by “Clear Dew” Ibuse

From hard, cut-back sticks,
barren, leafless, gnarly stalks,,
soft rosebuds appear.


          by “Clear Dew” Ibuse

In the cool, gray day,
the rich, deep-pink bloom unfolds:
the eose bush explodes.

“Clear Dew” Ibuse is a poet of Japanese forms in English, especially the traditional haiku, which reached its height in the 17th -19th centuries.


          by “Wired Clues” Abe

Agh! a coffee spill
on expensive borrowed book:
and a couch as well.


          by “Wired Clues” Abe

After lawn sprinkling,
water spills on the sidewalk,
in fanning designs.

“Wired Clues” Abe is a NewMillennial haiku poet.


Hassock Flak
          by War di Belecuse

He sat on a gray, metal, folding chair against the wall
observing one involved in shining boots. He was involved.
He had himself black boots upon his feet upon the floor.
He longed to have them shined. It was what he was waiting for.
In tight, white paisley tee, he watched the man in olive drab,
so badly wanting to preempts his task. But that was bad.
And so he waited for his turn, his fingers in his lap,
if fidgeting impatiently, to have his own boots blacked.
At last, it was his turn. He walked on over to the place,
where he put up his own right boot before the shiner’s face,
where vigourously it was brushed and polished by the man
in olive drab in damn, cussed flak upon the fields of Nam.


Morninng Recon
          by War di Bebecuse

They were about to go on recon early in the morn,
when one jumped out and jawed, “I cannot take it anymore.”
The sarge, however, didn’t mind, and told the other troop
they didn’t need him anyway. For them there’d be more room.
He drove the jeep into the desert air and arid land.
Exploring east, north, west and south, the area was scanned.
The sarge got out to get a better look. O, all was bland;
whichever way he looked the lay was empty, barren, sand.
He made a mental survey for eventual report,
and then proceeded driving back home to their makeshift fort.
The sergeant did all that was needed; he was satisfied.
The other soldier did his duty, going for the ride.
But the guy jumping ship would have to face a reprimand,
if either man reported him, AWOL from his command.
But he was unconcerned; tours in Iraq made him despair.
The situation normal—all fucked up—What did he care?
If only once, perhaps the captain could let this go by
as one of those brief episodes beneath the horrid sky;
but if one slipped, or made excuses, what might then occur?
a single lapse could cause collapse of one man’s fighting spur.


Dog Tags
          by War di Belecuse

It was a pair of rounded silvery rectangles that
hung dan-gl-ing around his neck against his chest pecs flat.
They had punched out his last name, first name, mid initial too,
there at the top in ordered lines against the shiny hue.
Next came the SSN—nine hyphenated digits long,
one more identifying mark to indicate this one!
The fourth line was his blood type maybe needed in the field;
and that was followed by religious preference revealed.
This was his ID gleaming in the sunlight on his breast,
where he lay down upon the grassy turf in peaceful rest.

War di Belecuse is a poet of military matters.


Ma Kyal Sin (2002-2021)
          by U Ber Lesc Dawei

She’s gone, and never ever will we see her here again,
that angel who stayed just a little while—Ma Kyal Sin.
She was so beautiful, ah, dancing, dancing on the Earth.
Ah, dancing, dancing on the Earth—that was her work, her worth..
She was so strong, a champion taekwondo practitioner.
We wish she still was here, I think we’re going…to miss her.
She was so brave, she lay her body on the line for us.
o, so courageous till the bullet hit her head…she was…
with us. She gave her life that lovely girl from Mandalay.
and now she’s gone from us. No, everything is not okay

U Ber Lesc Dawei is a poet of Myanmar. Mandalay is a city in central Myanmar of approximate 1,200,000.


The Russians have amassed a force near Dombas in Ukraine,
some eighty thousand troops, artillery and tanks displayed,
as well as fifteen warships in the Black Sea just deployed.
Tranquility within the region has now been destroyed.


Not There, O, Yet
          by Sri Wele Cebuda

He got into the lotus pose beside the open drapes,
his legs and knees spread out. He was content. He loved this place.
He wished somebody could massage the muscles of his back;
but still he was content to be right there where he was at.
He raised his head to focus on mind-meditation—yeah.
He longed to reach nirvana, but he was not there, o, yet.
He turned his head off to the left. O, how he longed to see
the beautiful, that was the route to sweetest ecstasy.
He heard the clicking clock, the ticking tock, as time passed by.
He felt as nice as he had ever felt. He wondered why.


In Media Res
          by Sri Wele Cebuda

As he got in the lotus pose, he thought of India.
The plague’s been hard on many, many now are in a funk.
Health Minister Harsh Vardhan thought the trouble lay within
not wearing masks or practicing good social distancing.

He got down on the pale peach mat, spreading legs apart,
positioning for yoga exercises was an art.
He lifted up his head and torso, opened inner eye.
He shifted into meditation, nature’s high was nigh.

Beneath the great green asterisk, he then unclosed his mind.
He hummed his OM, he hymned his awe, he took in space and time.
Behind it all, the cosmic call was strong, though hard on him;
but sweet nirvana could be b-reached with vigour and with vim.

Ah, yes, if he just focused on the beautiful sublime,
perchance he could approach the orchard of life’s rich design,
perhaps he could come to new knowledge at the edge of time,
and maybe he could breathlessly dive in to the divine.

The data given kept on coming, as the numbers rose,
His empathy was off the charts, as dayadhvam o’ersoared.
Damyata, dam the river run. Control the rising tide.
O, damn the yachts upon the bay out for a lovely ride!


Behold the Beautiful
          by Sri Wele Cebuda

It was so hot beneath the bright, white heat of heaven’s eye.
The rays in lines appeared above—the overarching sky.
Some swallows flew across the blue in darting, patterned flights.
He got into the lotus pose to focus on the sight.
He felt like as a bounding god abounding in belief.
His holy soul transfigured wholly by the fleet and free..
He slapped his cheeks to shake him up, to take him from his dreams,
Awake, awake! he truly longed to see reality.
He turned his head off left, then right, o, with a subtle nod.
Behold! the beautiful is here and now and won with God.

Sri Wele Cebuda is a poet of Indian meditation.

The Griffin
          by Crise de Abu Wel

He saw that silver-headed creature stand up tall, erect,
with body, tail and back of lion, from talons up to neck.
With eagle-eyes, he guarded over booty he had culled,
the golden treasures lying there, so rich and beautiful.

Ungainly, gaunt, and even ugly, on his hind legs stood,
so crudely wrought, o, yes, above the wealth he has accrued.
Associated with the gold of Central Asian mines,
he was a mighty creature, somewhat deadly and divine.

Like as a curved, hooked cherub winged, the Lord’s own zealous Ziz,
or the Assyrian Lamassu, guard of all that is.
I wondered how he came to be, this phoenix, sphinxlike thing,
inhuman, but, within the mind of man’s imagining.

Crise de Abu Wel is a poet of ancient West Asia. Ziz is giant of Jewish mythology, Lamassu, Mesopotamian protective spirit.


Prince Philip Within, after Philip Whidden
          by Wilude Scarbeer

He wore a white-gold crown wherever he was living at.
Denmark or Scotland, England, Greece, a sprite-aristocrat..
A spree of happiness, he was a jolly musketeer,
fun pranks and royal highjinx, when ‘s blonde diadem appeared.
His suffering was something to deny, to keep at bay,
when skittering across the water on a sunny day.
The way a nun belies distress, Prince Philip’s pain was hard
as diamonds in a regal watch that keeps in time unjarred.
His swatch of hair across his head a swath of silver gold,
was like a foretold, future victory that was unrolled.
As light as air of ariel or monarch butterfly,
that bird unheard by very few on Earth before he died.

Wilude Scabeer is a poet of England. Prince Philip (1921-2921) was the husband of Queen Elizabeth II of the UK, known for his privilege and environmentalism. To slow population growth, he said back in 1988, if he were reincarnated he would like to come back as a virus.


The Brazilian Strain
          by Ecuwe de Brasil

The health care system in Btazil has recently collapsed.
The surge of Wuhan cases has been reaching higher caps.
This Sunday more than 1800 deaths have been announced.
The total toll more than 350,000 now.
Relying on the Sino-Vac has not helped them as such;
and the Brazilian strain is killing youth folks just as much
Gao Fu said China’s vax was only half effective for
containing Wuhan cases…seventy lands use so far.
There are more youth in ICUs with the Brazilian strain.
Brazil has been relying on the Chinese in the main.

Ecuwe de Brasil is a o\poet of Brazil.


The AG Report
          by “Weird” Ace Blues

America, we heard it was the Russians for four years.
They ate Ed Snowden when he told them all about his fears.
America, CCCP fell 1991;
they didn’t take the Commi-tsar but put in this here one.
America, it was the Scarlet Dragon plaguing folks;
the CCP, in 2020 hindsight, stealing votes.
America, this isn’t 1961 no more;
a doped-up President and bro, with mob and reds at war,
America, this Resident, despised, old, blind, and mad,
the puppet of G-Mafiat, Swamp Creatures and Great GAD!

“Weird” Ace Blues is a poet of the Beats and Jazz, like Allen Ginsberg (1926-1997).


Disco in the Sun
          by Cu Ebide Aswerl

He loved it on the dance floor, o, to shake his body up.
Though he was but an old hound dog, it made him feel a pup.
He loved the movement, an improvement from just standing still.
It made him feel alive and plucky, lucky to so feel.
O, it was beautiful, the lights and bodies all around.
He loved the to-and-fro, the up-and-down, the pounding sound.
And maybe, but occasionally, he might find a groove
that he could really get into, o, funky, yeah, and move.
Although it was like exercise, he loved it; it was fun,
the shining, gleaming ball revolving—disco in the Sun.

Cu Ebide Aswerl is a poet of fun, and being at one with universal play.


Delicious Illusion of Twelve O’Clock
          by Carb Deliseuwe
          for Walice de Beers

The building’s haunted by white shirts and ties that one can see,
and rings, of varied colour, carat, cut and clarity
Naught here is strange, but socks are black, as are the laceless shoes;
black ceintures are not censored; one may have one if one choose.
None dreams of periwinkles, or the speckled-band baboom,
yet though it’s noon, one may observe a faint and fair, full moon.
O, here, or there, if one look close, a soldier can be seen,
slunk in his shoes upon a chair, in real imagining.
o, battling the boring boardroom of the businessman,
who’s eating lunch at twelve o’clock, beneath the turning fan.

Carb Deliseuwe is a poet of food and related topics.


The Energetic Exerciser
          by Rudi E. Welec, “Abs”

The energetic exerciser placed hands on the floor.=
He lifted up his head and shoulders, back up more and more.
Attempting to do push-ups in the region he was at,
as such he didn’t have a lot of room or nice, thick mat.
He faced his motivation limits all about the gym.
Before him was a mounting mountain overlooking him.
Behind him was the crush of mighty time’s onrushing surge.
Below him were the bumps of life, those which he could not purge.
Above hum only ceiling sat, no overarching sky;
though beautiful, he could not open up his inner eye.
Like as a patient patient etherized upon life’s hills,
he held immobile, counting out his troubles and his spills.

Rudi E. We;ec, “Abs”, is a poet of exercise.


A Cosmic Gym
          by Slider Cubeawe

He came upon what seemed a study or a billiards room.
Though both of them and neither too, sunlit, light bulb, o, moon.
It took one’s breath away because it was so beautiful.
Although it was just ordinary, it was magical.
There were no books, no cues nor balls; it was the strangest game.
Upon the wall there was a picture, lovely in its frame.
The tablecloth was green, the table white; there was no cup.
There was no unfilled coffee mug, though someone drank it up.
This was a portal to another realm, a gorgeous bridge,
that took one to an overwhelming awesome cosmic gym.

Slider Cubeawe is a poet of alternate universes.