by “Clear Dew” Ibuse

Cantaloupe farmer,
if only you were here too,
beneath the full moon.


          by “Clear Dew” Ibuse

It lights up my World,
this gold-orange cantaloupe,
beneath the full moon.


          by “Clear Dew” Ibuse

Oh, cantaloupe grow.
Oh, grow, grow, grow, and so on.
Bees, buzz up a swarm.

“Clear Dew” Ibuse is a poet of Japanese forms in English, especially the traditional haiku, which reached its zenith in the 17th -19th centuries. The first haiku draws on Matsuo Basho (1646-1696), the latter haiku plays off on an haiku by noted haikuist Kobayashi Issa (1763-1828), melding my life and world with his sap.


          by “Wired Clues” Abe

This is just to say,
this withered chrysanthemum
is too sensuous.


          by “Wired Clues” Abe

Machine-gun fire,
in the dark Asian dust, o, no,
black flak sputtering.

“Wired Clues” Abe is a NewMillennial poet interested in the comingling of technology and Japanese poetic forms, like the haiku. The first haiku draws on Japanese Modernist Yuki Shoji (1927-1996) and American Modernist William Carlos Williams (1883-1963), the second on Japanese Modernist Saito Sanki (1900-1962) and American Modernist Randall Jarrell (1914-1965). Like American Modernist John Dos Passos (1896-1970), Saito Sanki placed some of his pieces in the titled section “Newsreels”. The arrest and jailing of Sanki and others in the 1940s broke the Newly Rising Haiku Movement.

Here is his epitaph:

gabari to samui
umi ga aru

A water cushion,
gur-gl-ing-ice-brr-ger cold:
the ocean exists.


Taiwan and Lithuania have deepened ties between
their lands, infuriating China, sparking bullying.
Beijing recalled its own ambassador to Vilnius
and kicked out that of Lithuania’s in viciousness.
But little Lithuania stood tall against the Reds,
unlike so many others folding to the Dragon’s threats.


Scrambling Away from an Undeclared War
          by War di Belecuse

This isn’t Vietnam, where once we lived, and once we died,
with helicopters trying to evacuate the tide;
that was the Communists who murdered people in Saigon;
this is Islamic terrorists who kill Afghanistan.
Then, while we lived and worked, we watched our television sets.
Now, on our streets upon our phones, we see the horrid deaths.
Then we were poor at the wolf’s door; we heard the spring birds sing.
Now, we are poorer for the horror of the distant ring.
We hear the mockingbirds, at night, on chimneys, sing their songs;
electric sounds and car alarms, while blowing through our blogs.


Gun Control
          by War di Belecuse

Joe Biden’s weaponized the terrorists up to the teeth!
ten-billions in sophisticated, high-tech weaponry!
in over seventy years, it is NATO’s worst defeat!
How many now must die because of t-his inanity?

War di Belecuse is a poet of war. This tennos draws from one of his favourite Postmodern American poets William Stafford (1914-1993). As Biden was in DC and Delaware, Harris was in Hanoi, Vietnam. Ho Chi Minh City, formerly, and still known as Saigon, is Vietnam’s largest city with about 20,000,000 people in its metropolitan area.


Outside the airport of Kabul, civilians are shot dead.
The Taliban is liquidating people right and left.


The Eternal Fight
          by Brice U. Lawseed

For twenty years, elites, DC, and politicians lied
about the “so-called undeclared” war in Afghanistan.
Except for Biden’s wretched dismount, inescapable,
a mess they tried to plan for, that was unavoidable.
Was th’ Afghan National Security Force just a joke?
a woke-jobs program funded by this nation going broke?
a paper tiger propped up to protect the poppy farms?
a folk, who never knew the need for people bearing arms?
Afghanistan, a land, without the many freedoms we
still have to fight for in the USA—eternally.

Brice U. Lawseed is a poet of DC.


The Day the Music Died
          by Sawceeb Dureli

Ahmad Sarmast had left Australia in Two-Thousand-One,
returning to the country of his birth—Afghanistan.
Back then he made a music school for orphans and street kids.
The Taliban had banished music; they were on the skids.
But he brought hope and joy back to the alleys of Kabul,
o, twenty years ago with his Afghani music school.

Sarmast just left Kabul—July—for summer holiday,
with no idea his life’s work would soon be blown away.
The faculty and students are all hiding for their lives,
more than four-hundred people scattered, hiding to survive.
All radio and TV stations have stopped playing songs,
except for some religious ones, and misophonic wrongs.

Sawceeb Dureli is a poet of Afghanistan.


First Movement of Bach’s Brandenburg Concerto Number Two
          by Ewald E. Eisbruc

First Movement of Bach’s Brandenburg Concerto Number Two
is in the key F major, a concerto grosso too.
The concertino solo instruments begin in din,
the trumpet, with recorder, oboe and the violin;
The ripieno, tutti, filling out this artful hoard,
includes viola, cello, and the lively harpsichord.
A taxing part, the trumpet starts its bright allegro flight
midst clusters of quick sixteenth notes; its sprightly tones alight;
the whole a dazzling sweep of contrapuntal elements,
momentum crazed, embellished daze, self-referential, dense.

Ewald E. Eisbruc is a poet and musical critic of German music, like as the music of German Baroque composer Johann Sebastian Bach (1685-1750).


European Allies Respond
          by Sir Bac de Leeuw

Joe Biden’s exit from Afghanistan has now been seen
by European allies—”NATO’s worst catastrophe”.
said German Armin Laschet, recently in Germany.

And UK’s Blair called Biden’s move “an imbecilic” act,
“unnecessary, dangerous, and tragic”; and, in fact,
one of the worst plans since the 9-11 jet attack.

Loiseau, a past French minister for President Macron,
“We thought America was back”; but we see we were wrong,
as we watch this disaster, and “America withdrawn”.


Approaching Midnight at the Castle
          by Sir Bac de Leeuw

He moved between the great gray walls; he was dressed all in black.
The Prince was walking o’er the floor, with naught but crack and lack.
His step, as light as ghostly figure’s passing through the hall,
so neatly dressed, it seemed like he was going to a ball.
He heard the merrymaking revelers. He heard their cries.
The closer that he got to them, he heard their voices rise.
Although he was drawn to those noisy sounds, those joyous calls,
he wasn’t sure that he was up to it, the swirling awes.
It was his youth and bravery that pressed him on his way.
But when he got there would he make it back to dawn’s new day?

Sir Bac De Leeuw is a poet of Europe, for example, Germany, Denmark, Netherlands, France and UK.


More than ten-thousand citizens marched down Parisian streets,
protesting health-pass cards, surrounded by the French police.
The people shouted “Liberté” and “We don’t want your pass”.
More than one-hundred-fifty-thousand over all of France.


The G-Mafiat Dictatorship
          by Brad Lee Suciew
          “I owe my soul to the company store.”
              Merle Travis

That Trump can’t be on Twitter, but the Taliban can be,
shows Tech Tsars have a disregard for life, humanity.
That murderers are given space, but others can’t be free,
what chance did Afghans ever have against such tyranny?

Jack Dorsey can support totalitarian decrees,
but does not care at all about a true democracy.
If Trump is banned so wantonly by greedy companies,
what chance is there for us against their kleptomanic sQueeZe?

Brad Lee Suciew is a poet of Silicon Psychophancy.


The Corporate Bank of America exhorts its staff
to be more “woke at work”, re-educating free-rein chaff.


O, There
          by “Wild” E. S. Bucaree

Out in the heat, he leaned upon the reddish wooden fence.
he stared down at the dusty earth below his resting stance.
His light-tan straw-hat screening him, with blue jeans round his legs.
he stood there in bright sunlight, Aristotle’s question begged.
Beside him was a drab-green plant, which offered little shade;
it was a scrubby shrub near where he panted, gladly bade.
O, yeah, he focused on the natural environment.
It was so beautiful, o, God, in fact, ah, heaven-sent.
He seemed in awe, as he gazed, ho, like he was pleased to be,
o, there between the hil-ly va-les of eternity.

“Wild” E. S. Bucaree is a poet of Texas. Aristotle (384 BC – 322 BC) was a noted Greek philosopher.


Au Naturel
          by Bud “Weasel” Rice

Like as a lizard on a rock, he didn’t want to move.
He lay upon the davenport. O, what a lovely groove.
But yeh, occasionally, he would raise and turn his head
to git a view of where he was upon his hard, hot bed.
He didn’t want to think about the troubles of the World.
His mind was motionless as well, in perfect quietude.
He penetrated deepest sleep; no daydreams bothered him.
His mind unmined, unwinding sun and wind, min after min,
so peaceful, resting, hardly doing anything at all,
except rejuvenating, bathing, ah, au naturel.

Bud “Weasel” Rice is a poet of nature.


Kate Brown, in Oregon, has signed a bill that halts the need
for students to be tested to…do math, or write, or read.


The Pic-ture & the Sculp-ture
          by Red Was Iceblue

He loved the painting on the wall; he loved its lines and hues.
O, it was beautiful to see, and, with its patterns, fuse.
Diagonals and curves crossed through its angles and its shapes.
He stared intently on it, yeah, o, where it had been draped.
What colours did it not possess, from amber, brown and tan,
to red and blue, to gold and green, to white, gray, black, and bland.
It seemed he smirked a bit while he observed its luscious forms.
He stared on its PostModern fit, and then he stared some more.
He wondered why he was enchanted by its gorgeousness.
He wondered why he was enthralled with all its forges, yes.

Nearby he saw a sculpture too, a rounded, pounded thing,
a blob, a lump, no muscle hunk, a plump nonentity.
Although the figure on the pedestal was mounted, he
was faceless, blah, a character without identity.
So this was art? How so? This shape lacked eyes, expression, mood.
He felt detached, o, un-at-tach’d! How could this thing be good?
And here were fewer colours, only amber, brown and tan;
and yet the figure had a shape, dimension, form, and plan.
He wondered why he was enthralled by this dull-orange guest.
He wondered why he was enthralled by fruit, blind rind, and zest.


The Collared Prisoner
          by Red Was Iceblue
          “Preferring victories, nobody wants to hear bad news.
          Life’s hard at times; one wants to flee the losing interludes.”
              —Brice U. Lawseed

He felt chained to his time, o, God; he could not git away.
Barbaric acts were now occurring every single day.
He tried to stand up tall, but he was weighed down by the pain;
o, yet there was no way that he could leave, nor just abstain.
He yelled, like as a soldier stuck in combat’s brutal stage.
How was that he had to be a member of this age?
He felt like as a collared prisoner in dungeon cell,
his torturers, both seen and unseen, adding to his hell;
but he was simply in his nice, neat house next to a clock.
The time was twelve, or there about, and he was on no block.

Red Was Iceblue is a poet of Modern, PostModern, and NewMillennial art.


The News Was Not So Good
          by Brice U. Lawseed

He sat down to watch television on the light-brown couch.
Beneath the picture on the wall, he stared out having chowed.
The man upon the screen gave him the news. He was absorbed.
In camo hat and dog-tags, he was prepped to come aboard.
He spread his legs out, getting comfy, but still not at ease.
The bearded figure that he saw before him did not please.
He seemed disturbed, and yet intrigued, as he gazed upward at
that figure staring back at him, o, yes, there where he sat.
The news was not so good. He didn’t love to take it in;
and yet he felt he had to know, o, no, though it br/ache him.

Brice U. Lawseed is a poet of the news.