by “Clear Dew” Ibuse

It’s getting harder,
as the vegetables grow;
dealing with Swiss chard.

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


          by E “Birdcaws” Eule

The green mantis stalks
the cicada, unaware
of the yellow bird.

E “Birdcaws” Eule is a haikuist.


New, Clear Glass in Guangyuan, Sichuan
          by Aw “Curbside” Lee

How does one de-al with ra-dí-o-ac-tive elements?
How does one store such deadly nuclear constituents?
A site in Sichuan is turning waste now into glass,
as has been done in India, unlike US and France.
In Europe and America, the slush is heated up
in an electric oven forming a ceramic cap.
In temper’tures above 1000 Celsius, they let
less harmful elements escape; such gas they can forget.
So staff are signed up for hard work in case there is a leak
to se-al waste with hard ce-ment, if ha-voc wreak a break.

Aw “Curbside” Lee is a poet of industrial China.


Australia, UK, and the US have formed a nuke-sub pact.
Australia will deploy nuke-powered subs in this new act.


Drone Strike August 29, 2021
          by Sawceeb Dureli

Unfortunately Biden’s drone strike in Afghanistan,
did not destroy an ISIS terrorist, but just a man,
an innocent aid-worker, working for an NGO,
Ahmadi, and the children who had come to greet him. O.
Ten people dead—Ahmadi, two adults, and seven kids.
O, Biden’s vengeance—devastating consequencial shit.
They were a family attempting to gain visas. Yes.
They feared the Taliban, but died by Biden-led US.
There in the driveway those left still can feel the metal angst—
there where the mangled and incinerated car remains.


Departing from Uzbekistan
          by Sawceeb Dureli

Some Afghan pilots who have been held in Uzbekistan,
on Sunday left for the United Arab Emirates,
despite the Taliban demands that they return at once,
back to the newly conquered nation of Afghanistan.
They were directed to Al-Udeid, the air force base,
in Qatar, west of Doha, used by the United States.
Last month, more than 500 Afghans with their families
escaped aboard some UH-60s and A-29s;
but now the border has been closed to Afghan refugees;
the Termez crossing b-locked; perhaps a dark and ruthless sign.

Sawceeb Dureli is a poet of Afghanistan. Doha is a city in Qatar of about 900,000. Qatar’s population is about 2,600,000, with only 300,000 Qatari citizens and 2,300,000 expatriots.


Along with Russia, they have said they will not take Aghans:
Uzbekistan, Turkmenistan, and other of the stans,
like Kazakhstan, Tajikistan, and likewise Kyghyzstan.
The placement of said refugees is “unacceptable”.
In short, they have no plans to help the refugees at all.


A Lesson in Literary Fame
          by Wilbur Dee Case

Abdurauf Fitrat was inspired by Turks in Istanbul,
along with young Bukharans, fought the emir’s iron rule.
He wrote on Oghuz Khan, Temur, as well as, Ulugh Beg;
but fought the communists and gulag archipelagos.
Opposed to stomping out religion in those days of yore,
he hence was executed by the Soviet hard core.
But now he’s well-regarded in Uzbekistan today,
and streets in Tashkent and Bukhara are called by his name.

Now Hamza, on the other hand, Uzbek’s first dramatist,
helped standardize the literary language with his wrist.
He added modern music forms, and chided Uzbeks for
their superstitions, hanging on the things of yester-yore.
He fought for women’s rights and socialist equality,
and praised, when stoned to death by Muslims for his strong beliefs.
But now his name has been removed from everywhere it was,
parks, streets, and even metro station. He does not exist.

Wilbur Dee Case is a literary critic. Abdurauf Fitrat (1886-1938) and Hamza (1889-1929) were two Modernist Uzbek poets, whose literary receptions have more to do with politics that literature.


Met Gala Night
          by Cawb Edius Reel

Democracy dies in the light, as at Met Gala’s night,
attended by the ultra-rich, unmasked, and right in sight,
flamboyant, ostentatious glitterati, flaunting flash,
the price: 35,000+ per person for the bash.
The prancing of pop princesses was everywhere to see
from “Tax the Rich”, the bright bewitched, progressive AOC,
to Kim Kardashian in fashionable covering,
Balenciaga black from face to heel hovering,
from Debby Harry wearing blue top, bottom red-and-white,
to Billie Eilish in her Oscar-de-la-Renta kite,
from Mary Blige in gold, stiletto sandals up to hair,
to Sudha Reddy with Ganesha clutch—a fair with flair.


A Couch Potato
          by Cawb Edius Reel

He had become a couch potato, leaning back and down.
He longed to watch a show, o, yeh, that would and could astound.
The pale green sofa offered him a place to park his rube,
where he could watch the passersby upon the boob-tube’s cube.
He stretched his legs out as the show proceeded on its way,
adventure, action and suspense, a thriller on display.
The central actor wore a baseball cap on backward—nice.
His shirt was black with red-and-white, neat, horizontal lines.
He tried to understand the plot. Where was it going to?
He wasn’t looking at his watch. The time was passing—through.

Cawb Edius Reel is a poet of entertainment.


What were they trying to keep hidden from the novice scout?
Why didn’t members of the House want these names read aloud?

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.


They Lost
          by War di Belecuse

They lost
a sister,
and a brother,
a father,
and a mother,
a friend,
and a lover,
a son,
and a daughter,
a nephew,
and a niece.
a husband,
and a wife.
They lost a life.

War di Belecuse is a poet of deadly conflicts.


The horror writer Stephen King last Friday made a claim—
1200 died in Florida of covid in one day.
The trouble is his horror story wasn’t true at all.
His daily death toll was a lie—Bram Stoker folderol.
His statement fiction, Stephen King knows how to presuppose…
fear-mongering and making horrible scenarios.


The number of United-States deaths from the Wuhan Lab
has passed 650,000. Note: Go get the jab.


Apparently Mark Milley went behind the President,
and told the Chinese he would tip them off, and says he did.


Savannah Sunrise
          by Cause Bewilder

How gorgeous-beautiful it is—the sunrise in the east.
It gratifies and satisfies, defies the waking beast,
who longs to go out in the Dawn and catch the morning’s rays,
the giant or’nge-pink ball upon the far horizon’s glaze.

His eyes are on its pure allure. He wants to hold it close—
the Azure Sky, as you are climbing in a sea of rose,
the pulchritude of peach and power, nature’s polished paint,
like as a treasure chest of jewels, nuclear and stained.

The gleaming chair-iot, a scarlet golden bio-jet—
D vitamin, here pouring forth, low ultraviolet,
Here is a window to the WOrld’s Orb, gO rOund and rOund,
remembering eternity upon this turning ground.


A Parthenon
          by Cause Bewilder

How strange to see a Parthenon in Nashville, Tennessee,
the centerpiece of the Centennial Park’s grassy green,
where building and the statue of Athena deep inside,
full-scale replicas of the originals, abide.

How strange it is to wake up too, just at the crack of Dawn,
and see across a city street a nearby Parthenon.
Although so real, it’s surreal. How can this be so?
this vision of some architects and builders long ago.

How strange to hear as well a concert right in front of it,
with Dan + Shay at night time cranking out another hit.
Lost in the darkness of a World that seems to lack much sense,
the LED lights lit, the great lawn dense, mass audience.

Cause Bewilder is a poet of Southern displays and befuddling daze. Dan + Shay are a contemporary duo. Nashville, Tennessee, is a city of about 700,000, with 1,900,000 in the metro area.


Moon Over Miasma
          by Drew U. A. Eclibse

He sat upon the sofa, as the passing Moon went by.
Up in the sky, yes, one could see the slender lunar smile.
It shone above the gritty city sitting down below.
O, it was beautiful, a lovely pale yellow glow.

He looked out his apartment window, happy to be there,
o, warm inside, not cold at all, like in the open air.
Content to grasp the moem in the darkness of the night.
O, yes, he loved to be up high, there, o, but out of sight.

He sighed. He longed to take it…all…in—city, site and seat.
O, mentally and physic’lly it would be quite a feat.
He stretched his feet, he felt complete, a sailor in time’s fleet,
eternity his destination, ecstasy his heat.

Drew U. A. Eclibse is a poet of lunar landscapes.


On Pause
          by Caleb Wuri Seed

Beneath the hot and blazing Sun, the balers took a rest.
They sat upon a bale of hay; they had but scanty zest.
The anguish on their faces and the angst each one did feel
were very real, out there in that vast, sprawling, tree-lined field.
Yet even so, those two young souls were happy to be there,
content to have a chance to pause out in the open air.

The visible skin of their bodies shone in broad, bright light,
each slowly reddening, the UV rays, though not in sight.
It was hard work, there was no doubt, and likely to be more,
their shoulders, backs, their glutes and abs, o, definitely sore.
But, ah, though mis’rable, they felt contained, and thus complete,
content to be alive and well out in the blazing heat.

Caleb Wuri Seed is a poet of harvesting crops.


At the L Bar
          by Cale Budweiser

He saw him standing at the corner of the narrow hall.
He stood straight as an arrow. He was not about to fall.
He wore sunglasses, tinted, pale aqua, orange, red.
I could not tell what he was looking at. He turned his head.

Did dog-tags hang about his neck? What was upon his back?
His clinging pants were dark brown, and his shoes and socks were black.
He looked like as a secret agent planted, on patrol,
remote, involved in spying, self-assured and in control.

I wondered what his mission was. Who was he working for?
Was he involved in something dangerous he would abhor?
O, this I could not know, nor did I dare to ask him that.
And so, I quickly turned away, and passed him pit-a-pat.

Cale Budweiser is a poet of bronze booze.


A Passing Scene Seen
          by Bruc “Diesel” Awe

He hung out in the hot garage, surrounded by drab walls.
He kicked back for a moem’s rest without his overalls.
He kicked back in his black boots on the table where he sat.
He was at once in peace, yeh, glad to be where he was at.

Some workers there were looking at some muscle car’s op’d hood.
Admiring it, they thought its shape and power were quite good.
Those guys then shouted to the sluffer to get off his butt.
They didn’t want some dude there on his back, and yelled, “Git up.”

But he was so laid back, and didn’t give a damn at all,
there near where all the tools were hanging on the nearby wall.
What happened next I do not know, for I was on my feet,
and I had tasks I had to get to, chores yet to complete.

Bruc “Diesel” Awe is a poet of transportation.


Bewildur Casee, Up at Bat
          by Rudi E. Welec, “Abs”

Bewildur Casee, up at bat, prepared to take his turn.
He wanted so to hit that pitch, o, give that ball a burn.
To slam that beauty was his duty, and his pleasure too.
He longed to knock that ball out of the park. O, yes, it’s true.
At mass, he told the priest, this was what he was gonna do.
The priest, amazed, told him to wait to see what would ensue.
But here he was now at the plate, prepared to hit that ball…
as hard as he was able to. He swung. “Strike one,” the call.
He paused to scan the pitcher, greased both hand and bat a bit,
then, ready, steadied, prepped to hit a homer—and he did.

Rudi E. Welec, “Abs”, is a poet of sport and game, a metaphor for life.