just recently he had completed De Re Rustica,
in dialogue, a practicum, in rough Catonica.
And here he was, his feet in water, soaking, like a king,
although he was alone and pale, simply loitering.

Aedile Cwerbus is a poet of ancient Rome. Marcus Terentius Varro (116 BC – 27 BC) was a Roman scholar and writer, Menippus of Gadara (3rd century BC) was a Cynic satirist. Catonica, of or like the writings of Cato.


Durs Grünbein
          by Uwe Carl Diebes

I saw him in a narrow space,
white, rectilinear,
clear plastic glasses on his face,
gaunt, but not skinnier.

Another modern Hamlet at
the door of prominence,
his left fist closed, his right hand flat,
in black, not ominous.

His mouth was straight, with edgy smirks,
his eyes intense, not fierce.
One wondered how his days and works
would penetrate, or pierce.

Behind a massive, soulless box
in Dresden, GDR,
the valley of the clueless yawn,
another bracing bar.

He presses up against the staid,
unfuturistic blocks,
beyond the May Day tank parades,
and whirling space-time clocks.

Uwe Carl Diebes is a poet of Germany. Durs Grünbein is a contemporary German poet.


The Poetess
          by I Warble Seduce

She sits among the boulders, left hand balanced on the rocks.
The sun is lighting on her narrowed eyes and air-blown locks.
She seems at ease in nature’s old, hard dispensations thrown,
her right hand holding to her knee, curved, fair, against the stone.
Out from the shadows, she ignites into a shining smile,
precariously holding on for just a little while.
A bracelet wraps above her wrist; her earrings dangle some,
her clothes are smart, and neatly cling, yet looser than a drum.
She makes a kind of music on the lyre that she plays
that’s louder than sun rays, but softer than the faintest phrase.

I Warble Seduce is a poet of love.


The Drummer at the Drum
          by Educable Wires

The drummer sat with his drum sticks above a flat drum head.
He was about to set a beat that would a song imbed.
He started hitting it; vibrations moved this way and that,
until it almost seemed a rounded movement going flat,
like as a tired tire as it limps along a road,
or eigenfunction of an operator’s spatial mode.
The throbbing pounding of his beat was quickening so fast,
I wondered if the song itself would disappear at last,
until it was unrecognizable paralysis
and warped into a hole of functional analysis.

Educable Wires is a poet of Modern, Postmodern, and NewMillennial music. An eigenfunction in math of a linear operator R defined on some function space is any non-zero function f in that space that, when acted upon by R, is multiplied by some scaling factor called an eigenvalue, e. g., Rf =λf.


The Fires in Brazil
          by Luc Ebrewe Dias

The fires in Brazil are caused by droughts and human burns;
the logging and the farming turns the forests into urns.
G7 offered $20,000,000 to help out;
but 74,000 fires leave much hope in doubt.
The cattle farmers slash and burn to help supply demand
for China and Hong Kong, who buy meat. Farmers want more land.
The human hand is fanning blazes on this part of Earth;
but also this is the dry season; fires can occur.
Although the numbers seem fantastic, this is usual;
INPE reports, for twenty years, show this year typical.

Luc Ebrewe Dias is a poet of Brazil. INPE is the National Institute for Space Research in Brazil. Though Brazil has received the greatest amount of news about its fires, they are also happening in Bolivia (6th in the World) and elsewhere. In fact, there are two nations with even more fires than Brazil—Angola (1st in the World), the Democratic Republic of Congo (2nd in the World), and Zambia (4th in the World).


Hawaiian Island Idling
          by Cruse Wadibele

He kicked back on the hammock for a bit of R & R;
but though it was quite sultry-hot, at least, he’d not go far.
He settled back into the webbing, rocking to and fro,
he wasn’t going anywhere; he had no where to go.
He put his heels on the hammock’s edges happily;
and though he could be quite a nasty jerk, he was at peace.
It was as if he was content to be just where he was,
so rubbery and sinewy, in his rough, crew-cut buzz.
All those who passed him by had noted he was very calm,
beneath each tall and towering tree-fingered, frondy palm.


Upon the Hammock
          by Cruse Wadibele

I longed to lie down on that hammock’s web,
to place my back upon its wrinkled arc,
to watch the sea waves wax and wane, the ebb
and flow of eddies swirling light and dark.
To lean back on its gorgeous textured curve
would be pure bliss, such happiness unveiled,
that I would ride for all my worth and nerve,
and on those waters giddily I’d sail.
I want to float upon that spindrift foam,
to rise and fall, to lift into its arms,
as joyful as a seaman coming home
embraced by all its lovely, magic charm.
I love such plenitude in life—sweet peace—
despite that undercurrents never cease.

Cruse Wadibele is a poet of Hawaii.


Hot-Air Balloons
          by Air Weelbed Suc

It was a perfect dawn for flying in balloons.
The sky was blue and clear. The sun was on its way.
It looked like we would be in flight, and very soon.
I heard somebody say it was a lovely day.
And then they rose up in the air magestic’lly,
the many hues, peach, pearl, pink, pale gold and beige,
deep brown and vivid red, not at a hectic speed.
I heard somebody say it was so beautiful.
Glad hands were moving out, gesticulatingly.
Emotions roiled; feelings were acute and full.
They rose together, o, a scattering of moons.
I heard that it was heavenly and wonderful.

Air Weelbed Suc is a poet of flight. Hot air balloon festivals were held in South Dakota and Louisiana this week.


The Private Eye, Circa 1940
          by Dic Asburee Wel

Although he’d use finesse and hard-core iron intellect,
he wasn’t ádverse to engage in physical con-táct,
that tough and scruffy character, a hard-boiled private eye,
who did his best to solve each case; he was a trenchant guy.

Sometimes his clients needed help to deal with criminals,
some of whom were so vicious they seemed wild animals.
He dealt with rough-and-tumble figures, day in and day out;
but somehow managed to keep going, dealing with each lout.

He took his pistol with him everywhere that he would go,
but didn’t want to use it much, except as forceful show;
but if he had to use it, he would use it on the spot,
and shoot the culprit firing back. He was a damn good shot.

It wasn’t easy trying to get justice every time.
In fact, it often cost him dearly; it was not sublime.
For all his trouble, he’d got shot so much he didn’t know;
but one wound was so awful it had left a gaping hole.

Still, client after client came to use his services;
they’d show up worried, in a state, of anxious nervousness;
and he would try to calm them down to find out what was wrong,
and take their troubles on himself. The dude was tough and strong.

Dic Asburee Wel is a poet of the urban underworld. He enjoys the inchoate, verbal canvases of Postmodernist John Ashbery (1927-2017).


The Landing
          by Scubie Dew Lear

A pilot and co-pilot were within a UFO.
They were proceeding, space receding, in the afterglow.
They felt so good, well-rested too. They landed on some grass.
It looked like they would have some time to pause, some time to pass.
They dialed up controls before the geometric wall,
and made themselves to home within that small concentric hall.
They understood the gravity, their mission’s major goal.
They both felt heavier, like hunks of flesh near a black hole.
The pilot gave directions; the co-pilot followed them;
and they proceeded on to Earth with furtive stratagem.

Scubie Dew Lear is a poet of out-of-the-way places.


The Gruff Dude
          by “Wild” E. S. Bucaree

The dude was gruff, he moved abruptly, fast and furious,
his rugged steps and wiriness suggested nervous wreck.
But he could pause from operations he had taken up
to open doors for gorgeous whores or those with steaming cup.
I saw him storm out of a bank, upon receiving cash.
He planned to go and party so; he loved a blast, a bash.
He was a man upon a mission. O, that one could see.
His moves were as determined, purposeful, like as a bee.
He strapped his helmet on, and got on his blue Yamaha,
and took off down the road so fast, like as a tomahawk,

“Wild” E. S. Bucaree is a poet of rough riders.


The Office Worker
          by Des Wercebauli

It had been a long time since he had worn white shirt and tie;
but his boss had been so upset, he tried to please the guy.
He wore a crisp white shirt that day, and gave his all at work;
he hoped that he could get a raise, his boss not be a jerk.
It was the first time that his boss seemed not to be so mad.
In fact, the truth be known, it seemed as if he were quite glad.
But all was not a bed of roses, for the work was hard.
At times, indeed, he felt like he was jostled. judged and jarred.
But anyway, he made it through the workday with aplomb.
He got the praise, he got the raise, and wasn’t called a bum.

Des Wercebauli is a poet of the worker.


Morning Exercises
          by Rudi E. Welec, “Abs”

For morning exercises he would walk along the street.
He wore tan work boots on thick white socks to protect his feet.
Then he would find some place to stretch on some well-coiffeured lawn
and lay a clean, white blanket out, which he would get upon.

He’d first start out with push-ups, which would exercise his arms.
He loved to be out in the light, the air so fresh and warm.
If push-ups got too hard for him, he’d do them on his knees.
O, yeh, he’d love it when he’d feel a brisk and frisky breeze.

He pressed his hands against the covered grass and kept it up.
O, God he loved it when there was no one to interrupt.
And then he’d do pause-squats, and hold for as long as he could.
O, yeh, he loved the feeling that he felt; it was so good.


The Marathoner
          by Rudi E. Welec, “Abs”

He was a marathoner, ever striving to go on;
whatever might be the activity, his view was long.
O, long, but still arriving at good points along the way.
He wanted to appreciate each momentary stay.
So in the race of life, with whom he would associate,
each person that he passed he wanted to appreciate.
It wasn’t easy, but he’d do the very best he could.
With each new individual he’d meet, he’d make it good.
He was, in fact, a calm, compact, kinetic sort of guy,
who gave his whole soul to each one who came within his eye.

Rudi E. Welec, “Abs” is a poet of sport and physical exercise.


It’s Time To Go To Bed
          by Waldeci Erebus

There’s brushing, gargling, flushing, sparkling, scrubbing of the head;
it’s time for getting ready, getting down to go to bed.
It’s time for the removal of one’s pants, shorts, shirt and socks,
as well as the forgetting of all of one’s daily knocks.
Those are perhaps the hardest to remove from one’s long day.
Just rip them off, o, forcefully, and toss them clean away.
And then it’s time to leap onto the bed, o, lovely flop,
and happily, onto that firm and cushioned mattress drop.
O, grab that thin, black halter, pull it to you close and warm,
and let night’s god guide you along, and past life’s raging storm.

Waldeci Erebus is a poet of shadows. The writer he feels most akin to is Edgar Poe (1809-1849).