by E. Birdcaws Eule

A stretched-out cat lolls
beneath the flowering pear tree
wherein a dove moans.

E. Birdcaws Eule is a poet of birds.


by “Wired Clues” Abe

No pruning for weeks,
no watering for as long:
still the roses bloom.

“Wired Clues” Abe is a poet of Japanese forms in English.


Autumn Leaves
by Ileac Burweeds

The autumn leaves were falling to the bottoms of the trees;
but then they would fly up and out with each coming breeze.
Strong Boreas stirred up the colours, orange, amber, brown.
So beautif’lly they swirl about, as in a whirling swoon.
O, gorgeous colours in the air, o, fluttering about.
One turns to see bold Boreas sweep over hill and mount.
The North Wind blows in like a passing, blasting billowing.
The upright trees are bent with ease out in the bellowing.
But Boreas could not outlast Time’s ever marching on;
and Boreas would not be there when night turned in to dawn.

Ileac Burweeds is a poet of plants. Boreas is the personification of the north wind.


Burning Kelbajar
by Darius Belewec

Azerbaijan postponed control of taking Kelbajar
from the Armenians, who lived there, in the recent war.
The worsening of weather made it hard for them to leave,
both military forces and civilians where they live.
Besides, the misery, retreating from one’s enemies,
is hard enough with time enough for cast-out refugees.

But as the long and single line of trucks and cars withdrew,
with the possessions they could carry easily in view,
Armenians were lighting fires to homes that they’d lived in.
In tears, they did not want to leave them to Azerbaijan.
So sorrow hits Armenians—again they’re forced to go—
the Russian-brokered treaty burning them out of their homes.

Darius Belewec is a poet of Armenia.


On His Blindness
by Acwiles Berude
“Rosa que Milton acercó a su cara,/ Sin verla.”
—Jorge Borges

O, Homer, what must it have been like to, alas, be blind.
To lose one’s sight to darkest Night; that must upset the mind.
Did blindness come to you, as it did to Polyphemous,
the round-eyed Cyclops fiercely pierced by shrewd Odysseus/
Did so much reading, writing and reciting plague your eyes,
like Euler with his visionary and prophetic skies?
like Milton losing earth before he lost his paradise,?
unlike great Eratosthenes’ sight-starved, hard suicide.
O, Homer, how I wonder how your blindness came to you;
but that forever must remain, o, hidden from my view.

Acwiles Berude is a poet of ancient Greek poetry. Jorge Borges (1899-1986) was a noted Argentinian poet of the 20th century, who became totally blind in his fifties. Homer was the great Greek epic poet, authoring much of the Iliad and the Odyssey. Leonhard Euler (1707-1783) was a noted German mathematician, who, though he went blind, remained fertile in thought till the end of his days.

John Milton was a great English poet of the 17th century who became blind, but wrote his epic masterpiece Paradise Lost while blind. Eratosthenes (276 BC – 194 BC) was a famous Greek scholar, inventor, and writer, who after becoming blind, starved himself to death.


by Seer Ablicadew

He lay back on his bed, like as a beetle on its back
Blind as a bat, feet in the air; but all there was not black..
He saw the golden glow of daylight, with shades of white and brown.
O, even here there was no peace, while he was lying down.
His hands were at his sides, his thighs. He lifted up his head;
but held in place by fate, he still could not get off the bed.
He opened up his inner eye. He gazed up at the sky;
but still he could not see a thing but shadows in his mind.
Cough, cough, he sat there at the edges of eternity;
beyond Fate’s fingers and fierce face, he wished that he could see.

Seer Ablicadew is a poet of seeing. One of his favourite songs is “Aquarius”.


The New York Times
by Brice U. Lawseed

O, woe is me. I have the vapours. I am suffering.
The old, gray lady dolefully ain’t what she used to be,
The New York Times has now become the paper of fake news.
The only record they are keeping is one of abuse.
They have become a propaganda broadsheet for the left.
And knowledge of what is the right, of that they are bereft.
Their banning of conservatives proves tautologic’lly,
they’re really not recording anything for history.
It is so strange to see them fall to the level of
South China Morning Post, Tass, Pravda and Izvestia.

Brice U. Lawseed is a poet of print.


A Soccer Kick
by Rudi E. Welec, “Abs”

Above his head, the light bulb shined. It lit his body up.
It was as if a great idea came to interrupt.
He stood beside the countertop. He stretched his left leg out.
It was as if someone had lifted it, some lug or lout.
He felt quite wrenched. His teeth were clenched. His brow was furrowed too.
It was as if a stronger power came into his view.
Behind, the kitchen cupboards, splash, and microwave revealed,
an ordered pair of figures in an amber, numbered field.
He’d love a cup of coffee for his morning to go off,
like as a perfect soccer kick from Anton Agapov.

Ruci E. Welec is a poet of sport. Anton Agapov, a soccer player, is from Russia.


The Tragedian as the Letter O
by Waulice Sdreeb

It was the end of autumn, the bottom of the year.
He travelled light at night. He didn’t take a lot of gear.
His lips were chapped. He put on Vaseline to moisten them.
He left the city’s noise behind: time for some r-e-m.
He took a flight of stairs up from the street. The light was dim.
The door was opened; he was hopin’ dreams would come to him.
He shed work clothes, and put on brown and white striped night-shirt tee.
Then pooped, he plopped upon his bed, o promptly, properly.
Dark Hypnos then appeared. His breaths were lower, growing deep,
O, slowly centering, and entering the depths of sleep.
His eyes were closed, his mouth dropped open; he was going fast.
And then full bore, the snoring roared; it was a blowing blast.


Anecdote of the Box
by Waulice Sdreeb

They placed a box in many states, including Michigan.
They put it squarely where they said there’d be no glitch again.
Upon their tables there it sat surrounded by a mount
Of wi-ld, slo-ven-ly believers in a rug-ged count.
Though fraught with fraud, the tabulations rose from where they’d been,
and sprawled, due to exchanges, drops, and bundles they brought in.
They took Dominion everywhere they could across the land.
The box was black with easy admin access, as they’d planned.
The box was square and of importance far beyond the booth.
It was like nothing else. It did not give of tree or truth.

Waulice Sdreeb is a poet fond of Reading, Pennsylvania, and W. S. This tennos alludes to a poem by Wallace Stevens (1879-1955).


A College Moment
by Esucable Wires

He rested on the cushions of the sunny afternoon.
He cast his rod out to the pond beside the tides of dune.
He waited anxiously. He watched for ripples in the day.
What would he catch upon the banks of knowledge where he lay?
He opened up the dorm-room door. His classes were all done.
He turned to see what time it was. It was well after one.
Red digital-clock numbers gleamed. He stretched his left leg out
to be more comf’ter’ble while he was fishing there about.
The lotus eaters floated in the warm and dreamy calm.
the odyssey of college put on pause for the alarm.

Educable Wires is a poet of college.