by”Clear Dew” Ibuse

Ah, there flourishing
beneath green hedges in white bins—
bright pink dianthus.

“Clear Dew” Ibuse is a haikuist writing in English.


          by “Wired Clues” Abe

Beneath a boxwood,
looking like a piece of mulch,
the gecko pauses,
near where the overworked nurse
sips on a cup of coffee.

“Wired Clues” Abe is a poet who joins Japanese form to New Millennial English sentiments. The coronavirus should make us appreciate our hardworking medical professionals in the trenches.


The Shadow
          by Waldeci Erebus
          “Down the Valley of the Shadow, Ride, boldly ride…”
          —Edgar Allan Poe, El Dorado”
          “Between the essence And the descent Falls the Shadow…”
              —T. S. Eliot, “The Hollow Men”

Like as a man caught in the grip of some strong wrestler’s hold,
the Shadow followed him around wherever he might go.
He’d thrust large arms, and shoulders wide, pecs welling up with pride,
but, o, no matter what he did, the Shadow kept astride.
He couldn’t stand without the Shadow’s haughty arrogance,
insisting on his ever penetrating surrogance.
He tried to shove the Shadow back, and pushed with all his strength,
but, o, the Shadow kept with him, o’er his entire length.
He arced his back, he arched his head, he’d not give up the fight;
but, o, the Shadow would not leave, as long as there was light.

Waldeci Erebus is a poet of dark energy and dark matters.


Coronavirus, the Assessment
          by Dr. Weslie Ubeca

A man was lying, suffering, a makeshift hospital.
He was the center of attention, lots of personnel.
He wore a band, identifying him to those around,
who analyzed his situation: Just why he was down?

Coronavirus, the assessment, had been done and found;
and now those standing by his side were fussing, as they frowned.
He lifted up his head as if he were in disbelief.
He wondered if he ever would receive long-sought relief.

He felt like as a flock of vultures huddled round him there,
this volt, this venue, this committee hovering in air.
The apparition of these faces in the makeshift crowd
left him disturbed—Would he be cured?—His mind was filled with doubt.


          by Dr. Weslie Ubeca

Discovered back in 1934—Hans Andersag—
along with his coworkers at the German Bayer lab.
Ignored at first because it was thought toxic in its use,
but the Americans employed it during World War II.

Against infection of malaria it has been used,
both in conjunction and alone, wherever it’s diffused..
It’s taken by the mouth—the medication chloroquin—
and has been also used in rheumatoid arthritis pain.
It has adverse effects, like nausea, deafness and rash,
as well as diarrhea, anorexia, and cramps.

One hears in China it ‘s been used for COVID-19’s strain
as an inhibitor when the pneumonia shows its bane.
Preliminary studies are suggesting it could be
successful treating patients when they get the dread disease.

Dr. Weslie Ubeca is a poet of medicine.


Architect Vittorrio Gregotti (1927-2020)
          by Arcideb Usewel

Each day one hears of deaths from the coronavirus sneeze;
Vittorio Gregotti has succumbed to the disease.
He passed away upon the Ides of March there in Milan.
O, having fallen ill with COVID-19 killed the man!
as it has killed so many of Italians recently—
two-thousand-and-nine-hundred, and still climbing steadily.
The stadiums that he designed are standing still up high;
though they are empty with no fans and players at this time;
though still filled is ZEN neighbourhood, his housing project for
ten-thousand in Palermo, which is still filled with the poor.

Arcideb Usewel is a poet of urban planning. ZEN, Zona Espacione Nord, is an economically deprived area on the outskirts of northern Palermo, Italy, which has a metro of about 1,300,000.


Connected to the Cosmos
          Sri Wele Cebuda

He got into the lotus pose upon the king-sized bed.
He spread his legs out to each side, upon the peach-hued spread.
He lifted up his head, absorbing up the Cosmic Will.
He hummed his OMG beside the blue-lit window sill.
He sat up happily enough, despite a feeling of
discomfort, if not suffering, disturbance, if not love.
The room was bright, filled with white light. It was quite heavenly;
but still he felt a heaviness; he longed for levity.
His inner eye was opening, thick curtains opened wide.
Connected to the Cosmos, he was ready for a ride.


His Brow
          by Sri Wele Cebuda

He got into the lotus pose, He spread his legs out wide.
The sunlight poured in through the window, gleaming bright and white.
He slightly closed his lids, but opened up his inner eye.
He hummed his OM with opened mouth, while sucking up the sky.
He sat upon the soft black sofa, lifting up his head.
He felt some god directed him to reach a higher stead.
O, Love, o, Ram, Immortal Lamb, he felt like as a King,
but as he was but on a couch, o, it was hum-bl-ing.
What happiness could he attain, stuck there upon that couch?
And yet he felt, like as sweet bliss had somehow touched his brow.

Sri Wele Cebuda is a poet of meditation and prayer.


Two Indian Voices
          by Sai Deebec Wurl

I. Singh Piyush

He is from Lucknow, India, a space enthusiast.
He’s a philosopher of Karma, soothing scientist.
For him connection is extr’ordinary, magical,
its interlocking pieces grand and, o, fantastical.
He is a verbal alchemist attempting to connect
to others in this Universal flux, and intersect.
And here within Perceptions Square, where people loiter at,
in shades, he pauses in the Sun to reconnoiter, glad.
Here in la Plaz’ del Sol he stands, implausible and sole.
Pray tell, what will he tell us here beyond his present goal?
Will he sing Nolan, push Dan Brown, pursuing alternate
realities, his writing striving for a sum-mer-sault?

II. Nekneeraj

He is a business analyst who ‘s living in Mumbai.
Developer in automation, he’s an IT guy.
He’s passionate about his coding, and his writing too;
since 2012 he has been blogging, logging points of view.
Not pettifogging, he’s been jogging minds to misery,
exposing his emotions in this byte of history,
reverberating pang, together never, all alone,
he loves to think about th’ idea of you as his own.
Though real-life aspirations tie him down, he still can soar.
Where will he go? What will he do? Will he accomplish more?

Sai Deebec Wurl’s a poet of colourful India. Uttar Pradesh’s capital, Lucknow, has about 2,800,000 people in its metro, Mumbai’s metro is about 18,000,000.


To a UK Verse-Maker
          by Birdee Euclaws
          “O, nasty Jake, he shot a drake…”
              —Bruce Weasel Id, “Brother Bruce’s Cursory Crimes”

Of course, a duck’s quack echoes; that is not so laudable;
although the echo, if one listens, seems inaudible.
Acoustic scientists at Salford University,
when testing Daisy Duck, found her quack echoed quietly,
so quietly, in fact, the fading sound was hard to hear;
in thé reverberation chamber scarcely made a stir.
The echo had been swallowed by the very quack itself;
where her quack stopped and echo started was quite hard to tell.
Faint and not found near sound-reflecting surfaces outdoors,
it’s difficult to catch duck echoes even on the moors.

Birdee Euclaws is a poet of the avians.


John Garmon
          by “Wild” E. S. Buckaree
          “The spotted hawk…complains of my gab and my loitering…”
              —Walt Whitman, “Song of Myself”

John Garmon, in his car, man—it was a convertible—
in 1958, he was just an eighteen-year-old.
He’d just joined up with the marines, this fresh, West-Texan nerd.;
and he drove to Carmel, inspired by R. Jeffers’ words.
It was his first weekend of liberty—Camp Pendleton—
and he drove to Hawk Tower there beneath the shining Sun.
Ah, perishing, yet breathing ionized Pacific air,
he basked in that vast feeling, being one with blue sky there.
Four years of active duty followed at that Western edge.
O, like the hawks, he flew up over thst eternal ledge.

“Wild” E. S. Buckaree is a poet of Texas, who was impressed by Jeffers poetry for its lengthy, severe lines, which indirectly, like the poetry of Whitman and Ginsberg, crept into his own verse.


          by “Wired Clues” Abe

Toward the small back yard
we saw a hawk descending
on a day in spring.
I raised a plastic table,
a little cat defending.

“Wired Clues” Abe is a poet of Japanese forms in English. The opening alludes to a Shiki haiku.