by “Clear Dew” Ibuse

Climbing six inches,
along the long rock outline,
beginning oak sprouts.


          by “Clear Dew” Ibuse

Before the leaves show,
the white five-petaled flowers
shower in the breeze.


          by “Clear Dew” Ibuse

They all fall again,
near the walled-in Capitol:
the cherry blossoms.

for comparison:

In the Metroplex,
petals on dry, gray-brown boughs,
thousands and thousands.

“Clear Dew” Ibuse is a poet of Japanese forms in English. The haiku, at its height (17th -19th centuries) kept seasonal; time for the Japanese. The above haiku, plays off of Modernist Ezra Pound’s “In a Station of the Metro”, one of the first haiku-like poems in English literature. The Capitol refers to Washington DC, where the cherry blossoms appeared.


          by “Wired Clues” Abe

Back after a year,
learning all the students names:
the first day of school.


          by “Wired Clues” Abe

The uniformed men,
were being bussed to the front.
preparing for war.


          by “Wired Clues” Abe

It constantly breaks,
th’ edger’s coiled plastic string,
a half-year’s grass growth.


          by “Wired Clues” Abe

Gusts blow it apart,
the edger’s coiled plastic ring.
The gardener sweats.

“Wired Clues” Abe is a New Millennial haiku poet.


          by R. Lee Ubicwedas

Each second of each day and night we billions go about…
our business, good or bad, inspir’d or not, in grace or out.
Across the Globe, the powerful wreak havoc on the weak,
self-righteous and outrageous ones attack the kind and meek.
How strange it is to live among such crude barbarians,
who constantly are barking…mad…and crass contrarians
When I consider how much better life could be without
the fussing and the fighting over everything in doubt,
then I imagine many others too must think like me,
and happily I rise and sink into eternity.

R. Lee Ubicwedas is a poet of anything, including the most dangerous cities in the Wolr, predominantly in the Americas, from the cartel-infested cities, like Chicago, LA, and New York, etc., to the most dangerous in the World, like Tijuana (138 deaths per 100,000) at the US border, Axapulco (111 deaths per 100,000) to Caracas, Venezuela (100 deaths per 100,000).



The border, US-Mexico, last had 1,000,000 cross
illegally. 2006, the George Bush second term.
This year will set a record of more than 2,000,000 plus,
according to Joe Biden’s deputies; and that’s not firm!
With babies even being dropped into the Rio Grande,,
by any name, this is a crisis near and now at hand.


The Holdup at the Beach
          by Lubric Seaweed

I saw him stranded on the strand, that bearded, bearlike bard,
o barely standing where he was, his circumstances hard.
Upon that beach two highwaymen had come to rob him clean,
to strip him of his wallet, pallor, and his dignity.
He was so startled, rattled; from behind attacked and grabbed,
pushed forward awkwardly, and jabbed, like as a punching bag.
In front, he faced the taller dude, with cocked gun aimed at him.
This was a holdup; he could not escape with anything.
And so he yielded his wealth to keep his health intact.
And they took off with everything. Would they be coming back?
For if they were, he could get back at them somehow, o, yeah;
but maybe he would never see their ugly mugs again—
that sneaky prick, that fuckin’ dick, who made his life a mess.
Would they remember him, like he remembered them: no, yes?


With an Enormous Yawn
          by Sri Wele Cebuda

It was a very ordinary evening, when he got
into the lotus pose upon a red bed spread for thought.
He felt a mighty force of awe come over him right there,
He felt like he was seated in a hard tight chair of air.
He felt like as this sky of pink was coming over him,
o, touched with yellow, yeah, as well as brown both dark and dim.
He lifted up his head; he lifted up his inner eye.
He felt like he could see a figure coming through the sky.
He wondered if it was a god his mind was focused on,
and then he fell down to the bed with an enormous yawn.


Dilemma of a Dharma Master
          by Sri Wele Cebuda

He got into the lotus pose, although he still was dressed,
from black boots on his feet up to on top a dark black vest.
What good was it if he got in a yoga-lotus pose,
if he could not reach higher consciousness and sweet repose?
if when he opened up his inner eye he saw no thing?
if he stretched out his legs and knees, but had no pondering?
What good was it to hum his OM, if it was hard to breathe?
Sometimes he felt as if he were a prickly holly wreath.
He tried to reach insights inside of him, but it was hard,
when he was flooded with confusion, overwhelmed by dhar.

Sri Wele Cebuda us a poet of India. Dhar is a word that has various meanings in Hindu, Buddhist, Sikh, Jain, and other beliefs. Arjuna and Krishna are figures of the epic poem “Mahabharata.”


A Duel Bellicose
          by War de Belicuse

He was in black from top to bottom, black boots on his feet,
but he was not Antifa rioting out in the street.
Instead he was inside, and in the lotus pose, in fact,
there meditating on his fate of being juiced and jacked.
His inner eye was open wide; he gazed in awe at all
there rising up before him, o, so powerful and tall.
He saw a mighty warrior on the field where Krishna was.
He summoned up his bravery—Arjuna’s mighty buzz.
He saw a duel taking place. O, life was on the line!
and then in agony he fell, embracing the divine.

War de Belicus is a poet of the battlefield of life. Beau Lecsi Werd notes the Latin “bellicose” derives from “duel” two men in hand-to-hand combat.


This British Pilot Navigating
          by Air Weelbed Suc

In covid days. there seems to be much fewer jets go by;
though they still pass, there seems to be much fewer in the sky.
It seems the pilots and assistants do not fly as much.
As a result, they seem to have more leisure time as such.

Just as this British pilot navigating in his home
with his assistant, free from work, far from an aerodrome.
They have some drinks; the ice cubes clink; they do not have to think.
Though lights are low, they do not have to know wherein they blink.

The pilot only has to ask how empty is the glass
of his assistant, as they chat, but hear no jet planes pass.
They wear no masks, they have no tasks that they are wont to do;
but only one short flick to watch; no airport in their view.

Air Weelbed Suc is a poet of flight.


The Fountain
          by Arcideb Cidese

It was a lovely fountain, gleaming, glowing, glistening,
rich golden, pink and orange hues in daylight’s christening,
like as a gorgeous geyser gargling from forced fissuring,
a rising rainbow arching over precious pressuring.
It was a lovely fountain issuing forth kiss and sing,
although there were no birds about and little listening.
It seemed more like some artificial, gym-edge mezzanine,
or some store’s orderly, well-stocked and neatly-stacked niche scene.
It was a lovely fountain, beautiful to sense and see,
so great that space of grateful grace, life lived essentially

Arcideb Usewel is a poet of urban architecture. He loves fountains.


The House That Fauci Built
          by Dr. Weslie Ubeca

Within the US government, he was the highest paid
He sighed, denied, and p-lied; he was a yo-yo on display.
Like Doctor Faustus, Doctor Fauci, sold his soul to be
an actor on the World stage, there at the CDC.

The Wuhan lab—this is the house that Doctor Fauci built,
and was adorned, by the American taxpayer gilt.
This is the virus in the house made by the CCP.
experiments in gain-of-function, bringing them to be.

A wingless bat from some wet market, lo, a bio-mouse
that ate this gain-of-function virus lying in this house?
Here is the cat that chased the rat in this house Fauci built;
from which South African, Brazilian, and UK strains spilt.

This is the pan-da bear who ordered covering it up,
the fierce pan-demic issued forth from vial, bamboo cup,
bamboozled by the CCP, with sev’ral millions killed,
this is the house of Xi Jinping Doc Fauci helped to build.

Dr. Weslie Ubeca is a poet of medicine, not a medical doctor. Recorded covid deaths this week are approximately 2,800,000. How many are under-reported across the Globe?


An Enormous Radio
          by Cawb Edius Reel

When I was young, my dad had an enormous radio;
he wrapped a wire antenna over hall, wall, room and door.
If he was home from work, he’d listen to the latest news,
that crackled tuned, and had inside a shining orange fuse.
It wasn’t much, and yet as such. he was content with it;
I couldn’t understand the chatter, that electric spit.
But here I am upon my phone to hear about events,
not trusting those dispensing it who seem to lack all sense;
and now I wonder looking back those many years ago,
if dad thought what he heard was rubbish on the radio.

Cawb Edius Reel is a poet of radio. He is reminded of the short story by Postmodernist John Cheever (1912-1982) “The Enormous Radio”, in which a strange, new, enormous radio allows owners to pick up conversations of others in their apartment buildings…much like the invasive tech tyrants, like Google, and overreaching government security agencies do, like the CIA, in this New Millennium.


Spillboard Advertisement
          by Carb Deliseuwe

I love vanilla, Whataburger milkshakes. They’re the best.
So rich and creamy, thick and dreamy. With one I feel blessed.
I’m so glad when I suck or sip on one; they are so good.
They are among my favourites of mass-produced fast-food.

Carb Deliseuwe (sometimes Deli Seuwe) is a poet of food. The United States of America is a country that has been beset by advertisements for more than a century, no worse than now, when present-day robber barons, like Goodle and its spawn Alphabet.


Gym Notes
          by Rudi E. Welec, “Abs”

Had he been exercising at the gym? He took a break.
He stood beside some orange drawers. Could his thirst be slaked?
Although he seemed so unconcerned, he really wasn’t so;
for he had worked too hard to get to where he was…to go.

A nearby dude was hard at work, involved in squats and dips.
A water bottle close-at-hand he raised up to his lips.
He knew it was important, so he kept hydrated, yeah.
He worked so hard at what he did, he breathed with bated breath.

What were the goals that each of them attempted there to reach?
a longed for rest? a thirst, o, quenched? a healthy chest and cheeks?
What was this place that they had come to? It was grand, but strange.
Why were they here with such ennui, and yet could still seemed jaked.


The Workout
          by Rudi E. Welec, :Abs”

It was a workout at the gym beside the barbell rack.
The dude was dressed in scarlet bottoms; on top he wore black.
He bent his back, his elbows too, his knees, and turned his head,
in preparation for his workout, which he’d love but dread.
With mighty arms and shoulders, the stout dude was standing up;
he placed his hand upon the weight that he would have to pump.
He grasped the barbell—that before him—with dexterity.
He longed to pump his muscles up, o, yeah, ecstatic’lly.
The walls were red and black beside the silvery machines.
The workout now was moving fast, almost frenetic’lly.
Though hardly beautiful, he stood there, pumping his heart so;
yet still felt great to push and shove. His love was in his throw.


The Gym Shower
          by Rudi E. Welec, “Abs”

He loved to take it, the post-workout shower felt so good,
where he could wash away his sweat and tears he had displayed.
He let the forceful water pour upon his face and neck;
he washed his shoulders and his arms, as well as chest pec deck.
He loved its liquid intimacy spraying over him,
so purifying, cleaning, from his workout at the gym
He’d turn his head, although he closed his eyes and could not see…
the mighty rush of ecstasy and hydroenergy.
O, he would focus on all parts, from belly-button south,
and taste those drips within his lips, by opening his mouth.

Rudi E. Welec, “Abs”, is a poet of physical education. He remembers his 8th grade PE teacher requiring each of them to climb a rope up to the top of the gym, towering high over the orange bleachers below. He felt like as a big-tent circus worker there, or a lookout on a sailing ship at sea.