by “Clear Dew” Ibuse

A fresh green scallion
lies in wait upon the plate—
O, it is so clean.


          by “Clear Dew” Ibuse

The front door opens,
a squalling baby is swaddled:
a sweet calm descends.

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


          by “Wired Clues” Abe

gazing at the bright light’s blaze:
eyes in the OR.


          by “Wired Clues” Abe

A rainbow arches
in bright, focused clarity—
a cataract falls.

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


Centenary Address from Tiananmen Square: July 1, 2021
          by Li “Web Crease” Du

On Thursday, Xi Jinping delivered his expressive speech,
the neoHitler hailed the “new world” within his reach.
The bullies of democracy will “get their heads bashed in”;
and Hong Kong will be satisfied, when Chinese forces win.
The CCP, the World’s greatest murdering machine,
will also force Taiwan beneath its yoke of tyranny.

The “celebration” started with loud flyby fighter jets;
“We must accelerate…armed forces,” the dictator said;
and “only socialism can save China” and its throngs;
three thousand sang out loudly seven socialistic songs.
Tienanmen Square, hear, there were no jeers, no fears, no tears.
Once praising Mao, Xi closed his speech by leading rousing cheers.

Li “Web Crease” Du is a poet of China.


The NIH defended its decision to delete
its records of gene sequencing of covid-19—seen—
apparently done at request of China’s banning scheme
to not let anything out on their notoriety.
Still, Jesse Bloom said he recovered some of the scrubbed files,
and reconstructed partials from the Cloud that he could style.


Nothing kNew
          by Sri Wele Cebuda

He got in an asana pose upon the carpet/floor.
His top was orange, shorts were black; those were the clothes he wore.
He stretched his arms, his legs, his neck. He turned off to the left;
his shoulders back, his arms uplifted, and his hips he heft.
The light-blue curtain on the window seemed a spirit, aye.
He opened wide his inner eye, but saw no sight nor sigh.
He had a focused, sweet midsummer day’s reality;
and though he was quite serious, he seemed not ill at ease.
What could he see he could not see before? He wondered, o,
this lean, thin thinking man, a king of nothing but a soul.

em>Sri Wele Cebuda is a poet of thinking.


Muhammad Iqbal
          by Wisduree Ecbal

Allama Sir Muhammad Iqbal born in Sialkot,
of Kashmir ancestry, a poet and a polyglot,
who wrote his early poetry in Persian, but he grew
in Arabic and Urdu, which he also deeply knew.
He also studied English, and some German language too,
when he was educated in the European view.
As he moved t’ward the end of life, he thought that there should be
a sep’rate Muslim federation free from India,
in Bengal and the North-West, which in time would thus become
both Bangladesh and Pakistan on th’ great peninsula.

Wisduree Ecbal is a poet of South Asia. Modernist Urdu poet Muhammad Iqbal (1877-1938) likewise wrote Persian poetry, as for example, his “Message of the East”, where he, following German Classical/Romantic poet Goethe’s “West-östlicher Diwan”, argues against materialist philosophies. Sialkot is an industrial city of northeast Pakistan of about 650,000. Allama is a Persian honorific meaning learned, knowing, researcher.


A Streetcar Named Red Ise
          by Alecsei Burdew

How strange it is to see this tram of yesteryear go by
here in the city where I live. I hear the grackle’s cry.
I hear a lute, and distant thunder, and this flying tram.
Why would I jump upon its footboard? that’s not who I am.
Lost in the great abyss of time, it rushed by, like a storm.
Tram driver, stop. Stop this tram now. No, this is not the norm.

Too late, we had already passed the corner of the street;
we tore along beyond the Neva, Yangtse and the Seine.
We thundered over concrete bridges—one-two-three-four-five.
The man in Kovalevsky Wood no longer was alive.
My heart beat hard. From window frames, I saw the station where
one could buy tickets back to India. Look over there.

A sign. A shop. An executioner. Benighted souls.
Instead of cabbages and rutabagas, one finds ghouls.
On phone, note-book, computer or the airing radio,
one sees or hears repeating yesteryears roll on. O, roll.
Lost in the great abyss of time, it rushed by, like a storm.
Tram driver, stop. Stop this tram now. No, this is not the norm.

I see our freedom only is light rushing from afar,
here at the entrance to the zoo of planet, moon and star.
I see the iron-gloved hand of the Horseman and his steed,
Saint Isaac’s chiseled in the sky, the Orthodoxy creed.
I see the darkness touch my heart; it’s hard to live and breathe;
hard to believe and hard to grieve, o, Maia, but for Thee.

Alecsei Burdew is a poet of Russia. Here “Ise” is pronounced “Eyes”. This poem draws from Modernist, Russian Acmeist poet Nikolay Gumilyov (1886-1921), who was shot to death by the Communists in 1921 in Kovalevsky Forest, near Saint Petersburg, Russia. In all, approximately 4,500 people are thought to be buried there.


The Giraffe
          by Bud “Weasel” Rice

Your hands are clasped upon your knees; I see that you are sad;
but list, there is far-far away a proud giraffe in Chad.
He has been blessed with gracefulness and bliss. Ah, he is glad.
His hide is decorated with a magic-patterned plaid,
like that seen glistening in moon-light bouncing on Lake Chad.
Egad, it looks like coloured ship-sails gliding ‘cross the lad.

O, God, I know that miracles can be seen in…………this Land:
sun-sets and marble grottos, youthful chiefs, dark maidens, and…
but you have breathed the fog for far too long; you only can
believe in rain. You don’t want to believe in aught but………rain.
You cry when I tell you of palms and the hyena’s laugh,
but list, there roams far-far away, in Chad, a proud giraffe.

Bud “Weasel” Rice is a poet of Mammalia. Chad is a nation, south of Libya in Africa, of around 16,000,000 residents. This dodeca derives from a poem by Russian Modernist Nikolai Gumilyov (1886-1921).


Mammon Speaks
          by Brad Lee Suciew

Let us go, you and I, to seek our own good for ourselves.
We can create, thrive under evil, prosper in adverse.
Why would we dread this deep, dark place that we have made for us,
our heaven, though it be a hell of hate, and thunderous?

Can we not imitate God’s light, though we’re in darkness rolled?
This desert soil wants not hidden luster, gems or gold.
All things invite to peaceful counsels, and the settled state
of order, how in safety best we may compose our hate.

Let us continue to ban those who don’t fall into line,
our great reset of green regret, our socialist rewind,
our iron heel grinding faces of humanity,
our capital and streets walled off in horrid vanity.

Let us continue to use media for lies and gain,
our lightweight lackeys, vassals of our viciousness, and vain,
our secret MSS’s, killing souls and people’s lives.
Dismiss all thoughts of outright war; this is what I advise.

Brad Lee Suciew is a poet of the G-Mafiat.


Those Sunlit Lines
          by Breese Clad Wiu

Across the clothes line in a row, they hang—the fresh-washed clothes—
From clothes pin to another clothes pin—these each linked to those.
How beautiful they are, draped in pastels and purest hues,
pink, violet, red, white and blue, designs and clean smells fuse.
I still remember long ago, when mom had scrubbed them up—
and hung them on the lines outside to dry where they were put.
The sunlight drew the water from them after they were wrung,
and we all loved to go to them, and smell them where they hung.
Like spirits on a sunny day, the happiest of ghosts,
they wiggled bright in windy breezes fresh between the posts.

Breese Clad Wiu is a poet of clothes.