by “Clear Dew” Ibuse
Lightning and thunder,
the rain is pouring down hard.
The birds are quiet.
by “Clear Dew” Ibuse
Day after day, raun
comes down rushing to the drain.
It can’t ease the pain.
“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
A knock at the door,
two cool and fresh bubble tease:
it’s the wrong address.
by “Wired Clues” Abe
at the drive-thru window spot:
pancakes and bacon.
by “Wired Clues” Abe
After pouring rain,
beside the two-meter fence:
a rabbir eats grass.
“Wired Clues” Abe is a NewMillennial haiku poet.
The Green Old Deal
by Iliac Burweeds
He had been gardening, and he was ready for a rest.
He went inside into the house; the bedroom was his quest.
He shed his overalls and thought to lay back on the bed.
Those pillows were inviting to his heat-oppressèd head.
Instead, however, he paused right there at the mattress edge,
and meditated on dianthus, roses and the hedge.
He fell into deep thought—o, yeah—and started rising high,
as if his spirit—o, to hear it—rose up to the sky.
Some demon grabbed his body, just to keep him on the Earth;
and yet he started flying upward –thoroughly ungirthed.
This devil, then, attempted to bribe him with jewelry,
but he refused to buy it, and its dreams of revelry…
“Release my soul,” he cried aloud. “Let me reach heaven’s door.”
Yet he collapsed. O, yes, he lapsed. Then dropped down to the floor.
Ileac Burweeds is a poet of plants and gardening.
by Sri Wele Cebuda
He got into the lotus pose upon the gray divan,
his clothes were black and white, and he still had his black shoes on.
O, but he didn’t care; he was in search of the divine.
He stretched his legs out, knees and thighs, and raised his head and
He closed his eyes, and opened up his inner eye, and dreamed.
Perhaps some god could come to him, and he could be redeemed.
Or maybe in that set position he could come to see
the lack of personality en route to ecstasy.
And then he looked down where he sat at what seemed, yes, to be
a beautiful door cracked / before him / vast eternity
In an Asana Pose
by Sri Wele Cebuda
He got in an asana pose upon the black divan.
He longed to reach sweet inner peace, to be a tranquil man.
He gazed in awe at what he saw—a picture on the wall.
It was abstract and big; but it was not so beautiful.
Nearby the drapes were close-d; but further on were wide apart.
He started thinking of his past. He did not think of art.
He heard his tennis shoes upon the black-top go clop-clop;
He was out running in the morning; five miles all nonstop.
Clop-clop, clop-clop, he heard that plop up-down, up-down the hills;
his breathing hard, the fresh air sharp, past houses, plants and fields.
How odd it was he thought of that while being still right here.
Where was he going to he wondered. What would time reveal?
Sri Wele Cebuda is a poet of India and yoga. Although more than 300,000 deaths have been reported in India so far, some say the number of deaths may be as high as 1,500,000.
by Alibec Rusedew
Kasym Kasenov was a poet born in Kazakhstan,
in 1918 when the soviets criss-crossed the land.
On graduation, he was sent, in 1939,
to military intel, until 1941.
USSR embroiled in war, off to the southwest front,
Ukraine, Romania, Moldova—there—Was he a grunt?
From death’s jaws he’d escaped, o,, that clandestine partisan,
that man in back o’ th’ enemy, that hidden veteran,
who though unknown upon the World stage, as such, perforce,
still left behind in people’s minds a page from Dnepr’s course.
Alisec Rusedew is a poet of Kazakhstan. The last film that caused him to cry was the 2013 film “Kasym”. This tennos alludes to of his poems. Kazakhstan is a nation of approximately 18,000,000.
Hamas has thanked Iran for all the missiles it deployed
to help attack the people it is hell-bound to destroy.
A journalist was pulled off of an airplane jet in Minsk.
Roman Protasevich did not assess the re-al risk.
Yes, now it seems, air piracy occurs in Belarus;
the Ryanair jet was diverted/forced to land—at once!
If one thinks the election stolen, they could be abused.
the dissident’s in prison now. Did Lukashenko lose?
the premier and the president of Mali have resigned,
now that take-over by the military is aligned.
Maintaining His Indifference
by Dicase Lebweru
“It was a very special moment to be so close to hell.”
It was a lovely day; the Sun was shining through the drapes;
and though he was a bit on edge, he was filled up with praise.
One saw the city’s tree-lined streets stream by below the flat;
activity there was in flux down from where he was at.
His elbows leaned upon the black top of a wall-side shelf.
He tried maintaining his indifference at all he felt.
He’d heard the news—Mount Nyiragongo’s deadly lava flows—
had killed, round Goma, Congo, o. more than a dozen souls;
So beautiful, yet dangerous, Mount Nyiragongo is;
he gazed in awe upon its sight, but still so longed for bliss.
Dicase Lebweru is a poet of East Africa. Mount Nyiragonga rises over 11,000 feet, and at its top is the largest lava lake in the World. Goma is a city of about 650,000. Even more deadly this week, however, Islamicists in eastern Congo have killed twenty-two.
by Aedile Cwerbus
The Romans read their omens and their poems carefully,
important for prosperity and for posterity.
Like as a vulture, they sought culture, searching through the past…
for that which they thought beautiful or good that they could grasp.
Aedile Cwerbus is a poet of ancient Rome.
The Military Clerk
by Ed “Bear” C. U. Lewis
There was a stack of papers, so he was assigned as clerk.
Each day there was so much to do. He had a lot of work.
The desk was piled high and wide. He had a coffee cup;
but he was wearing dogtags, so he had to suck it up.
In uniform and army boots, it was just one more day.
He had to fight against the tide of orders in his tray.
He cursed a lot, but so as not to get First Sergeant mad
O, fuck, o, shit, son of a bitch—o, he was very bad.
And yet, o, yeah, he powered through; he had a touch of class;
and so, at times, he felt sublime, accomplishing each task.
Ed “Bear” C. U. Lewis is a poet of military equipment.
In the Line of Sight
by War di Belecuse
They took up a position in the pale light of dawn;
the building was dilapidated, empty, large, and tawn.
The windows were rectangular, and spaced along one wall.
The men themselves were angular, in camo, boots, and tall.
Was this some grandiose warehouse that had seen better days?
Who gazed at them beyond? Who was the enemy they faced?
They stood prepared in back-pack straps; their dogtags dangled down.
The colours of their world ranged from pale pink to brown.
One dude was standing at a window, staring with concern;
another prone, prepared to shoot, whose head was slightly turned.
He didn’t see the rifle barrel that was aimed at him;
but he was careful not to move for fear of being hit.
There was no time to focus on naught but what they observed:
the rounded hills and shrubbery down which the dirt road curved.
War di Belecuse is a poet of the battlefield. This anecdote of these jarheads was influenced by the spare language of Modernist American poet Wallace Stevens (1879-1955) and PostModernist American poet William Stafford (1914-1993).
The Warehouse Workers
by Red Was Iceblue
It was like as a Rembrandt painting—gold, red, black and white.
In darkness bathed, the large, spare room had very little light.
The warehouse workers at their jobs were moving things around.
Outside one heard the city traffic’s steady, pavement pound.
Here was no forklift helping them, these rough, buff, tattooed chumps,
this moving of containers, boxes, packages and such;
but they got on, as best they could, round this big, boxlike block.
One guy was stationed at the side; one guy was up on top.
O, forth and back, they functioned as a team, o. back and forth;
one handing up one thing, the other grasping it to store.
These were no syndics of the Amsterdam group, draper’s guild
but rather just two individuals of varied build.
It wasn’t pretty. Who on Earth would call it beautiful—
two dutiful hard workers in a NeoRe-al pic?
Red Was Iceblue is a poet of NewMillennial art. Rembrandt Harmenszoon van Rijn (1606-1669) was a Dutch Realist painter whose artworks are amongst the greatest in the World. Red Was Iceblue recalls working in a paper factory warehouse for several summers. He remembers that, despite the harsh surroundings and heavy workload, moments of spectacular visions, eerily unearthly and imaginatively grand.
At the Gallery
by Claude I. S. Weber
It was another world back then, so beautiful, but spare;
at Berkeley there was free speech, free love,, freedom in the air.
The moonlit nights contained such sights; some still remember them,
transforming starkest dark, like as a shiny diadem.
When one awoke back then, although life oft was tragical,
for a brief interlude the world was bright and magical.
The gallery contained such charming prints and pics to see;
there at the Louvre the lovers gazed in utter ecstasy.
Back then one was content to be as good as one could be,
when any moment one was offered opportunity.
Claude I. S. Weber is a poet of France, freedom, and feeling fine.
by Beau Ecs Wilder
He was a Jesuit, a priest, that forged Victorian,
his given name Gerard, the poet Manley Hopkins—yeah.
Manipulating prosody with his sprung rhythm, he
praised God through his unique techniques and vivid imagery.
He was a friend of Robert Bridges, who spared his poetry;
and on his death would place his works in verse anthologies.
Eventu’lly that learned priest, oft on his hands and knees,
devoted to his God, was noted for his poetry.
He longed to make his language purer, to push it deeper in
to mold it, shape it, boldly drape it in gold folds of skin.
Uptight, but right, he begged for new beginnings of his speech,
which he believed so fervently was well within his reach.
He focused on all he could do to draw such power forth,
that man in black, upon the rack, for ‘s wholly holy Lord.
Beau Ecs Wilder is a poet of 19th century artistry and sensibilities, like the poetry of Gerard Manley Hopkins (1844-1889).
The Lean Mechanic
by Bruc “Diesel” Awe
A single lamp was in the back, Could this be after hours?
A slow and low guitar refrain, ah, would not be aroused.
Was this a dark garage at night? Was that a pile of tires?
A lean mechanic leaned upon it. Was he chill or tired?
He seemed to be content, and unconcerned about much else.
He meditated on his fellow man, and on his self.
But was he contemplating more than oil, gas or lubes?
or what containers held those substances—tank, bottle, tubes.
What most amazed me was how peaceful this mechanic seemed.
Not pressed upon by brain or brawn, it was a though he dreamed.
Bruc “Diesel” Awe is a poet of shop and garage.
An E-mail from the Republic
by Esca Webuilder
The archaeologists, who end up picking through our bones,
will never know these once were quick as foxes past the stones,
or that t-art grapes upon the trellis vines were sharp as wine,
and yet we ate them as we fell down into the sub-lime
And who will guess that what we felt was left along the way
with blo-wing clouds and flo-wing shrouds of oak…leaves…in the day?
Ah, yes, above the shuttered house, beyond the windy sky,
we’ve known for long no one would know; none knew here now alive.
The children w-e-a-v-i-n-g budded aureoles will speak our speech;
but they will be, like we will be, forever out of reach.
Esca Webuilder is a poet of the Net.
by Des Wercebauli
He stepped out of the water in black, knee-high fishing boots.
Dressed all in black, he came up to the workshop full of tools.
The hardly-dreamy, very dreary, space was bleak and gray.
It did not seem to be a place that one would want to stay.
And yet this fisherman had a chore that he had to do;
and so he got down to his job without an “attitude”.
His boss, it seems, told him he had to, by a ladder, work,
to clean his catch in that drab mess. His boss, he thought a jerk.
But he said not a word and went on with his business there.
Perhaps he could glean something good from out of that despair.
by Des Wercebauli
It was time for some basement cleaning; it was eight o’clock.
Although it seemed quite early, three times he had heard the cock.
It was a large, drab, empty room with four cement, gray walls,
and one lone, ladder opened up for various installs.
Above, the ceiling, dark-brown beams, the house’s bottom floor;
to clean, to sweep, down there so deep, was what he was there for.
He didn’t like to go down there, o, but it must be done,
o, working on a ladder wasn’t really all that fun.
Yet he was happy cleaning up that dirty, nasty place.
He liked that right there, when he had a fresh, sweet-smelling space.
In fact, he felt so good, right at the end, the task complete,
that basement’s peachy-yellow light, glowed bright-gold purity.
Des Werkebauli is a poet of work, at the workplace or at home.
Casee Lew Burdi
by Rudi E. Welec, “Abs”
O, Casee at the bat was an impressive man at that.
for he could hit a baseball hard and far—Jehoshaphat!
His stocky build, his clothing filled, his shirt, pants, socks and shoes;
and he could ark out of the park, the balls that he would use.
Like Thayer’s ballad character, or Stengel’s managing,
he was a gifted player when he wasn.t damaging.
A tattoo on his shoulder, crew-cut om his bearded head;
he was a cocky fella when he got to goin’—yeah.
by Rudi E. Welec, “Abs”
They were two dudes in covid times, who had been stuck inside;
they wanted so to play football, but they had been denied.
So one day at the stadium; nobody was in sight.
they snuck down to the field marked with yards, bright green and white.
They put on shoulder pads, and went out in athletic shoes,
and smacked and sacked each other. With no score—how could they
They howled, they growled, they even scowled, with dark black on their
O, back and forth they threw the ball. It was what both did seek.
But as night came, they left the game; they had to go away.
and they would have to wait some time to have such a good day.
Rudi E. Welec, “Abs” is a poet of sport.
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