by “Clear Dew” Ibuse

Underneath an oak,
a squirrel gets an acorn,
then scurries away.


          by “Clear Dew” Ibuse

In its loads, its lodes,
the rich, pink-red blooms unfold:
the rose 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

No one wants to hear,
complicated surgery ‘s
needed on one’s eyes.


          by “Wired Clues” Abe

The hedge-trimmer cuts
the hedges around the house,
leaves leaves on bark-dust.


          by “Wired Clues” Abe

On the monitor,
a turnip is replacing
an avocado.

“Wired Clues” Abe is a NewMillennial haiku poet.


With Bits of Chalk and Clay
          by R. Lee Ubicwedas

The Wor-ld is so very large and complicated that
one hardly knows where to begin just to address this fact.
Perhaps with baby steps one starts, attempting to go forth,
from birth to death, from east to west, as well as south to north.
One starts with life, there will be strife, one needs to breathe and drink.
Once one has food, oh, that is good; it also helps to think.
But even then, there is so much to think about in life.
To do and be is very hard—earth, water, air and fire.
And so it seems, all one can do is try, day after day,
to face that complicated World with bits of chalk and clay,
to face this giant Universe, so limited are we,
with all, if little, energy, and supersymmetry.

R. Lee Ubicwedas is a poet of everything.


Allusion at Eleven
          by Cu Ebide Aswerl
          for Walice de Beers

He dreamed of bad baboons and light-pink, periwinkle moons;
he was no sailor on a whaler—just a buff buffoon
O, one could see that! when his baseball cap flew off his head,
and he would chase it down the lane. The weather was not red.
The mockingbirds watched the absurd show on their orange feet,
as he retrieved his beige and brown hat further down the street.
There goes a cup! It’s flying up! The garbage truck has passed.
He chases it across the yard, the driveway. Yes, the wind is gas!
“Hey, Cu, abide the World,” he heard somebody say to him,
“The flouncing wind and bouncing limb, is but a lovely whim.”

Cu Ebide Aswer l is a poet of fun. Walice de Beers is a poet of Wall Street and diamonds, his favourite port and poet Wallace Stevens (1879-1955).


At the Window Pane
          by Urbawel Cidese

He felt like as a person in Zamyatin’s novel “We”;
he sat upon a sofa, so far from Platonov’s knee.
The couch was white, rectangular, a davenport in air.
He gazed upon the city down below from high up there.
All lines were straight in the light-brown apartment he was in,
so beautiful, more beautiful than any Mondrian.
The only curves were his, his nerves, nirvana far away.
He felt the slap of boredom on his person where he lay
But, o, its fierce assault could not assuage the startled strain
there at the Battle of the Vale of Siddim’s window pane.

Urbawel Cidese is a poet of urban arenas. Piet Mondrian (1872-1944) was a Dutch Modernist painter and art theoretcian. Yevgeny Zamyatin (1884-1937) was a Modernist Russian writer of alternate universes. The Battle of the Vale of Siddim (c. 1833 BC) was mentioned in Genesis.


One of the Undescribed Priests
          by Wilude Scabere

He was a prim and proper priest who practiced what he’d preach.
If someone struck him on one cheek, he’d offer th’ other cheek.
And he would get down on the floor and pray upon his knees.
O, he would try to please his Lord, if he knew how to please.
He kept a Bible on his shelf pro-min-ent-ly displayed,
in easy reach for one to see and use on any day.
He treated parson, plowman, anyone whom he might meet,
all equally with courtesy and generosity;
although, the truth be known, not perfectly; a man was he;
there were some souls he treated more enthusiastic’lly.
But overall, he did the very best that he could do;
anointed with the holy spirit, trying to be true.

Wilude Scabere is a poet of trraditional English literature. Here he is drawing on “The Canterbury Tales” by the great Middle English poet Geofrey Chaucer (1342/1343-1400). Scarbere draws indirectly on one the undepicted priests mentioned in the “Prologue”.


James Ensor View
          by Red Was Iceblue

He sat inside at a computer looking at a scene:
James Ensor stood amid a mass of masks all glittering.
He seemed like Remnrandt painting a self portrait in a drowd,
the vibrant, varied colours all around—not else allowed.
It seemed foreboding and forbidden, hidden right in view.
an artificiality in very vivid hues.
So beautiful and yet so ominous and violent,
like Turner or Francisco Goya in a junk-shop pent.
He turned to the next painting, yet he couldn’t help but feel
that Ensor’s view in the time of Wu-flu plague was all too real.


          by Red Was Iceblue

Above, the chandelier was on, two dozen small bulbs lit,
nearby a lamp light showered on some revelers ignit.
He gazed upon the bright, white-sheeted bed in front of him,
o, looking forward to relax for one sweet bit of whim.
He hit the hey! It was midday, this gloomy dungeon room.
He felt like as he was a mighty guard in charge of doom.
He rubbed his hands , he was within the beautiful and good;
but was unsure—it was so pure and gorgeous—if he should.
So he stretched out upon that bed, where he could go to sleep,
and leaped into his dream of blue, and downward went…so… deep.

Red Was Iceblue is a poet of Modernist art, like that of Belgian Modernist James Ensor (1860-1849). According to Beau Lecsi Werd, ignit is a condension of ignited.


The Brand NeW
          by “Wild” E. S. Bucaree

He sat up at his desk before the bright computer screen.
The blinds were drawn, the room was dark. He started, o, to dream.
What did it mean? This rich, brown scene became another thing,
The rancher B—, was branding steer, hot iron, hovering.
O, he was in the process of imprinting W
upon the steer before him, the electric page in view.
The stalwart, swarthy B— was bending over flaming pole;
he pressed the blazing W, determined hand, firm hold.
Not to take power or make money—debit, credit, charge!
he wanted just to print his brand upon his world at large,


Max Brand
          by “Wild” E. S. Buscaree

Born Fred’rick Schiller Faust out in Seattle , Washingto,
in 1892, before th’ Old West’s oblivion.
He took his pen and started writing 30,000,000 words,
that soared across his pages, great flocks of free-ranging birds.
He put his brand upon the western, as it flew away,
romantic “German”, melting into good ol’ USA.
Beginning after World War I, he wrote his books…until…
in World War II, a shrapnel wound killed him in Italy.
And though he wrote in many genres, still his very best,
were those fantastic, printed paintings of the Wi-ld West.

“Wild: E. S. Bucaree is a poet of the Wild West. Fred Faust )1892-1944) was a prolific Modernist American novelist and short story writer. He wrote under many names, including Max Brand. One of his favourite short stories is “Wine on the Desert”, one of his favourite novels, “Bull Hunter”.


Online Summit: Earth Day, 2021
          by Ileac Burweeds
          “Without the truth, I feel ashamed to be alive.”
              —Andrei Platonov

It was an Earth-Day summit, Biden held on climate change.
It was so interesting, speakers speaking—such a range.
Joe Biden lead the televised discussion in a mask.
He spoke with weighty words upon this very heavy task.

How wonderful it was to hear them online as they jawed,
from Xi Jinping to Salman bin Abdulaziz Al Saud
Ideas spouted forth from Putin, Erdogan and Gates;
it was spectacular to hear their learned, spewing pates.

How lucky is it to be blessed to hear such thoughtful souls,
the World’s cream arising to the top of Earth’s dread woes.
The science was incredible; the attitudes so fine.
What could be better than to hear such rhetoric online?

Ileac Burweeds is a poet of nature.


The Empire Prepares
          by Slider Cubeawe
“The higher maths ignited parietal petal splash;
prefrontal, and temporal, o, inferior! went flash.”
              —Euclidrew Base

He lay back in the easy chair, his feet were in the air.
He threw his arms behind his hair. He seemed to have no care.
But he was slightly worried; something bothered him a bit.
What was it that consumed his mind—o, every part of it?
It seemed like as he was involved in doing higher maths.
prefrontal, parietal. and temporal paths.
Beside him on the wall strange figures danced about his head.
It was like as he was there lying on a floating bed.
Before him was a figure, helmeted in blue and white;
who looked like as a trooper getting ready for a fight.

Slider Cubeawe is a poet of alternate universes.


The People, Yes
          by ‘Weird” Ace Blues

Last year we learned th’ Empire struck back with fierce synergy.
The populace was pummeled by the techno-tyranny.
O, Obi Wan Kenobi—he was nowhere to be found.
Across the Globe we lived and languished; innocence was drowned.
From China to America th’ Empire’s power rose;
from bio-war-fare to enviro-roar-scare, freedom froze/
There was no Princess Leia; Luke Skywalker had no guts,
and Yoda couldn’t help the people nullify the Putsch.
O, Planet Earth, though some fear you are warming far too fast,
my fear is not for Moon, Earth, Sun, but people being gassed. .

“Weird” Ace Blues is a poet of jazz.


At Work
          by Brad Lee Suciew

He still remembers it, although some parts of it are vague,
his boss required they wear masks due to the Wu flu plague.
At work he felt like as he was in a Greek tragedy,
amidst the masks, the open stage, and glitzy gadgetry.
Before his boss came in, he got into the lotus pose
upon a plat, a king-size mat, to channel tranquil flows.
He got into a W, to meditate upon
the beautiful, the dutiful, the prudent and the strong.
He rose up when his boss came in, to do the best he could,
to strive for truth, with courage, and to be and do the good.

Brad Lee Suciew is a poet of labour. The heights of Greek tragedy were reached during the 5th century. BC.


The Third Man
          by Ercules Edibwa

It was like as Greek drama, but was it a tragedy?
or was it something else instead, perhaps a comedy?
I couldn’t tell. There were two actors. Yet, I heard a third.
Was it cephalic, and relating to the heart or head?
The masks seemed ludicrous, but also serious as well,
one hardly knew if this was heaven, or if this was hell.
The figures on the wall appeared daemonic, stick-like, strange.
What play, what act, what scene, was this? O, who had made this stage?
Was this a new beginning, or was this an ending age?
Was this an ancient ritual, or novel, modern change?

Ercules Edibwa is a poet of ancient Greece. “The Third Man” was a novel by British Modernist Graham Greene (1904-1991).


As Winter Wanes
          by Rudi E. Welec, “Abs”
          “I love the rough and shove of hockey.”
              —Wes Caribu Deel

As winter sports wind down, the hockey sticks are put away;
the pucks and masks placed to the side for play another day.
The stocky men remove their heavy clothes and close the gates.
They leave the locker-room behind; they hang up clanging skates.
The hard fought games become a memory most will forget.
their focus now on precious, present pleasures planned—oh, yeah.
The beautiful, sweet days recede into the den of time;
the bearded bears quit hubernation for a warmer climb.
The shoes and shin-protective socks of black and yellow green,
along with wrist-protecting gloves no longer fill the scene.
How sweet it is, the springtime’s kiss, and summer’s bliss have come;
the ice and rime replaced by merrymaling mummer’s hum.

Rudi E. Welec, “Abs” is a poe of sports.