by “Clear Dew” Ibuse

As day uncloses,
bright pink evening primroses
whirl in the brisk wind.


          by “Clear Dew” Ibuse

Nervy Perky Sue,
orange waist, frills yellow hued,
joins fine Pink Ladies.


          by “Clear Dew” Ibuse

Alert chirping’s heard
of susurating crickets
before the storm hits.

“Clear Dew” Ibuse is a haiku poet of nature.


Such Things
          by Caud Sewer Bile

Though back in January some were censored and were mocked,
and chastised for the thoughts they brought forth, by the twitter mobs,
for raising just the possibility this plague’s disease
came from a lab in Wuhan, and leaked accidentally…
or otherwise.

But now it seems that scientists are joining the parade
of those who now believe that COVID-19 is man-made,
like Doctor Luc Montagnier, who discovered HIV,
along with Francois Barré-Sinoussi in ’83…
and other guys.

Though Indian researchers tried to publish their results
that showed the genome had another virus in its midst,
they too were pressured and were censored; they had to withdraw
their paper and analysis; the pressure was too raw.

But others now believe it is the case it is man-made;
in order to insert the HIV sequénce displayed
molecular tools are required, and that must be done
within a lab’ratory, like the one found in Wuhan.
Though many deaths may come because of Chinese tinkering,
the good news, it may die out; nature doesn’t like such things.

Caud Sewer Bile is a poet of the news. The Indian researchers at Kusuma School of Biology in New Dehli, India, included Pradham, Pandey, Mishra, Gupta, Tripathi, Menon, Gomes, Vivekanandan, and Kundu.


What China Owes Us
          by Bieder C. Weslau

The editor-in-chief of Bild, Herr Julian Reikelt
addressed an open letter to Xi Jinping and his Welt.
The title was “What China Owes Us” and the number was
149,000,000,000 in euros; that’s the sum.
He’s wrote that’s owed to Germany for what the Chinese did:
they lied, they hid, souls died—they did—but that’s not all he said.
He wrote of China’s harsh surveillance, and its thievery
of other nation’s innovations and their property.
He wrote their greatest export was the COVID-19 strain,
and none on planet Earth desired its unwanted stain.

Bieder C. Weslau is a poet of Germany. Bild is the largest newspaper in Germany.


          by Walice Bed User

He felt like he was stuck and wasn’t going anywhere,
like Oblomov of Goncharov, or Kafka’s Gregor there
stuck on the bed, a living dread without adrenaline,
with very little hope and not a shred of crinoline.
He did his best to leave the bed, but, o, he was stuck fast.
How could he leave? There was no way? He was at an impasse.
So, though ridiculous, he gave himself to lassitude.
Despite the others’ attitudes, he still felt gratitude,
o, even at that altitude against such crazy odds,
a soul at sea among the sheets and at the whims of gods.

Walice Bed User is a poet of beds, those places where we spend a third of our lives. Ivan Goncharov (1812-1891) was a Russian novelist, Franz Kafka (1883-1924) a German short story writer and novelist.


Red Foxes Come to Ashkelon
          by Israel W. Ebecud
          “Because Mount Zion lies desolate, foxes prowl in it.”
              —Lamentations 5:18

Red foxes have been showing up in Ashkelon these days;
they have been drawn out from the desert dunes due to the plague.
They’re hungry and they’re looking for some things they’d like to eat;
coronavirus lockdown has kept people off the street.
Observing carefully the cats and dogs that people keep;
they’re nosing through discarded food and playing hide-and-seek;
Dispensing safety and seclusion of the desert sands.
they’ve come to roam the parks and any places that they can.
When opportunity appears they take advantage to
go out to visit other spots they’d not go, as a rule.

Israel W. Ebecud is a poet of Israel. Ashkelon (אַשְׁקְלוֹן) is a city in Israel on the Mediterranean Sea of about 140,000.


The Man at the Desk
          by Crise de Abu Wel
          “But I tell you, do not resist an evil one, forsooth.
          If any slaps you on the right cheek, give the other too.”
              —paraphrase of Matthew 5:39

The man in short dark hair had placed his elbows on the desk.
It looked like he was mulling over something picturesque.
A flag stood upright near him in the corner of the room.
He turned his head back to the left to contemplate his doom.
A military man walked in, in camo shirt and pants,
proceeding to yell at the man some visceral commands.
He yelled at him, he screamed at him, like a drill sergeant does.
The man upon the desk thought him a hard and brutal cuss.
The man in camo slapped the right cheek of the thoughtful man,
who still stayed calm, then offered up the left cheek to his hand.

Crise de Abu Wel is a poet of catholic tastes and religious sentiments.


The First Novel I Read
          by Basil Drew Eceu

The first book that I ever read upon my own
was Ian Fleming’s Casino Royale.
I was a sophomore in high school’s time zone.
I still remember reading—the locale,
the desk at which I wrote my first haiku,
the second-story window filled with light,
the oddness and the oldness of the room,
assorted characters of life and fight.
Although this must have no significance
to anyone but me, it clarifies
a lot to me and my experience
in life, so much so that it terrifies.
But since none helped me choose that very book,
why was that one the one I took a look?

Basil Drew Eceu is a poet and literary critic of Modernist, PostModernist and New Millennoial literature. Ian Fleming (1908-1964) was a PostModern British novelist, who was the creator of one of the World’s most famous, 20th-century, literary characters—James Bond.


The Pedant and the Scholar
          by Ira “Dweeb” Scule

I saw him standing at a chalkboard that was not immense.
Nearby a student stood up tall, but looking rather dense.
There were some letters printed out in square caps, SPACES, PINES.
The two men standing there, of course, had slightly curving spines.
The tutor wore a nicely tailored shirt with rolled up sleeves.
The pupil’s clothes were not as neat, a bit disorderly.
The stout instructor had a balding head with little there,
whereas the student had a shock of thick, but shorn-cut, hair.
The teacher’s mouth was open wide; he lectured in a drone.
The learner’s jaw dropped open drowsy, with a yawning moan.

Ira “Dweeb” Scule is a poet of education.


The Nerve Cells
          by Dr. Weslie Ubeca

The nerve cells are connected by the fibres, muscles, glands;
and centre stimuli are carried by reflex commands.
The nervous arc, an excitation to the labyrinth
of the sensorium and back, makes someone act or think.
Then there results phenomena of mingled consciousness,
influencing the system’s whole and launching cautious bets.
The new trace of experience and sensitivity
alerts the brain and nerves, however imperceptibly.
The nexus of the spinal cord communicates within
the motor, sensory and autonomic functioning.

Dr. Weslie Ubeca is a poet (not a doctor) of medicine.


I Saw a Helicopter
          by Air Weelbed Suc

I saw a helicopter pass just barely o’er the clouds,
its big, long rotor overhead, stretched out above the shrouds,
a smaller rotor at the back to keep it in control,
so it would not spin crazily and go into a roll.
I saw the swashplate squishing up and down between the blades,
the tilting left and right, the nifty, whirling, lifting aids.
A shiny sparkle at the top, a cockpit bubble orb.
a passenger who grasped the situation, so not bored,
the pilot at the throttle, concentrating and austere,
who flew that whirring, grinding chirring through the atmosphere.


On Sitting, Lying, and Taking Off
          by Air Weelbed Suc

He sat beside two rows of shelves containing games and books,
but at that moment those things were the farthest from his looks.
So, too, the window he was facing at the present time;
the white light pouring through it was the last thing on his mind.
Engaged in earnest thought beyond the bending of each leg,
he was attempting to put a round hole on a square peg.
But one could tell it wasn’t working well, for one could see
the look across his countenance was pure hyperbole.
He wasn’t getting anywhere he wanted getting to;
to wit: he sat exasperated, occupied, unglued.

And so he flopped down to the bed’s bright scarlet covering,
his head, his hands, his whole self’s soul, in duff, o, burying.
Perhaps if he turned from the World he could find some peace.
Perhaps if he ignored his hassles they would not increase.
But such was not the case for him. It merely made things worse.
He felt like he was being whorled round the universe.
He felt like he was being slammed into a blacker hole
from which no light could then escape his toilet’s roiling bowl.
How long could he endure his fate, his fight until the end?
Here at the bottom, would he ever manage to ascend?

He got up on his hands and knees, as if he were about
to start the competition of his life and go full out.
He waited, for the starting gun’s explosive pop, aligned;
so then the fool could take off and leave all his thought behind.
The impetus for his send off would come to him at last,
and he could charge off once again at the discharging blast.
He firmed his arms and shoulders, readying his legs and thighs.
Like as a roaring jet, he could uplift into the skies.
The air was rushing through his turbine engine’s blades—avast!
before the introduction and combustion of the gas.

Air Weelbed Suc is a poet of flight.


Galactic Cosmic Rays
          by I. E. Sbace Weruld

The centre of our galaxy, the Milky Way, is home
to many objects capable of sending cosmos forms,
like the high energy of supernova remnant rays
or pulsar, nebular wind-storms that blow apart our daze.
The massive, starry compact clusters of our inner core
accelerate rays more than energies found at CERN soar.
Molecular clouds are bombarded by these cosmic rays
that move close to the speed-of-light’s spectacular displays,
and come from supermassive Sagittarius A-star,
the black hole at the centre of this disc-shape where we are.

I. E. Sbace Weruld is a poet of outer space.