by “Clear Dew” Ibuse

He climbs up the palm.
He knocks the coconut down.
It pounds with a thud.


by “Clear Dew” Ibuse

Un raíz fresca,
la jícama de agua,
en el mercado.

“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

White chrysanthemums,
are tied with yellows one too.
I wish there were none.

Chysamthemums, oh.
Both white and yellow ones tied.
I don’t want red ones.

“Wired Clues” Abe is a NewMillennial poet interested in the comingling of technology and Japanese poetic forms, like the haiku.


As Chinese push their export-driven crazed insanity,
the UN sounds the climate code red for humanity.
Emitting CO2, its factories drive toxic blow;
Red China is the carbon-footprint hotspot of the Globe.


On California Fires
          by Cal Wes Ubideer


He was a tough cub frolicking out in the sunny wood,
until the California wildfire burned him good.
Named Tamarack by rescuers, they treated ailments;
but he escpaped th’ enclosure under an electric fence.
Search efforts focused on the Heaven Valley Ski Resort,
Sierra Tract and Black Bart zones, according to reports.


Some say the lightning-started fires should be let to burn,
avoiding future bigger fires in the woods concerned;
while others say, though they’re remote, the fires should be stopped,
lest they incinerate more areas and human spots.
But managing terrain that’s roadless is quite costly too,
especi’lly for the pilots and the firefighting crew.


Yet fires also do release smoke that can travel far,
and some, large as Rhode Island is, can kindle, choke and char.
In southern California roadless swaths of forest sit
close to dense urban areas. That is a deadly fit.
And chapparal, in forests there, burns fast and frequently.
It’s hard to halt such overgrowth, and fires easily.

Cal Wes Ubideer is a poet of California. Since the beginning of July, the lightning-started Tamarack fire in central-eastern California and western Nevada has burned over 68,000 acres. Smoke from the Tamarack blaze, along with other fires in California, Oregon, Montana, and Canada, pushed east, has impacted air quality as far away as NYC.


So Near and Uppity
          by Sri Wele Cebuda

He had a cup of coffee, but that was all that he’d had,
when he got in the lotus pose upon the bright-green pad.
He heard the ticking of the clock—tic-toc, tic-toc, tic-toc.
It was a soothing sound to him, like as a distant cock.
Dawn had appeared, and all was lightness in the peaceful place.
He stretched his legs out to each side, embracing time and space.
He loved to contemplate the awesome cosmic universe
that took him in to ecstasy and other worlds of worse.
He lifted up his body, as if on a puppet string;
the universal puppeteer, so near and uppity.

Sri Wele Cebuda is a poet of contemplation.


Pashtun Tune
          by Sawceeb Dureli

The Taliban and allied militants invoked their plan,
when Biden ordered US troops to leave Afghanistan.
Back on May 1st, the fierce offensive moved with lightning speed:
Jalrez and Nirkh were captured, Dahla Dam was soon achieved.
2000 Taliban were dead, but fifteen districts fell,
within the month of May, the land descending into hell.
In June, the war continued with extreme ferociousness.
Among belligerants there was no drop of cautiousness.
Though thousands died, they pressed to Puli Khumri and Kunduz,
as if that deadly crew was on the loose, and could not lose.
New districts fell, civilians died, the government fought back;
but Saydabad and Chaki Wardak dropped into the stack.
July was worse with 64 new districts giving in,
and thousands more were dying all around Afghanistan.
Some hundreds fled to Pakistan, Tajikistan, Iran;
while women armed, in hundreds, just to fight the Taliban.
It’s August, many refugees are fleeing rapidly.
The US and the UK warned their citizens to leave.
The Indonesians have been warned to leave the country too,
as well as many other nationals; the threat is true.
As NATO and US armed forces leave Afghanistan,
provincial capitals are falling to the Taliban.
The city of Sar-e Pul now has fallen, like Zaranj,
as well as Taluqan and Sheberghan of north Zawzjan.
Farah, Aybak, Faizabad—nine capitals are lost;
with trillions spent, and thousands dead; civilians pay the cost.
From Communism to Al-Qaida and the Taliban:
One wonders if peace ever will come to Afghanistan?

Sawceeb Dureli is a poet of Afghanistan. Major cities of Afghanistan include: Puli-Kumri, 220,000, Kunduz, 370,000, Zaranj 150,000, Sar-e Pul, 150,000, Sheberghan 175,000, Farah, 50,000, Faizabad, 30,000, Taleqan, 200,000.


Those Heights of Ancient Greece
          by Ercules Edibwa

I need to keep my eyes upon those heights of ancient Greece,
those sunny skies that rise and rise, like azure dreams of peace.
O may they never cease…o, to amaze and to inspire.
O may their beauties be remembered fired with desire.
O let us take them with us when we go to Pluto’s realm,
so though we be in darkness, they’ll be there to overwhelm.
We’ll cary them, like Aeneas did for his household gods,
and though we vanish from the earth, they’ll be there in the sod.
And though the Cosmos is a giant horror to behold,
we’ll hold them up until forever fails eternity.

Ercules Edibwa is a poet of ancient Greece. Pluto was the Roman god of the underworld. Aeneas was an epic hero of the Roman Golden Era poet Vergil (70 BC – 19 BC).


Forgotten Speech
          by Caud Sewer Bile

Perhaps in a more honest speech than usual these days,
just after the last presidential televised debate,
before November Third, the candid-ate Joe Biden said,
“the most extensive and inclusive voter fraud” to date:
here “in the history of…politics”—the USA.

Caud Sewer Bile is a poet of corrupt politics.


          by Buceli da Werse
          “Who is the other who walks beside you?”
              —B. S. Eliud Acrewe

She was alone, but felt someone was following afar;
but when she turned around, saw only unpaved road—no car.
One time there was a tiny swirl of dust, no more than that,
but it was golden in the evening, near the grape-vined plat.

She wondered at an apparition, felt, but not there seen,
at Le Barroux, the Benedictine Abbey in Provence,
some twenty years ago, those days long passed into the past,
but lasting still—indulgences, in sweet remembrances.

She realized just recently that she could speak with him,
great laureate Petrarca, in ballata, on a whim,
once walking quietly on monastery property,
where monks asleep, prepared for their psalm-chanting properly.

La Barroux is a village in southern France of about 637, which was its population in 1793 as well. Margaret Coats is a contemporary American NewMillennial poet fond of France. Francesco Petrarca (1304-1374) is an Italian poet of the early Renaissance.


With a Crayon Box
          by Sirc de Wee Balu

He sat beside the colouring book with a crayon box.
There were a lot of circus pictures—thick with pages—flocks.
The first he saw was a man prepping for the high trapeze;
with brown and silver colouring the costume in with ease.
He used peach, pink and tan for feet, legs, hands, arms, neck and face.
For hair he used both gray and white; he was a flying ace.
The squinting eyes were tinted green with black and circled dots.
He was about to take the ladder to the big-top’s loft.
The flag and banners all about next came into his view,
and those he coloured last in yellow, orange, red and blue.

Sirc de Wee Balu is a poet of the circus. His favourite book of the circus was that of American Realist James Otis Kaler (1848-1912): “Toby Tyler; or, Ten Weeks with a Circus”.