by “Clear Dew” Ibuse

Lightning and thunder,
the rain is pouring down hard.
The birds are quiet.


          by “Clear Dew” Ibuse

Lightning and thunder:
one’s having weather, whether
one wants it or not.

“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

I am driving through
the second-longest car wash:
coloured, fruity soap.


          by “Wired Clues” Abe

The taxi ride home,
through apartment parking lots:
an amusement park.


          by “Wired Clues” Abe

In the pouring rain,
along the sloping right lane:
it is a river.

“Wired Clues” Abe is a NewMillennial haiku poet.


Philosophic Ramblings
          by Erisbawdle Cue

Depravity is in the air; it’s everywhere one looks.
It’s part of the condition of humanity—Gadzooks!
And yet, it’s also beautiful; humanity’s aglow.
It has a heart of gold, if only one can find its soul.
Though there are reasons to despair, there are some to rejoice.
Life is more complicated than some single simple choice.
Seek out the good. Seek out the true. Seek out the beautiful.
Amidst the rotten can be gotten stuff that’s suitable.
Beware as well of platitudes, like these I now do spout.
It rarely hurts to have great faith, laced with a little doubt.

Erisbawdle Cue is a poet of pop-philosophy.


It’s so bizarre that Facebook bans the recent President,
yet keeps in place so many global tyrant terrorists,
like Xi Jinping, the Commissar, Red China’s deadly fiend,
the killer king of communism’s murdering machine


Chinese coronavirus, as its called in India.
this week has claimed more than four thousand deaths, each single day.
Day after day, four hundred thousand cases now occur,
the most the World has yet recorded in this pandemic’s spur.
and yet two writers at the BBC claim counts are low,
and being undercounted by a massive ratio.


Touched By Ash
          by Sri Wele Cebuda

He got into a lotus pose; it was a moonlit night.
He was in total darkness, yes. O, he was out of sight.
He turned his head off to the left, He had but little hair.
His inner eye was open wide. He did his best to stare.
But just what was it he could see in that dark, vacant room.
He focused on what was around him—zip, zap, ‘s up, and zoom!
He raised his head, his torso too; he stretched his thighs out wide.
He concentrated on his OM; he hoed, he hummed, he hied.
He felt like as a skier on a pale, moonlit slope.
He gave his all, o, not to fall, to jump the bumps, and cope.
He hoped to get down to the bottom with no smashing crash,
as he remained in yoga pose in darkness touched by ash.
He pinched his lips, he pursed his hips, he searched that emptiness,
for anything that he could find. Where was the tempting bliss?

Sri Wele Cebuda is a poet of enlightenment. This quattuordeca ends with a curving question mark.


The Unknown Diplomat
          by Bic Uwel, “Erased”
          “She was found by the Bureau of Statistics to be one,
          among the many millions of the state, who were unknown.”
              —Euclidrew Base

The witnesses observed, at midnight, an explosion—boom!
Re Silver Bunny—she fell seventeen floors to her doom.
Her room was in a high-rise building in downtown Tehran.
Reports are very sketchy from tyrannical Iran.
Reports proclaimed her dress appropriate; she wore a hat.
The Biden representative was a Swiss diplomat.
There was no mention of John Kerry or about his son,
nor Biden’s family, no revelations were undone.
It was just one lone woman with an unsigned, written note.
which said cremate her body. Why would anybody dote>
Although she wasn’t found until next morning—eight o’clock.
A cleaner found the body at the bottom of the block.
Apparently she was depressed, and wasn’t feeling spry;
the b-a-l-c-o-n-y-r-a-i-l more than a hundred centimeters high.

Bic Uwel, “Erased” is a poet of missing persons. One of his favourite movies was the tense, suspense thriller of 2012, Erased.


In Israel and Gaza bombs and missiles filled the air.
The result, unsurprisingly: death, destruction and despair.


Freedom to Breathe
          by Air Weelbed Suc

As Solzhenitsyn pointed out once, freedom just to breathe,
as when one ‘s been masked up a while, is an important thing.
As when one is at the eye clinic, waiting to be seen,
one wants to take one’s face mask off to freely breathe air in.
That pure serene appears again, while waiting for one’s ride,
and one takes one’s mask off, enjoying joining the outside.
One longs to stride to reach shade of a honey-locust tree,
to take one’s face mask off again to freely breathe, oh, free.
One doesn’t need to smell ground cover or the new-mown grass,
but simply to remove that damned, un-nach-ur-al face mask.

Air Weelbed Suc is a poet of air. To this day, I remember a short prose-poem by Postmodernist Russian writer Alexandr Solzhenitsyn (1918-2008) entitled “Freedom to Breathe”; and I relate to it now more than ever.


Upon Grand, Ancient Greece
          by Ercules Edibwa

He tried to stare unflinchingly upon grand, ancient Greece,
like as the great Acropolis—so beautiful to see.
He longed to reach its symmetry, its heights and gorgeous forms,
to understand its sweetest peace, as well as swirling forms;
its writing, so exciting, from its epics to its plays;
from physics to philosophy; upon its power gaze;
amazed, but yet unfazed, at its fine, mathematic ways;
o, praised, yet still undazed upon its glories and its glaze;
from alpha to omega, a to zed, uplifted, raised.

Ercules Edibwa is a poet of Ancient Greece.


Under a Spell
          by Seer Ablicudew

He felt absurd as he observed the cavern tavern door,
like as he was a buzz-cut fuzz adoring the abhorred.
He fingered bushy shrubs to enter, centering his mind.
He figured out the desert birds by shadowy design.
He focused on the beautiful and what was truly good.
He felt like as he was in Plato’s cave, misunderstood.
He wondered at the underbrush, the sage brush, rising hills.
He blundered through the pageless ages, throbbing, thirsty, thrilled.
He plundered gorgeous palaces by lovely, shifting dunes,
deciphering the unlit, sunlit messages and runes.

Seer Ablicudew is a poet of visions, a shaman of fire and ash. Plato was a classical, Ancient Greek philosopher who lived from the 420s BCE to the 340s BCE. He had printed above the Academy door: ΑΓΕΩΜΕΤΡΗΤΟΣ ΜΗΔΕΙΣ ΕΙΣΙΤΩ, “Let none of no geometry enter here.”


The Entertainung Entry
          by Sirc de Wee Balu

‘The Entry of the Gladiators”—Julius Fučik—
the cheeky Czech and march composer, one says tongue in cheek,
sounds more like the entrancing entrance of some dancing clowns,
than any serious procession—It’s a whirl of sounds!
in fact, a screamer march, intended to stir UP an audience,
as if the moment that it starts, the show enlivens sense;
and those involved are swept away, they’re carried by the band
the fun and flippant viewers and performers take command.
The silly trilling strings, the corny horns and facile brass
contribute to the entertaining flashy splash and sass.

Circ de Wee Balu is a poet of the curcus.


Like an Amusement Park
          by Car Weeled i-Bus
          “Talkin’ ;bout your troubles, it’s a cryin’ sin,
          ride a painted pony, let the spinning wheel spin…”
              —Blood. Sweat & Tears

He showed up in an orange-bright Fiesta for the ride;
a man was standing at th’ eye clinic, waiting there outside.
The driver was a character, and colourful at that;
his rider wore sun glasses, rainbow-tinted, baseball cap.
They drove off down the street, then to apartment parking lots,
the GPS suggested this way was the closest route.
They drove aside the one-way access-highway on speed bumps;
it seemed like an amusement park; the ride had concrete humps.
And finally they passed the second-longest car-wash spot;
and headed for the freeway, happy for a flat way out.


My Driving Hero
          by Car Weeled iBus

He is my driving hero; he was from North Africa.
Was it Algeria, Tunisia, or dry Libya.?
He was my LA Uber driver, flying down its ways.
Incredibly he drove so flawless, it could but amaze.
Acceleration and deceleration were so smooth
one hardly noticed them at all, when he was in his groove.
O, his finesse was off the charts, as crazy traffic rolled,
his deft maneuvers beautiful, so lovely to behold.
He shot around the curves; he said the palm trees needed trimmed.
He talked fast as he drove; it was hard to keep up with him.

Car Weeled i-Bus is a poet of car rides.


Blue Truths
          by “Weird” Ace Blues
          “…you don’t need a weatherman to know which way the wind blows…”
              —Bob Dylan

The banning of a president sets a bad precedent,
a socialistic, communistic, marxist acid test.
It’s horrible—tech tyranny—it’s wretched and its ours!
O, God, I wish it wasn’t, but, alas, it is, and yours.

O, when will my Home Country be free from putridity,
distemper rampant in the streets, unleashed insanity?
I pray the nation can be heal’d, lest it go down the likes
of despot communists or nationalized-social reichs

O, Lord, I pray, break forth and wash the slime from off this land.
the gangs, the mob, all those that rob. O, cleanse this Muckistan!
O, look out! Hell! Demonic rats! G-Mafiat G-men!
I’m hearin’ these here subterranean blue truths again.

“Weird” Ace Blues is a poet of folk blues. Bob Dylan’s “Subterranean Homesick Blues” was a widely influencial tune of 1965. L9 of the above dodeca is an allusion to the short story “The Life You Save May Be Your Own” by Postmodernist American writer Flannery O’Connor (1925-1964).


Colonial Pipeline Hacked, May 5th , 2021
          by Ciber Dele Usaw

Some DarkSide cyber hackers hacked Colonial Pipeline
stole data, and extorted them, a ransomware high crime/
They locked the data, threatening they’d put it on the Net;
unless the company paid off this criminal outfit.
The company took systems offline to contain the breach;
and halted gasoline and jet fuel planned for the Northeast.
Supposedly homeland security, and other feds,
are now assessing this attack, investigating, yes.
But as of now, no criminals have been arrested yet;
instead, it seems, these criminals remain upon the Net.

Ciber Dele Usaw is a poet of cyber warfare. This is the biggest pipeline in the United States of America. Within 100 days, the US has gone from energy sufficiency to where the price of gasoline is soaring, and people are in lines at gas stations (unseen since 1973!). Because of all three federal spending and printing of money, inflation is back with a vengeance. Is the US going back to the 1970s?


The Purloined Lectern
          by C. Aubrè DeWiles

It was the fall, November, 2020, in the night.
My friend, Earl Dolan Page, and I were chatting in low light.
We sat within his little study in his little flat;
there drinking wine, au troisieme. That is where we were at.
At least one hour we sat there in silence in that room
One easily could have detected eddied airs of g-loom.
We had been speaking of detective C. Auguste Dupin,
when the policeman Mister E. came up to the divan.
We welcomed him to take a seat. He said he was upset
with some dilemma that he was unable to forget.

It seems a lectern had been stolen in the dead of night.
Some truck had come and taken it away from human sight.
In the dominion of the dark, it seems some thing had died,
and this rare lectern had been pilfered, whisked away to hide.
He did not know what he should do, what he should do, or not;
so he’d come to Earl Dolan Page to ask him what he thought..
We’ve called on many judges, lawyers, legislators; and…
we’ve even called security; but none will lift a hand.
And so, I’m here, alone and palely loitering in view.
Exasperated, Mr. Page, I now have come to you.

Perhaps it’s the simplicity that leaves you tempest tossed.
What nonsense you do spout, he cried. A lectern has been lost.
O, Mr. E., perhaps you cannot see where it is at.
because it is so obvious, like some demonic rat..
I find these truths to be self-evident. None cares for you.
Nobody wants to help you find the lectern. This is true.
Perhaps the robbers come from either mob or media;
from walled street to the alleyway or wicked-pedi-files.
Although the thief has put his stamp upon this tyranny,
if I can’t get this lectern back, what will become of me?

We need two lecterns when we have political debates.
But I can’t find the stolen lectern. It ‘s vanished into space.
If I could find this gang of four, or five, that would suffice,
If I could trace one of the criminals behind this heist,
then I could get the lectern back, the robbery be solved.
No longer then would I be in so deep and so involved.
This numbers racket could be put to rest. It’s such a lie,
and I could go back to the ordinary caseload pile.
O, Mr. Page, can you help me to solve this baffling case.
The plea touched my friend’s countenance. One saw it in his face.

O, Mr. E., do not despair, said Earl Dolan Page,
Perhaps you’ll find another lectern in the coming age.
And honesty may raise its head above idolatry,
and millions then reject in time such ideology.
A Great Reset could set such wretchedness besetting you,
and many more could one day see the truth and get a clue.
One cannot steal a lectern from a people in plain sight,
unless that people are benighted, and don’t care a whit.

O, Mr. E,. you must have many unsolved cases yet,
that do not haunt your mind so much or leave you so upset.
Put this case in the list of those that have not yet been closed.
Be vigilant and maybe one day it will be exposed/
I saw that Mr. E. was not entirely appeased,
nor was he satisfied at all; he still had not been pleased.
And yet, the conversation had done much to calm him down.
Exasperation was replaced with a more nuanced frown.
Earl Dolan Page then offered him some wine and history,
of which he did partake. He stayed—the sobered Mr. E.

C. Aubrè DeWiles is a poet of detection. One of his favourite short stories is “The Purloined Letter” by Edgar Allan Poe (1809-1840).


The Warehouse Worker
          by Des Wercebauli

He stood there working at the warehouse over by the shelves.
He put his whole self into it, from calves on up to delts.
His boss had given him a big task that he had to do,
to inventory all there was that was in his purview.
From top to bottom, high to low, he had to count it all.
To him it seemed a mountain’s worth, and he was very tall.
O, he was very good, so careful noting all he could,
and went about his business there, just as he knew he should.
He was a marvel to behold when he was at his work.
mechanic’lly and physic’lly, he would not shun, nor shirk.

Des Wercebauli is a poet of labour. Sometimes, in some of his jobs, he has felt like as a human robot at work, hoping that he could just keep it up—his work-flow.