by “Clear Dew” Ibuse

Sweet, luscious, juicy,
a big honeydew melon:
bright shines the full moon.

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


          by E “Birdcaws” Eule

The hungry grackles
do their grocery shopping
in the parking lot.

E “Birdcaws” Eule is a haikuist.


          by “Wired Clues” Abe

What’s in the mailbox?
Are there any messages?
Look. There’s a gecko.


          by “Wired Clues” Abe

Th’ holy war o’erwhelmed,
as it progressed from Helmand
through dry saltcedar.

“Wired Clues” Abe is a poet of technology in English, using Japanese forms. The latter haiku is a take on a haiku by Japanese Modernist Hasegawa Sosei (1907-1946).


Those Stranded
          by Sawceeb Dureli

Those stranded US citizens left in Afghanistan,
as US forces wind down any presence in the land,
as well as those Afghani helpers who could not escape,
the Taliban-Al-Qaida-ISIS, deadly, clenching snake,

still have to face the slaughterers from Herat to Kabul,
as many are chased from their lives, the streets, their jobs, and school.
Islamic fundamentalists can fix Afghanistan,
to sterilize it, so it can be pure as Pakistan.

Sawceeb Dureli is a poet of Afghanistan. Herat is a city of around 500,000, Kabul, around 4,500,000. The acronym of “Pakistan” means “a land in which the pure abound”. On 26 August 2021, ISIS-K attacked Kabul Airport, killing at least 182 people, including 13 US servicemen, the most US servicemen killed since 5 August 2011, during the Obama-Biden presidency, when 38 died, in the worst single loss of the Afghan War (2001-2021).


With Coffins at the Dover Air Force Base: 29 August 2021
          by War di Belecuse

On Sunday, Biden traveled to the Dover Air Force Base
to pay respect for thirteen service members who were slain.
But grieving parents of the dead were not consoled by him—
he kept on looking at his watch—and not so much at them.
One thought his empathy but hollow, disrespectful stares.
He chatted more about his own dead son than he did theirs.
They were owed more than they received; they still are owed a debt…
of gratitude, o, those brave souls, we should not soon forget.
Go, stranger, tell your people these unfortunate ones tried:
obedient to shallow leaders, still they went, and died.

David L. Espinoza, 20;
Rylee J. McCollum, 20;
Dylan R. Merola, 20;
Kareem M. Nikoui, 20;
Jared M. Schmitz, 22;
Hunter Lopez, 22;
Umberto A. Sanchez, 22;
Max W. Soviak, 22;
Nicole L. Gee, 23;
Ryan C. Knauss, 23;
Daegan W. Page, 23;
Johanny Rosariopichardo, 25;
Darin T. Hoover, 31.

War di Belecuse is a poet of war.


The Present State of Music in Afghanistan
          by Sawceeb Dureli

He played the ghichak, a bowed lute, and sang of his loved land:
“There is no country in the world, like Afghanistan”.
Folk singer Fawad Andarabi was dragged from his home,
shot in the head upon his farm in Baghlan province, o.
His crime was entertaining people, singing out his songs;
but to the Taliban such music must be crushed—in angst.
Zabuillah Majahid, a spokesman for the Taliban,
said, in a talk, that “music is forbidden in Islam.”
All music—not religious—must now totally be banned;
this is the present state of music in Afghanistan.

Sawceeb Dureli is a poet of Afghanistan.


Garage Asana
          by Sri Wele Cebuda

In summer, his garage was warm, o, very warm indeed.
He loved to go to it t’ escape the air conditioning.
Its door was down, the light was on; upon the concrete floor,
he got in an asana pose, o, he did not abhor.
Still in his socks and shoes, he got down on a rough, thick pad;
and though he was content, he didn’t seem to be that glad.

His head was high, his torso too, his elbows bent and back.
He stretched his legs, but bent his knees. O, yes, there was a c-r-a-c-k.
And then he meditated on the hardness of the World.
As each new difficulty came to mind—to him occurred.
Was there no place that he could go that wasn’t hard to be?
Was that the fate of simply being in eternity?


At Least
          by Sri Wele Cebuda

He sat upon the chair—and stared—o, contemplating math,
in an asana, med-i-ta-ting, on…the way, the tao, the path.
He lifted up his head, his back; he longed to rise up to
the beautiful, the good, the everlasting, and the true.
He looked around him, hoping, o, to fill his emptiness,
attempting to attain, it’s true, o, yeh, some happiness.
He dreamed life could be wonderful, if only for a while.
He felt the power of the Universe around his bile.
If he could only rise above his nasty, fluid self,
he might find ecstasy, at least, that is what he felt.

Sri Wele Cebuda is a poet of meditation.


Attempting To…
          by Rus Ciel Badeew
          “Asleep…tired…or it malingers…”
              —T. S. Eliot, “Prufrock’s Love Song”

I still remember him attempting to get off that bed.
O, Oblomov, although he moved, he stayed still at that edge.
He grasped his situation, as he roused up from his sleep,
and yet, o, yeh, he found the step out was too high, too steep.
Stolz tried his best to wrest him from his restful lethargy;
but his inertia was such that he lacked for energy.
O, Goncharov, that precipice still haunts me to this day.
I still remember him attempting to no longer stay.
But how could he get off that cot, that lovely cotton spread,
there at the end, where spacetime bends, and lingers…at the ledge?

Rus Ciel Badeew is a poet of Russian land-scrapes and still-lifes. Ivan Goncharov (1812-1891) was a Russian Realist novelist and literary critic, T. S. Eliot (1888-1965) an American Modernist poet and literary critic.


A White Birch
          by Alecsei Burdew

Sergei Yesenin sat, and watched; a white birch stood below,
beneath his window in the snow, clad in an argent glow.
Upon the fluffed-out branches, decked in pearl, o, trim and bright,
he saw the melting catkins forming fringes of delight.
Like little golden fires in the sun, the snowflakes shined,
the birch tree standing still, the magic entering his mind.
And lazily, he saw Dawn casting silver on the twigs.
O, he was so enchanted there within his frigid digs.
The War was coming. It was 1913. Where was he?
Enrolled in school in Moscow, and there looking at a tree.

Alecsei Burdew is a poet of Russia. Sergei Yesenin (1895-1925) was a Modernist Russian poet.


Zelenskyy Visit
          by Radice Lebewsu

Zelenskyy came to Washington to meet with Biden there,
he wanted to stem the corruption in his country, where
Burisma famously had Hunter Biden on its rolls,
as Russia’s 90,000 border-soldier-number grows.

Zelenskyy, too, would like him to halt Nord Stream 2’s gas flow,
as he did to the Keystone XL not so long ago,
where many thousand jobs were sacrificed for cleaner air,
and thus contributing to higher gas costs everywhere.

Zelenskyy offered his condolences for US pain,
while noting 14,000 of his people have been slain.
He wanted that Joe Biden would support his nation now,
not like when Russia took Crimea when he was in pow’r.


While Meditating
          by Radice Lebewsu

Though in a shady spot, he saw the white skies through the leaves.
Between the trunks, those narrow glimpses put his soul at ease.
O, he was pleased to find no bees or other bugs around.
He was glad he had placed a rug between him and the ground.
His feet were close together, yes, his eyes were softly closed;
his lips were slightly parted, breathing in, in deep repose.
He did not think, while there in stasis, that he was in Spain.
But was the land on which he sat some glen found in Ukraine?
The Sun shone on. He loved the dawn, and also afternoon;
but, too, the evening coming on, the full and glowing Moon.

Radice Lebewsu is a poet of Ukraine.


Beneath Siena Skies
          by Uberde Acsweli

He got in an asana pose beside a golden lamp.
There at the bottom of the stairs, he took a cosmic ramp.
He lifted up his left-turned head, beneath Siena skies.
Above both hill and dale, how he loved to see them rise.
He felt he was upon a plane of cumulus relief,
a bed on which to move about with beauty and belief.
He dreamed it was an ornate railing that he was aside,
his inner eye assailing instant seas and distant skies.
Although he was in stasis, he was not in ecstasy;
but was prepared for sailing, o. What was there next to see?

Uberdi Acsweli is a poet of Italy. Siena, in Tuscany, has a population of around 50,000.


Missive From the Doctor
          by Wilude Scabere
          “Foul whisperings are abroad. Unnatural deeds do breed unnatural troubles.”
              —William Shakespeare, “Macbeth”

The owl cried out, the wild wolf howled, the Moon in an eclipse.
O, Elinor was not in Elsinore; she closed her lips.
Sneshell was from Valenciennes, Moulthorne was from Antwerp,
two barber-surgeons in the London of Elizabeth.

Wilude Scabere is a poet of the Elizabethans. Elinor Sneshell and Elizabeth Moulthorpe were Elizabethan barber-sugeons.


The Hypercube
          by Euclidrew Base

An n-dimensioned hypercube is closed, compact, convex,
a figure whose 1-skeleton consists of z, y, x,
opposing parallel line-segments, each aligned to each,
and perpendicular, diagonals—square-root tai chi.
H. S. M. Coxeter termed it a measure polytope,
though mainly with all unit sides, a rarity in scope.

It has been used in painting, as by Salvador Dalí,
in “Crucifixion (Corpus Hypercubus)”—orderly,
where Christ athletic, without thorny crown or hands with nails,
arises clear and nuclear in mysticism’s sail,
up o’er a chessboard, levitating in the air above,
where Gala stands in awe of spirit and triumphal love.

Euclidrew Base is a poet of mathematics. H. S. M. Coxeter (1907-2003) was a noted British-Canadian geometer of the 20th century, who influenced painters, like M. C Escher, in his hyperbolic tesselations, and Buckminster Fuller, in some of his innovations. Spanish surrealist Salvador Dalí (1904-1989) was a noted artist of the 20th century, who influenced writers, like Euclidrew Base, especially through his works, like “The Persistence of Memory” and “City of Drawers”.


Of All the Gym Joints
          by Rudi E. Welec, “Abs”

He was there at the gym. He did not feel very good.
He looked morose there working out his fate in doomdom mood.
He turned his head off to the left, appealing…for some help;
but there he was, in exercisizing, overwhelming hellth.

Yet on he went there in gray tee, amidst red, black and white.
Outside the windows, one could see, the sky’s broad light—so bright.
He hoped he could get stronger, cuffed, o, to this regimen;
but he was not so sure about his present stratagem.

No pain no gain, and yet the strain, was palpable—insane.
The squinting forehead showed that he lacked pure peace in his brain.
He wondered at the end to which he headed at this point,
but mirrored there, one saw he’d come to this…of all gym joints.

Rudi E. Welec, “Abs”, is a poet of the gym. According to Beau Lecsi Werd, “doomdom” is a neologism meaning the realm of doom, “hellth” the realm of hell. One of his favourite short stories is “The Most Dangerous Game” by Modernist American Richard Connell (1893-1949). One of his favourite movies was the antiNazi film “Casablanca”, screenwritten by twins Julius and Philip Epstein, with Howard Koch, based on Murray Burnett and Joan Alison’s play “Everybody Comes to Rick’s”.