by “Clear Dew” Ibuse

The last few brown leaves
dangle from the gray, bare limbs,
hanging on the trees..


          by “Clear Dew” Ibuse

The vast, round moon is
unfeeling, lit by the sun:
soon, I’ll be undone.


          by “Wired Clues” Abe

I get a quick zap,
when I flick the light switch on
after a dawn nap…


          by “Wired Clues” Abe

Constantly they break,
the toenails and fingernails,
in this gulag wake.

“Wired Clues” Abe is a haiku poet of electricity, et cetera.


The Wuhan Flu continues to infect the Chinese too,
as numbers from Hebei and elsewhere in the north accrue.
In Chinese Muslim Uighur cities and the countryside,
on his last day in office Trump called out the genocide
In Varanasi, India, beside the Ganges’ flow,
Big Oil’s flagship plastic program plant has now been closed
The Sulawesi quake in Indonesia has displaced
more than ten thousand, hundreds injured, more than eighty dead.
Uganda has complained the Trump ambassador appeared
at the main opposition candidate’s home they’d secured/
In Guatemala, migrant caravans are on the move
and causing Biden’s team a migraine, deadly covid stew.
400,000 now have died within the USA;
2,000,000 covid deaths now tallied in the World today.
From Houston to El Paso—Wu Flu vaxx—there have been lots
the state of Texas was the first to reach one-million shots.


Inauguration: January 20, 2021
          by Usa W. Celebride
          “Farewell the neighing steed, and the shrill trump…”
              —William Shakespeare, “Othello”

There is another White-House Resident. The torch has passed.
The nation mourns. Across America flags are half-mast.
But in the nation’s capital of Washington DC,
almost 200,000 flags were flapping vic-tor-y.
In some there was a sense of hope in these United States,
a new beginning where revenge and hate could now abate.
Among 2,000 watching live inauguration peace,
there were more than some 20,000 soldiers and police.
For some it was quite wonderful—such pomp and circum-stance.
Joe is not like the Joe of Russia; he’s no Stalinist.
He will be friendlier with allies, China and Iran;
Earth could be fresh again, from Cuba to Afghanistan.
Recession, lockdown, burnt-out cities, debt, disease and crime.
with censorship, and amnesty all could be solved in time.
But in the corner of a room within a distance house,
along with all the faith in progress, there were still some doubts.

Usa W. Celebride is a poet of the USA.


Navalny Returns
          by Alecsei Burdeew

The Kremlin critic A. Navalny took off on a plane…
to Moscow, Russia, many thought his action was insane.
Like ancient Grecian Socrates, he planned to face the mob
who do not like his opposition to the Russian Bog.

The land where recently he had been poisoned for his stand
against Vladimir Putin and his iron-fist command.
Portrayed as a conspirator by oligarchic press,
he and his wife left safe Berlin for Muscovite distress.

The Russian powers try to make him and his followers
seem criminals, just like themselves, corrupts and callow curs.
And so it happened, as predicted, he went off to jail.
Across the planet—daily—one sees precious freedoms fail.


A Postlude
          by Alecsei Burdeew

Let us write, instead of a foreword of the horrid year,
a postlude—Yezhovs-china—when we spent we spent those months in fear,
in prison queues of Kafkaesque quests—online censorship—
here in America, a constant, shifty-answer drip
One day somebody recognized me, with lips blue from cold,
who stood before me in a line, a name, unknown and old.
She came out of the numbness that affected all of us,
and whispered in my ear, as we all did: “I can’t say this”
A sadness slowly formed along the edges of her eyes.
“I, too, participated in the fibbing and the lies.”

Alecsei Burdeew is a poet of Russia. Yezhovschina, the great purge, appears in a poem by Anna Akhmatova (1889-1966) a Russian poet who was censored by Stalin. Her husband and son were killed for their beliefs.


A Carthaginian Moment
          by Aedile Cwerbus

Clad in gray jacket, come at last, to Carthage temple grove,
Aeneas entered in, not contemplating love or Jove;
and there he found some decorations covering its walls
depicting scenes of Troy destroyed. He stared in utter awe.
He gazed up at the murals showing numerous events;
he saw a gray-maned, wooden horse, upright, and by Greeks sent,
but deep inside were manly soldiers, waiting to explode
in combat in the walls of Troy. O, fateful episode.
He turned away; he could not stay; but he could not forget
the beauties of that gorgeous place, once so magnificent.


The Seaman
          by Aedile Cwerbus

He leaned back in the boat; he turned his head off to the right.
his arm along the edge, he closed his eyes and kissed the sky.
Behind, the ripples of the water, wavelets blue and white,
he was in love with life; he loved the fresh wind and the light.
He felt at home. Where was his Irish child lingering?
He felt the spray of foam upon the beach’s fingering.
Transported o’er the sea, he felt like as a fisherman,
who cast a net, like as an Andrew or a Peter, tan,
a wrinkled, ancient mariner upon the rocks and sand,
the seagulls flying overhead. O, he had come to land.

Aedile Cwerbus is a poet of ancient Rome.


To Night
          by Raúl de Cwesibe

Oh, lovely Night, you fabricator of the Day,
embellishing our world with your crazed sleights of hand.
You send the bright, full moon to light our merry way;
and mountains flatten, seas dry up, at your command.
Oh, you inhibitor of hollow, empty minds,
you alchemist of Love, sweet chimera unmanned,
although you cannot see, because you’ve closed the blinds,
we are enamored of the beauties that you bring.
Your works are dark, and stark, though they’re amazing finds;
they leave us cold and cautious, weary, wondering.
Half of my life is yours, whether I sleep or wake;
asleep, I’m unaware, awake, I’m wandering.

Raúl de Cwesibe is a poet of Spanish nights.


The Invasion of the Body Snatchers
          by Waldesi Erebus

He woke to the invasion of the body snatchers in
the turn of 1955 to 1956.
He howled his warning out, but no one listened to his shouts,
and he was far too young in kindergarten to have doubts.
He had just entered education; he had no recourse;
he would become a seed pod, oh! It must occur perforce,
Though he was only five years old, the virus had begun,
a mix of mem’ry and desire underneath the Sun.
The Winter wasn’t right. He cried, “Mac, are they really there
on some B-movie put together in the open air?”

Waldeci Erebus is a poet of the dark.


Some Madness
          by Erisbawdle Cue

Some madness is divinest sense to a discerning eye,
some sense stark, raving madness in a grim society.
It’s the majority and powerful in this prevail.
Assent, and one is sane; dissent, and one may go to jail.
The fair, peace-loving person may be labeled terrorist,
the violent provocateur considered firm and just.
Demur, and even fairest fellows could be called insane.
and treated ruthlessly, beset by collar, ball and chain.
Demure, one could be bullied, beaten up and bounced about.
What sense is there in that? Insanity will praise a lout.
But, o, how beautiful it is, when sanity occurs.
among beer-guzzling grizzlies and crazed, animated curs.


Philosophic 101
          by Erisbawdle Cue

You can’t make something be so, if the numbers are all wrong.
You can’t hide Waldo in a place where he does not belong.
You can’t explain by obfuscating and be understood.
You can’t use techn0 magic tricks to make a bad thing good.
You can’t shout louder to make science be just what you feel.
You can’t turn fiction into fact. You can’t make fake things real
You can’t keep lying constantly to make a false claim true,
You can’t do all these things, and yet, a lot of people do.
One’s audience can be enormous, if one writes for fools.
You can’t deny reality; the Earth moves if it moves.

Erisbawdle Cue is a poet of philosophy. The first tennos draws largely on American Realist Emily Dickinson (1830-1886). In the second, there is the shadow of German Romantic philosopher Arthur Schopenhauer (1788-1860).in the tennos.


Where Hyenas Howl
          by “Weird” Ace Blues

I saw the best minds of my generation were destroyed…
by fierce, demonic rats, with piercing eyes devoid of joy,
by ranting, famished jackals terrorizing city streets,
by bowel movements of disgusting cancel culture feats,
by vultures of corruption, FBI and CIA,
by rhinos running rampant over these divided stays,
by techno-tyrants, unleashed-virus manufacturers,
by walled-street fat cats, vampire bank bats and their censorers,
by swarms of hawks and fire ants in this hard land of rocks,
by worshippers of Moloch, where hyenas howl and stalk.

“Weird” Ace Blues is a poet of Postmodern predilections. Postmodernist American Allen Ginsberg (1926-1997) is behind much of the poem.


A Jolly, Greenish Giant
          by Ileac Burweeds

Like as a jolly, greenish giant, standing up, and tall,
dressed all in green, but for dark shoes, moss swaths around his swall.
Was he in Washington, the mighty conservationist,
who lifted up his fellow man in January mist?
Like as Jack and the beanstalk, he rose up, and heavenward.
He longed to have contentment, even here on effin’ Earth.
He loved to climb up to new heights, to climb rough, jagged mounts.
He loved to reach much higher peaks, and into new realms bounce.
But he would do this with firm logic and analysis
and not be taken in by false or fallow fallacies.

Ileac Burweeds is a poet of greenery.


The Soldier at His Morning Jog
          by Ed “Bear” C. U. Lewis

He stood up at attention for formation, early dawn.
His uniform was olive green, from top to bottom down.
He was prepared to go out for a crisp and frisky jog,
his dog-tags dangling from his neck, his chin firm at his jaw.
He gazed in awe; he loved to see such lovely trunks and limbs.
The trees around were beautiful, from solid thick to slim.
And then he took off, with his fellow travelers at morn.
O, they went on and on and on, and then they went some more.
He panted as he went along, his legs seemed strong and lithe.
He wondered how much farther he could go, upright, alive.


The Scout
          by Ed “Bear” C. U. Lewis

He silently stepped up the stairs, as quiet as a mouse,
on tip-toes, furtively; he did not want to make a sound.
He paused a moment to take stock of something that he heard;
it was like as there was a crack that opened up a word,
a word discerned, a moment burned. It happened at his back,
like as a broken twig upon a woodland trail’s track.
He thought, ah, it could be like as somebody at a door,
some stranger looking for some score. What was he looking for?
He summoned up his strength, continuing upon his trip,
like as a warrior with a weapon hard within his grip.

Ed “Bear” C. U. Lewis is a poet of military maneuvers and equipment.