by “Clear Dew” Ibuse

From corn on the cob
to a round rutabaga—
since new life began.


          by “Clear Dew” Ibuse

The front door opened,
going out to the mail box:
the rabbit speeds off.


          by “Clear Dew” Ibuse

White lightning flashing,
thunder rumbling, exploding:
auroras soaring.


          by “Clear Dew” Ibuse

A visitation
at the window’s clear plate glass—
a pearl crescent.

“Clear Dew” Ibuse is a poet of Japanese poetic forms. A pearl crescent is a medium-sized butterfly.


          by E “Birdcaws” Eule

A scissor-tail scr-eeks,
while a nut-hatch eats—a worm,
lower on the fence.

E “Birdcaws” Eule is a poet of Japanese poetic forms, like haiku. The position of the nuthatch protected it from the scissortail. He admires the poetry and prose of the Japanese poet Matsuo Basho (1644-1694).


          by “Wired Clues” Abe

An army helmet
in the middle of the street;
a turtle’s removed.


          by “Wired Clues” Abe

After the downpour,
worms crossing gray-white pavement,
shriveled up and baked.

“Wired Clues” Abe is a poet of technology in English, using Japanese forms.


Adho Mukha Shvanasana
          by Sri Wele Cebuda

He got in adho mukha shvanasana—downward dog—
upon the mat upon the beach’s hour-glass of God.
The sands poured through his hands, like as a passing avalanche;
he saw the seagulls walking past, the driftwood, dry and blanched.
A butcher cheered nearby, who got a pitcher of dark beer,
but when he spilled a sip of it, he slumped into a jeer.
The greeter of the Sun continued Surya Namaskar;
he was so glad he did not have to wear a mask no more.
He hummed his mantra hum, the drum of love, the dream of peace,
reality, and knowledge of eternal verities.

Sri Wele Cebuda is a poet of yoga and India. This week the Indian Army released a video on the first anniversary of the Galwan Valley clash, with pictures of the Indian soldiers killed by the Chinese communists.


This week the number of deaths from the coronavirus in India passed 380,000. News comedian Jon Stewart noted: “Science has, in many ways, helped ease the suffering of this pandemic which was more than likely caused by science”. He went on: “There’s a novel respiratory coronavirus overtaking Wuhan, China!…who could we ask? The Wuhan Novel Respiratory Coronavirus lab?” or “Ooh, a pangolin kissed a turtle?…Maybe a bat flew into the throat of a turkey and sneezed into my chili and now we all have coronavirus.”


Press Conference After Biden-Putin Summit
          by E. Ludwic Barese

In Switzerland, Geneva, after Biden-Putin talks,
the briefing room became a global stage for Putin’s knocks.
When asked about Navalny, Putin told reporters there.
Look at America’s street riots—looting everywhere.
When asked about the label Biden gave him—murderer,
he said look at the CIA. Who is the killer here?
When asked about the Russian jailings, all that he would say,
look at disorder and destruction in the USA.
Although we feel sympathy with the Americans,
we do do not want the BLM set loose in Russian lands.

E. Ludwic Barese is a poet of Switzerland. As per corporate media outlet US News and World Report, powered by MSN: Biden’s handlers did not want him to stand next to Putin in a press conference. Putin did say Biden was better than Trump, because he admitted America was a flawed state (unlike Russia, China, North Korea, and Iran?). He also said the military build-up, on the border with Ukraine, was a defensive move! and his decision to outlaw other political views was in the interest of securing civil society (hardly anything like the Democrats were doing in the United States?). When asked about the cyber attacks upon the Colonial Pipeline, he said the US has been uncooperative with Russian investigations originating in the US.


Hunter Biden, New Millennial American Painter
          by Red Was Iceblue
          “I wouldn’t pay shit for it because he’s a criminal”
              —Jill, New York gallery owner
          “It’s Generic Post Zombie Formalism Illustration”
              —Jerry Saltz
          “a…vaguely psychedelic vibe…Tomaselli…for dematologist waiting
              —Scott Indrisek

He used the N-word in iMessage conversations with
his lawyer—Hunter Biden—is an artist full of pith.
In fall, a New York exhibition will be taking place,
his pictures selling tens of thousands—money won’t be traced.
As decorations they are nice, Don Kimes said of the pics.
They’re “Bed, Bath and Beyond” in style, a hotel perfect fix.
He does not paint with feeling or emotion he has said,
but straws and brushes in the making of his images.
The fine self portrait of the fifty-one-year-old-half-youth…
“is kind of trying to bring forth what is”, he thinks, “the…truth”.

Red Was Iceblue is a poet of Modernist, PostModernist, and NewMillennial art. Many do find his works quite good, but rarely among the impoverished artists who can’t even get a sale, let alone a showing.


Magnetic Nets
          by Ira “Dweeb” Scule

Lodestone, a type of magnetite, displays magnetic signs,
and shows north-south polarity—invisible in lines;
yet it is found in igneous and metaphoric rocks,
and can be seen attracting iron, Thales came across.
And thoughtful Thales also noted amber’s charge by rubs,
against some fir or cloth, where it could gather specks of dust,
thus demonstrating scientific evidence, to see
the stark reality of static electricity—
that one can fe-el in dry winter, when one touch a switch:
a flick, a j/o/l/t, a click, a b/o/l/t, a quick react—and t.w:i:t.c:h.

Ira “Dweeb” Scule is a poet of science. The ancient Greek Thales of Miletes (c. 625 BC – c. 545 BC) is often referred to as the “father of science.”

The Lands of Eastern Europe
          by Redewi Albescu

He loved the lands of Eastern Europe, free from marxist yoke,
recovering from decades of its iron chains and choke.
He loved the Poles, the Czechs, Slovaks, the proud Hungarians,
those hardy souls from Belarus and the Ukrainians,
the Russians and Romanians, Bulgarians, as well,
o, even the Moldavians and Serbians from hell.
He loved their fortitude, in face of hard, harsh wretchedness,
their willingness to carry on despite much bunk, o, yes.
They were inspiring for slow-burning fire and irony.
In floods of muck, they still turned mass into pure energy.

Redewi Albescu is a poet of Romania.


          by El Edwi Escubar

He lay upon the beige beach towel, happy as a clam,
in rainbow shades, black baseball hat, like as a resting ram;
dressed all in black, from foot to cap, no longer a crack cop,
the sand around him—beautiful—a lucky photo op.
Relaxing in the rolling dunes, tongue tasting salty air,
he loved the gulls there cir-cl-ing above, his focus fair,
the aging face of agent change, a weather-beaten glance,
a realistic modernism empty of romance.
He thought about the beaches he would love to visit soon,
from Buenos Aires off to Barcelona’s lovely boon.

El Edwi Escubar is a poet of Latin matins.


          by Beau Ecs Wilder

He felt so good, so fine and glad, like as a long-loved guest.
He lay down on the sofa, kicking back his lengthy legs.
Not in a pose, he simply dozed and fell into a dream.
It seemed unmanufactured, like a real and focused meme.
It seemed so natural, if not that fun; there were no cues;
he simply flowed along, as if each scene seen cut was fused.
It was so beautiful, a lovely, cozy, little niche;
the lamp light’s flushed hue, like a piece of gold-pink pine-sap pitch.
He wanted to awaken, but already was awake.
O, was this dream-reality too difficult to take?


The Ancient Mariner of Colder Edge
          by Beau Ecs Wilder

Few know the edges of the Earth beyond maps shown to crowds,
those ever-changing and four-coloured plats and plotted owks.
One of those souls, the ancient mariner of Colder Edge,
had come upon the Cape of Horn, the Land of Fire’s ledge.

He’d come to the true end of the known World—those icy seas,
containing giant icebergs in perpetual deep freeze.
And then he saw a crystal cube—each edge six-hundred feet.
He gazed in awe up at each wall, a perfect marble sheet.

He wondered at this transcendental portal to a realm
beyond the sugarberry and the growing cedar elm.
But he pressed on, the current taking him to Utter Peace,
Aurora, ah, Australis over strangely warming seas.

A raging cataract appeared in oceanic heat.
In th’ ashy atmosphere, a chasm opened underneath.
All colors of the prismed rainbow focused into white.
Into the sky, a giant figure rose before his sight.

Could this be Earl Aldon Page? What was he doing there?
He could not drink, though there was water, water everywhere—
that ancient mariner from Colder Edge upon an ark—
Antarctica beyond…the energy and matter…dark.

Beau Ecs Wilder is a poet of 19th century Romantic (1800-1850) adventures. Two of his favourite Romantic writers are Samuel Taylor Coleridge (1872-1834) and Edgar Allan Poe (1809-1949). According to Beau Lecsi Werd, an owk (pronounced like cow backwards) is an outlined spec or pictured sketch. The crystal cube mentioned here, was that described by escritor Cebas Ur Ewilde, the giant figure is that first noted by Earl Aldon Page in his only novel.


Naval Navel-Gazing
          by Scubie Leeward

Upon the sofa, kicking back, in navasana pose,
like as a boat, from bow to stern, upon light-waves he rose.
From fore to aft, his river craft, rode on the current’s drift.
Bareboating in eternity; he felt his spirit lift.
He had to watch his pitch, his angle, gradient and slant.
He kept his bark aright; he did not want his arc to cant.
He felt like Jim or Huck Finn on the Mississippi’s flow,
as down he went, and up he bent into a g-r-o-w-i-n-g roll.
O, Man, how can you fathom phantoms, in this Milky Way,
opaque and cloudy, opalescent, alablast array?

Scubie Leeward is a poet of riding the seas. Navel-gazing is also known as omphaloskepsis. Bareboating is to sailing as free falling is to skydiving. Jim and Huck Finn are central characters of “The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn” by American Realist Mark Twain (1835-1910). According to Beau Lecsi Werd, “alablast array” might mean “starry constellations.”


Another Hundred-Thousand Words
          by Beau Lecsi Werd

In some ways it is very nice nobody cares about
the hundred-thousand words one writes of doom, demise and doubt.
It means nobody has to deal with such dreadful things,
dark-matter and dark-energy in black-hole tur-ning rings.
In some ways it is very nice somebody doesn’t care
about another hundred-thousand words without despair.
It means somebody doesn’t have to deal with such joys,
such happiness, a danger to the long-sought-after poise.
In some ways it is very nice that anybody can
read some of the new hundred-thousand words time has not banned.
It means that anybody might observe another’s norm
without the need to read that everybody must conform.

Beau Lecsi Werd is a poet of con-cor-dance. One of his favourite poets is the American Modernist E. E. Cummings (1894-1962).


A Constant Quest
          by Sid Cee Uber Awl

The drapes were open wide. Outside the city buildings rose.
Upon the dark-brown couch, he got in an asana pose.
He raised his head off to the right. He was a bit uptight.
His inner eye sought insight, yes, at that flat’s happy height.
The blue-white light of sky arched over his tranquility.
Each pressing second was a test of his ability.
Could he endure the splendor rendered into blessedness?
Could he find sweetest peace amidst surcease of restlessness?
Ah, yes, but firm success was temporary at the best.
Life ever was, in vast eternity, a constant quest.

Sid Cee Uber Awl is a poet of adventure, his symbol is a silver ess: S.


Uncovered Screwtape Memo
          by Caud Sewer Bile

“We have to force demonic rats to give their freedoms up.
We have to make sure that demonic rats are all corrupt.
We have to let demonic rats run rampant over truth.
We have to get demonic rats to lie, lie through their teeth.
We must ensure demonic rats destroy the World with plagues.
We must insist demonic rats walk round upon two legs.
We must imprison all demonic rats who are too good.
We must require that demonic rats don’t ever brood.
We’ve got to shove demonic rats to ever greater speeds.
We’ve got to push demonic rats to greater evil deeds.
We’ve got to press demonic rats to drive all justice out.
We’ve got to help demonic rats to hate with greater clout.”


The Passing of Journalist Christopher Sign
          by Caud Sewer Bile

On Saturday, the Alabama anchorman Chris Sign
was found dead in his Scott-Trace home—supposéd suicide.
He was the man who broke the story of the tarmac meet
between Bill Clinton and Loretta Lynch—on Hillary.
Back then Loretta Lynch was the Attorney General,
investigating Clinton’s private email server—ah.
He wrote a book entitled “Secret on the Tarmac” that
he said made life a living hell, because he got death threats.
And now Loretta Lynch is back—Attorney General.
Chris Sign has died—a suicide. There’s nothing odd at all.

Caud Sewer Bile is a poet and jo-ur’nalist of Washington DC. Screwtape is a fictional demon created by British Modernist C. S. Lewis (1898-1963).


Wet, Western Washington
          by Ubs Reece Idwal

He was so glad that he was free of western Washington,
the rainy mists, that never left, were ever washing him.
The mizzle seemed as constant as the misery it brought;
the mourning clouds an onslaught, like a dread disease one caught.
Each morning fogs would greet one, as the day began to be,
a forlorn message entering one’s own anatomy.
It was a state forsaken by the companies it bred,
hard Microsoft, fierce Amazon, and bitter Starbucks brewed,
to rain on anyone’s parade that they were able to,
the muzzling of a people with another point of view.

Ubs Reece Idwal is a poet of the Pacific Northwest.


To Synchronize
          by Rudi E. Welec, “Abs”

He went on down to the gym room to do some exercise;
he wanted so to…muscle, mind, and spirit…synchronize.
O, yes, he looked ab-out that space, the giant mirror’s span,
a portal to another world beyond the realm of man.
Below it were the dumbbell stacks in ordered, well-formed rows,
the ceiling gray, the lighting white, equipment black, pink walls.
He knelt upon a wide-eyed yawn; he focused on the bench.
He was content. But was it fun to exercise, o, Mensch?
And yet, he loved to shove above, the barbell of the buff,
to moan his OM, but fOCuseD on the art of getting tough.
Was he so strong? Could he last long? He kept on working hard.
But did he know just what it meant to be, ha-hah, a bard?

Rudi E. Welec, “Abs”, is a poet of physical exercise.