by “Lice Brews” Ueda

Grating in my brain,
so noisily rejoicing:
cicada voices.

“Lice Brews” Ueda is a haiku poet of the insect world.


          by “Wired Clues” Abe

Mechanical noise:
AC generator and
cicada voices.

“Wired Clues” Abe is a haiku poet of technology.


Yan Li-Meng
          by Lu “Reed ABCs” Wei

Hong Kong virologist Yan Li-Meng fled to the US,
because she could not freely speak about the COVID mess.
More lives could have been saved but Communists had censored her,
and now she is in hiding, fearing for her life and work.
The CCP is ruthless when it comes to truthful leaks.
The Communists have sought to silence anyone who speaks.
It’s worse than anything we’ve seen in history, she said;
and that is why she’s speaking out, despite her fears and dread.
Hong Kong virologist Yan Li-Meng made a stand against
repressive censoring and lies of China’s Communists.

Lu “Reed ABCs” Wei is a poet of China.


Boat Fires in Bushehr
          by Delir Ecwabeus

At a shipbuilding factory located in Bushehr,
some seven boats had fires blazing in the hot, port air.
Security and firefighters battled every flame,—
the cause unclear, no casualties, there was no one to blame.
And yet, suspicions came at once, because in recent fouls;
there have been burns, blow-ups, and blasts, at sensitive locales,
like an explosion at Natanz, the nuke facility,
sustaining damage at a building, quite extensively.
A cetrifuge workshop had been destroyed just this July,
there at Natanz, Iran’s uranium-enriching site.

Delir Ecwabeus is a poet of Iran. Natanz is a city in central Iran of about 10,000, Bushehr is a port in souther Iran of about 160,000.


Berlin at Night
          by Uwe Carl Diebes

Like as a bee-wolf rising from a murky swamp,
Berlin at nigh is sounds and sights, a buzzing growl,
a swirl of folks and traffic, on streets, ramps and romp,
cars, boats and trains, in neon lights, a rowdy howl.
Like as Expressionistic pic, in yellow red,
And white, against the black nocturnal background’s bow’l,
Glasarchitektur rising taut high overhead,
it goes sheer Bartleby, Die Brücke on a spree.
Likewise, below cafes and lamp-lit walks, undead,
The shadows all around, blue, brown and gray, dark green,
der Kaiser von Utopia, it moves through storms of pomp,
the essence of a dream, this present century.

Uwe Carl Diebes is a poet of Germany. Berlin is a city of about 3,700,000.


Nine M. C. Escher Red Ants
          By Red Was Iceblue

9 M. C. Escher red ants on a möbius
strip, take their endless time, around the number 8.
Their path is 4 squares wide, their purpose dubious,
They make their way around the gray and twisted grate,
Not listing to one side on their one-sided route,
Not listing to get off it or to lucubrate,
Not listing all the reasons they are in or out,
Not Listing number named by Charles Sanders Peirce.
The worker ants go marching one by one about
The strange conveyor belt, like Sisyphus rehearsed,
Like Alice on a treadmill, but continuous,
The elbowed, ant antennae, out in front and fierce’

Red Was Iceblue is a poet of Modernist and Postmodernist art, like that of Dutch graphic artist M. C. Escher (1898-1972). Charles Sanders Peirce (1839-1914) was an American philosopher, A Listing number is one of several topological invariants introduced by German mathematician Johann Listing (1808-1882). The möbius strip was named for German mathematician August Möbius (1790-1868). The poetic structure is a bilding [sic].


As Newton Knew
          By Ira “Dweeb” Scule

As Newton knew, we only rise high as we do,
because of those broad shoulders that we ride upon.
It doesn’t make the insights that we find less true,
but only that we all rely—we are their spawn—
on those who lived before we even started life.

Ira “Dweeb” Scule is a poet of science. British physicist Isaac Newton (1642-1726) was one of the greatest mathematicians and scientists of all time.


An Incident in Indianapolis
          by Cabe U. Wesderli

The mother of a three-year-old was murdered; she was stilled.
Because she said that all lives matter, she was shot and killed.
She never would become the nurse she wished that she could be.
Instead her life was taken from her in-ten-sion-al-ly.
I wonder if it had occurred to her to run and hide,
young Jessica Lynn Doty-Whitaker, before she died.
I wonder if she thought that other folks could be so vile,
young Jessica Lynn Doty-Whitaker, who lost her smile..
I wonder if the people that she loved could now forgive
those activists who shot her dead and would not let her live.

Cabe U. Wesderli is a poet of the Midwest.


The Archaeologist
          By Rauc E. Sedilube
          “I am the place in which something has occurred.”
              —Claude Levi-Strauss

He loved to get down in the dirt—the true geologist.
He loved to dig up artifacts—the archaeologist.
He loved to open up the past to harvesters of time.
He loved attempting novel searches in to the sub-lime.
He loved to brush the earth away from pottery and bones.
He loved discovering new sites that had not been exposed.
He loved to share his expertise with fellow travelers.
He loved to share eternity with keen unravelers.
He loved to be smack-gobbed with info never known before.
He loved to pass whole, horrid reams of life down in the bore.

Rauc E. Sedikube is a poet of rocks. Perhaps his favourite poem is “I Like To See It Lap the Miles” by Emily Dickinson.


The Truckers
          By Bruc “Diesel” Awe

The truckers paused from all their driving and deliversies.
It was a chance to freshen up, recharge their batteries.
One trucker in his steel-blue vest got down beside a fan.
He felt so good to feel the blast. He was a happy man.
A second trucker, in his tank-top and his cut-off pants,
Had paused to pass some time in plucking waxy, flaxen plants.
Another dude had come around to drink the dregs of life,
to be away from highway madness and the traffic strife.
All three were quite content. It was a chance to get away.
It was a moment in the Sun, a momentary stay.

Bruc “Diesel” Awe is a poet of transportation.


Shine, Perishing Republic
          By Usa W. Celebride

While this America devolves into vulgarity,
its heritage becoming little more than heresy,
and thickening so heavily into a bubbling mass
of bullying, mobocracy, and mindless, molten gas,
I still remember how the flower fades to fruit and earth;
out of the mother comes another from another birth.
You will recall when cities lie right at the monster’s feet,
there still are fruited plains and mountains to which one can flee.
Despite the savage, fierce servility in streets and cars,
shine, perishing republic here beneath the sparkling stars.

Usa W. Celebride is a poet of America.