by “Clear Dew” Ibuse

Brown, dry, crinkly leaves,
as I go to the mailbox,
race past on the road.

“Clear Dew” Ibuse is a poet of Japanese forms.


by “Wired Clues” Abe

A hand’s clean sweep squeaks,
squeegee on a shower door.
A cat close by squawks.

by “Wired Clues” Abe

In the windy air,
the hard-working man spray paints
the pressure-washed fence.

“Wired Clues” Abe is a poet of Japanese poetic forms, English and technology.


This week ten Hong Kong activists were “tried” and put in jail.
These migrants fleeing to Taiwan, since summer had no bail.
The Communists in China don’t think much of migrant folk,
especially pro-democrats; such people must be yoked.


Navalny in Berlin
by Alecsei Burdew
‘But, peace! For from broad words and ‘cause he fail’d
His presence at the tyrant’s feast, I hear
MacDuff lives in disgrace…”
—William Shakespeare, Macbeth, Act III, scene vi.

Still in Berlin, recuperating, from his poisoning,
Navalny has been ordered back, or face imprisoning.
Putin put in an ultimatum or face jail time,
for some political and trumped-up charge for some old crime.
Authorities say there’s no proof that he was poisoned with;
a strong nerve agent he was given has to be a myth.
The Kremlin treats all criticism of its policies
as freedom of expression, and would never censor these.
All know that Moscow is, like Beijing, open, clean and free;
where leaders freely share their millions for democracy.

Alecsei Burdew is a poet of Russia. Though perhaps not as vigorously as the corrupt Communist Chinese, Russians have put millions of dollars in the the pockets of top political figures in many places, including the United States of America. Two examples suffice: uranium”deals” and Moscow mayoral “contributions” to a present-day, political crime family.


The Parthenon
by Ercules Edibwa

How beautiful it is—the Parthenon—o, even now,
reflecting glory in the Sun, still able to astound.
I love the striving after an ideal structured form,
that after two millennia reminds what was before.
Though Nature, Time and hateful men work to destroy its shape,
one still can sense what was there once upon its solid base.
Though Pericles may have bankrupted Athens’ treasury,
there still remain this adumbration past all measuring.
I gaze in awe at glimpses of its contours and its draws,
as if somehow the Greeks had managed to appease the gods.

Ercules Edibwa is a poet of the power of ancient Greece.


Euler’s Identity
by Euclidrew Base
“…profound simplicity…”
—Ira “Dweeb” Sxule

e-to-the-pi-i-plus-one-equals-zero fascinates
with subtle combinations, even as it explicates.
In one equation, one can find these operations be,
addition, multiplying, exponentiation—three.
There are five symbols, representing ideas wrought,
imaginary, circle, exponential, unit, naught.
Linked to complex analysis and trigonometry,
as well as numbers, logarithms, and geometry.
Ubiquitous in physics, math, and engineering—true.
Euler’s identity is beautiful and useful too.

Euclidrew Base is a poet of mathematics. Swiss mathematician Leonhard Euler (1707-1783) was perhaps the most prolific mathematician of all time.


Edward Snowden Questions
by SubCIA Weedler

Unfortunately for the World, filth now fills the Earth.
The “main-stream”, muddy media is clogged with trash and dirt.
Perhaps Americans will never learn of all the rot.
Did Edward Snowden actu’lly commit a crime or not?
Did he uncover deep-state operators spying on
Americans illegally, as via telephone?
Did members of the government break US law, in fact?
and maybe also Foreign Intel and Surveillance Act?
Were FISA and the Fourth Amendment flounced and trounced upon?
Was Snowden burned by some deep-state retaliation op?

SubCIA Weedler is a poet of espionage.


An Episode of Night
by Waldeci Erebus

The lit moon rises in the sky. The time is half-past two.
He wakes up from his sleep, G-Mafiat just in his view.
They censor, practice dirty tricks, and lie consistently
no wonder they’re so cozy with the vile CCP.
It was a nightmare, yes, although it did not seem a whim;
the nightmare was G-Mafiat was suffocating him.
The toilet stopper had not plugged, rushed water swirled down;
the robot vacuum suddenly began to make its rounds.
He stopped them all, the dream, the toilet, and the vacuum too;
the lit moon moved down in the sky; the time three-forty-two.

Waldeci Erebus is a poet of the dark.


The Shadow Government
by Esca Webuilder
“We didn’t steal the election.”

G-Mafiat has purchased judges, votes and offices,
Republican and Democratic politicians—yes;
Mark Zuckerburg would like to be the nation’s emperor.
Bill Gates could be the nation’s doc, Jeff Bezos, treasurer.
The puppet masters choose Joe Biden; he can be their Joe.
All will be well here in this Gulag Archipelago.
the best of all the possible worlds that could ever be.
G-Mafiat by fiat, doublethinks…so…as do we.
Oh, we can be so mindless here where slavery is free.
and we can shred democracy for technotyranny.

Esca Webuilder is a poet of the Internet.


Vitamin C
by Carb Deliuseuwe
“Sometimes all the calcium I get is when I drink coffee.”
—Cale Budweiser

He sat upright, right at the table, ready for some brew.
He longed to have a cup of coffee, with some creamer too.
It made him so content; it warmed him up when he was cold.
He loved its rich aroma. O, it gave him quite a jolt.
O, he would take it with a donut, if he only could.
Pour out a porous torus for it tastes so very good.
He wished for its delicious swish within his open mouth.
O, he was hopin’ for a tope o’ dopin’ Joe down South.
He savoured its thick flavoured slush, unwavering and flush,
from toe to crown that luscious brown, that antitoxin mush.

Carb Delisiewe is a poet of food and drink.


Sunday Morning: December 27, 2020
by Walice Sdeebur

Complacencies of…voter fraud and the G-Mafiat,
the CCP, the Wu Flu plague, corruption…coffee bread,
delicious coffee, oranges, while in a sunny chair,
in winter, after Christmas, puzzle pieces, dry, warm air,
upon a table mingling with a pic, unnatural,
a glass door’s face, the scarlet freedom of red cardinal,
held in abeyance, th’ holy hush of ancient sacrifice,
a green and gold, a blue and white, a jigsaw can’t suffice.
Reality is settling round these stark imaginings,
of bright red, feathered wings that greet the day and all its things.

Waulice Steebir is a poet of disillusionment.


The Disappearing Indian
by Ibwa Desul Cree

When I grew up, into the US of the melting pot,
the Indian was everywhere, though we weren’t polyglot.
Cowboys and Indians predominated in our play.
intrepid rancher, noble savage: either was okay.
I loved to go out in the woods and make some fresh, new trail;
I loved to dance amidst the maple, whirl round arm and leg.
I loved to camp out in my “teepee”, close to nature, yes.
I loved to put on moccasins and buckskin leather vest.
I loved to track the animals, like fox and bear and deer.
fear and excitement filled and thrilled, whenever I was near.

O, it was ecstasy! Those were the best and worst of times.
O, it was sheer romanticism, paths of the sublime.
From Pocahontas to Cochise, we studied them in school,
Geronimo, Sacajawea, Squanto, were in view.
I listened closely to the snapping twig, as Cooper did,
and swam in silver lake or climbed tree limbs above creek bed.
The warrior braves, the sneaky knaves, the papoose neat, aligned;
now all are vanishing in time, no longer in my mind.
From football, baseball, butter logo, Indians are gone
to gambling-parlor parking-lot. That wilderness is flown..

Ibwa Desul Cree is a particularly inappropriate politically incorrect lover of poems, like Longfellow’s “Hiawatha”. His work has been censored for decades, and only occasionally has it appeared in the 21st Century.


The Early Morning Drill
By Rudi E. Welec, “Abs”

It was time for his workout, though he wasn’t feeling it;
from dark black shoes up to his head, he had to git some grit.
He started on his warm-ups, moving every body part
that he could think of that would git him moving lungs and heart.
He flexed, he stretched, he even fletched his barrel arrow’s length.
The purpose was to make him stronger, and build up his strength.
He took a look, and then he shook, to git his mojo on;
but he was hardly stream-lined, fine-toned, powerful or brawn.
He kept it up for quite some time; it made him fe-el good——
the early morning drill and drudgery of that plump dude.

The Metroplex
by Urbawel Cidese

He drove about the Metroplex; it is so large and wide,
it takes some time to get from one side to another side.
From Denton in the north, down south to Dallas and Forth Worth,
I-35 divides, connecting only afterwards.
McKinney, Frisco, Plano, Garland, settle in the east,
and likewise streets of Richardson, and further south Mesquite.
Within the beast’s big belly sits Grand Prairie, Arlington.
as well as Allen, Irving, Lewisville, and Carrollton.
And there are more. So many glitter silver in the Sun.
It’s not too much to call the Metroplex Gargantuan.

Urbawel Cidese is a poet of urban places. After NYC, LA, and Chicago, the fast-growing Metroplex is the fourth largest metro area in America.


Daydreamer as the Letter D
by Dub W, Cee Is Real

He longed to have a treat, some goodie he could taste and eat,
some sugar loaves prepared with love, delicious and so sweet.
He dreamed of Rio de Janeiro’s harbour in the Sun.
He longed to go off to Brazil for freedom and for fun.
He longed to see the lovely, gorgeous colours on the beach.
O, he would love to eat a peach, though one be out of reach.

He’d put his pink sunglasses on, perhaps an orange tee,
So bright the light, exciting sites, the ocean at his feet.
In sandals he could walk on sand, or pause beneath some shade.
O, he would love to drink it in with yellow lemonade.
He’d love to wake up to the dawn addicted to the day;
but he would have to run along and leave behind the bay.

Dub W. Cee Is Real is a daydreaming poet. Rio de Janeiro has a metro of about 12,000,000.


LA Prosecuter Plans to Seek Release of Thousands of Criminals
Cal Wes Ubideer

He stood up at attention at adult detention school.
He had a mad, bad attitude that was both crude and cru’l.
He’d been locked up for threatening the people he would meet.
He was the kind of guy the guards would have to strike and beat.
He had a vicious streak so wide it took most by surprise.
He was not safe to be around, for guards and other guys.

And yet, he was a human being who deserved some love;
but who could give it to one who was vile, rude, so rough?
Still, it was Christmas, and the LA Prosecuter felt
that they should free this prisoner, to let him be himself.
So here he was prepared to go into society
a new bounce in his step, and qualified sobriety.

Cal Wes Ubideer is a poet of California.


by “Wired Clues” Abe

Leaves swirled from the oaks,
leaving green, red, gold behind.
It is New Year’s Day.

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