by “Clear Dew” Ibuse

A quiet alarm:
from my slumber on the couch,
the full moon wakes me.


          by “Clear Dew” Ibuse

Zig-zag dragonfly
zips and zaps through evening’s sky.
How far has he gone?

“Clear Dew” Ibuse is a poet of Japanese poetic forms.


          by E. “Birdcaws” Eule

In the early morn,
at the approaching cat feet.
the mockingbird screets.


Urban Haiku
          by “Wired Clues” Abe

Gold and white bouquets
at the edge of the subway:
chrysanthemum scents.


Urban Haiku
          by “Wired Clues” Abe

The huge semi truck,
carrying cabbage baggage,
pauses at the store.

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


A Subway Station in Zhengzhou
          by Aw “Curbside” Lee

Outside the entry to a subway station in Zhengzhou,
more than a dozen died due to a fierce downpour’s flood-flow.
The rains caused water-logging in Line-5’s retaining walls,
the inundation at “once-in-a-thousand-year’s rainfalls.”
A train was trapped with hundreds, as the water torrents rushed,
the deluge drowning some and leaving others gasping, crushed.

Funereal bouquets of gold and white chrysanthemums,
tied tight, as neat and tidy as the florals of Demuth.
On Monday, yellow plastic barricades were placed around
bouquets to keep them hidden. Later they were taken down,
when Tuesday night a group of people pushed them all aside.
They chanted, “Let the spirits come back home all those who died”.

Aw “Curbside” Lee is a poet of urban Chinese settings. Zhengzhou, China, has a population of around 10,000,000. The Zhengzhou Meteorological Station described the floods as “once-in-a-thousand-year’s” heights. Modernist American painter Charles Demuth (1883-1935) helped develop a style of painting: Precisionism.


In Seated Savasana
          by Sri Wele Cebuda

In seated savasana on the metal-wicker chair,
the brilliant Sun was shining on him, as he rested there,
though he was in a gray room with a doorway, black and dark,
and everything about his person, barren, spare and stark.

He gazed up to the left, envisaging some hopeful goal,
though where he sat there on that chair was no more than a hole.
To reach a higher realm he’d have to have a booster shot
of meditative power to get out of that grim grot.

But still, he kept on contemplating; he was dutiful.
If he continued searching, could he find the beautiful?
He looked at the horizon, as he sat there in that space,
his inner eye unblinking, seeking linking, o, to Grace.


In Shala…bhasana
          by Sri Wele Cebuda

The walls were gray, the ladder silver, and the couch was black.
O, in shalabhasana, his strong arms were stretched and back;
his head not pressed into the couch’s corner, but relaxed,
his legs, tense as a locust’s, readied, stetched out to the max.
He meditated on his present state. He dreamed of joy—
the kind he felt when he was but a stripling of a boy.

He felt as though some Michelangelo had come on down
the ladder from the Sistine Chapel, heavenly unbound.
He calmly breathed, his mouth was closed, he felt his thighs go wide.
Though he was still, he felt like as a god, o, awed, in stride,
about to leap, like as grasshopper, near some varnished fence,
to fly away into a day of utter innocence.

Sri Wele Cebuda is a poet of meditation. Michelangelo di Ludovico Buonarroti (1475-1564) was a painter, poet, architect and sculptor of the High Renaissance.


Feu d’Artifice
          by Waldi Berceuse
          “fire sprites swirling in a spiral gyre,/ Whistling as they whirl into nothingness”
              —Adam Sedia, “Fireworks”

Beginning with unfurling backing, flutes in frenzied quest
to three-note whirls with horns, first-violins and trumpet’s zest,
it builds, and beats, a runner’s heart in a one-minute’s dash,
explosive fanfares, flying in to a percussive crash,

which quiets to strange listless strains with languid peacefulness,
a misty, eerie pausing, wonderful, mysterious,
extending to a wistful, rimsky-korsakov-like rest,
exotic, magical, an orchestrated restfulness;

from which the twisting fantasy proceeds transparently,
by clearing silence with its airs moved forth inerrantly,
exquisite colourings in an incessantly busying
a twittering of glitter, layered flair, o, dizzying.

Waldi Berceuse is a poet of Russian and other Slavic music. Russian Nationalist Composer Nicolay Rimsky-Korsakov (1844-1908) was the teacher of Modernist Russian-American Composer Igor Stravinsky (1882-1971), the author of “Feu d’Artifice”.


          by Wibera Esculde

It was so long ago—1911—distant, o.
I saw him lingering beside the quiet, light-blue l’eau,
beside the pond in auburn burned in brown beneath El Sol—
L’embarcador de Santiago Rusiñol:
red flowers in the urns, tall trees that tower, black and dark,
the placid emptiness, not peacefulness, but staid, still, stark.
João-Maria calls it avant-garde antiquity,
an aspect of Iberia, of Catalonia,
romantic, brief, a calm reflection of eternity,
like that Fernando Sor soared o’er in his symphonia.

Wibera Esculde is a poet of Iberia. According to Beau Lecsi Werd, “Barcelonia” is a neologism meaning the “realm” of Barcelona. Mentioned in this tennos are “L’embarcador”, a painting of 1911 by Spanish Naturalist and Modernist painter and poet Santiago Rusiñol (1861-1931), Spanish Romantic classical guitarist and composer Fernando Sor (1778-1839), and João-Maria NewMillennial Portuguese poet and prosist.


On the Subway
          by Bruc “Diesel” Awe

It was so crowded on the subway, down, or standing up,
one couldn’t help but bump into another, so abrupt.
The jo-stl-ing was awe-some-ly ki-ne-tic, stop-and-go;
all felt like as a batch of subatomic particles.
No face was smiling or beguiling, all preoccupied,
enduring this long ride, o, back-to-back or side-to-side.
None read or cared about the signs there posted on the walls,
each simply focused on staid balance, hoping not to fall.
Where were they going on this trip? Where had they been before?
What was the future they were headed to? Would they want more?

Bruc “Diesel” Awe is a poet of transportation.


Extreme Heat
          by Edwar Lee Subic

An amber warning for extreme heat for the south UK
was given recently by the Met Office—yesterday.
The heat was so hot he was sweating in the morning sun.
He longed to leave behind the grass and trees. It was no fun.
He paused beside the gorgeous orange flowers, rising hills.
He wondered if he’d make it through…the afternoon…distills.

He loved to be out on the gravel road, but it was hot,
so hot he wasn’t sure that he could take its burning throt.
He held on to the sky so blue. He saw the awesome swell.
He loved these amber days, but they were dangerous as well.
Could he endure the blaze azure, with equanimity,
to meet his dream, this mete extreme, o, beckoning with heat.


On the Battlefield of Hard, Dry Ground
          by War di Belecuse

He felt surrounded, as the enemy attacked full force.
He grabbed his gun, but stilll…was stunned. O, what would be his course?
Ambushed, he got behind a bush—the shooting had begun.
O, he would rather be—some place else—where he could have fun—
too bad—the fight was on. O, what would happen to him now?
There was no pow-wow on the battlefield of hard, dry ground.
He held his staid position. O, where else could he stay?
They kept on coming, he kept fi-re-ing. He was afraid.
But he had little choice. He had to fight up till the end.
He wished he weren’t in this hell-hole in to which time desenned

War di Belecuse is a poet of the battlefield. One of his favourite works is “The Collected Works of Billy the Kid” by Canadian PostModernist poet and proset Michael Ondaatje. According to Beau Lecsi Werd, “fireing” is an alternate three-syllable spelling, “desenned” a two-syllable worded meaning descended, and “proset” a contraction meaning prose-writer.


Daguerreotype in Brown and Amber
          by Cawb Edius Reel

The lamp shade, white, reflected in the picture on the wall,
a golden sky above tan buildings, framed rectangular.
The slightly bearded man was coming heartily to bed.
His cowboy chores had been so hard, stern eyes stared from his head.

He didn’t want to ride more, no. He wanted just to rest.
O, life, at times, could be so hardcore, out here in the West.
Though serious, he wasn’t furious, Achillean.
He longed to lean back on those thick, embroidered pillows—yeah.

He wanted so to be flat on that plat, not up so tall.
He gazed in awe at what he saw beside the deep-brown wall.
It was a gorgeous afternoon. Could he not be content?
It was a beautiful plateau, horizon, heaven-sent.

O, amber mesas—they were aces in a dead man’s hand—
brush flushed, such roseate forms touched pink by the Sun’s command;
and lasso eights that held the sky there in eternity,
corralled like coral Sunsets burning incandescently.

Cawb Edius Reel is a poet of photography. Achillean, of or like the hero of the “Iliad”, compiled by the Ancient Greek poet Homer (c. 8th century BC).


A Business Meeting
          by Brad Lee Suciew

Outside the leafy trees were green, the picnic table white.
Inside the boss stood tall, beside the sofa lean and light.
This was a business meeting, suit was gray and shoes were black.
The seated worker wore black shoes; he too was neat, in fact.
It looked as though the manager was howling at the man,
whose lips were sealed perfectly. Where was the turning fan?
The well-groomed dudes were trying to complete some business there.
The seated worker listening, but how much did he care?
Although the seated guy seemed taller than the boss, in fact,
it mainly seemed he was attempting then not to be sacked.

Brad Lee Suciew is a poet of business.


Conformal Clashing
          by I. E. Sbace Weruld

It’s very odd to find oneself out of sync with one’s times;
it’s like time-travel in which one is yanked to changing climes.
And yet the Earth is always changing; it can’t stay the same;
it is an awesome law, that never fails to amaze.
How strange it is, in fact, that it’s to be expected so,
conventional, habitual, as natural as snow.
Why then are we surprised time after time that this occurs?
It must be…as inevitable as life’s aging course.
Accumulating human data is a constant thing,
as regular as breathing, even living—cosmic’lly.

I. E. Sbace Weruld is a poet of the Cosmos.