by Bruce Lee Wisda

Harvesting pumpkins—
ah, the miracle of life.
It is so awesome.

Bruce Lee Wisda is a poet of oriental wisdom and western ontology.


Isaac Azimov
          by Educable Wires
          “There is no human being who is perfect—anywhere.
          We all are flawed; none is a god; though we’ll all go to air.”
              —R. Lee Ubicwedas, “On the Nature of Being Human”

He, Azimov, envisioned robots as appliances,
and was, like as a moth that flit about the sciences.
A sci-fi writer for two decades, he proceded on
to focus at nonfiction aft the run of Sputnik I,
still writing hi-fi sci-fi, and as well, some mysteries,
along with lettered criticism and pop histories.

His literary style was colloquial and clear;
he was direct, so little mental friction would appear.
He loved to f-use short words…into his simple sentences—
synoptic, interdisciplined, robotic cadences,
transparent, functional, unornamental, normative,
prolific, entertaining, high-tech, and informative.

Educable Wires is a poet of techno music. Isaac Azimov (1920-1992) was a prolific PostModernist American prose writer of science fiction and popular science. His noted science fiction includes short stories, like “Nightfall” and the “Foundation” series. In his fiction, a key theme of Azimov’s is a transdiscipline understanding of reality—psychoreality. His popular science works, especially on chemistry, demonstrated his fascination of fact.


          by “Clear Dew” Ibuse

They fall from the trees,
auburn leaves burned by the sun.
I’m eating cornflakes.


          by “Clear Dew” Ibuse

Let us celebrate
with tempting watermelon.
It’s a baby boy.

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


With none in North Korea, zero in Turkmenistan:
one wonders just how accurate the covid counts can be.
One hardly knows which nation has real tallies that are true:
Does anyone believe the data China’s labs accrue?


Words From an Ancient Turkman Book
          by Sawceeb Dureli

Those folks who trust in God destroy black mountains—if they punch—
the orange light of the full Moon appears atop the bunch.
The two-hued tiger makes his move to lunge in violence.
God does not like the people who attack in ignorance.
The comb is able to detangle black hair of the hard.
If man or woman, one needs most an honest, zealous heart.
If bright, white snow falls down in flakes, it can’t take summer’s kiss.
It will not stay. It goes away. On beats the Solar Disc.
If one’s time does not come that day, that day he will not die.
What will be done by anyone who lays him down to cry?


Derweze Crater
          by Sawceeb Dureli

A slight miscalculation in the 1970s—
the Door to Hell was opened up—it was not Heavenly.
Some Soviet geologists were drilling for more gas,
and hit a cavern underground—a hole of burning slag.
Equipment tumbled down into the giant sinkhole formed;
the atmosphere around that mere was definitely warmed.
They feared the crater would send deadly poisons in the air;
and so they lit the cauldron thinking it would burn off there.
But it’s still burning in the Karakum, Turkmenistan,
that uncurbed menacing pit in the grit of great Black Sands.

Sawceeb Dereli is a poet of Central Asia. Turkmenistan is a nation of about 6,000,000.


          by “Lucre” Wadi Seeb

Northwest of Muscat, in northeastern Oman, on the sea,
on sand and land, there lies the coastal fishing city—Seeb.
Landmarks include the Naseem Garden, a large park with palms,
containing an aquarium, a lake and waterfall;
as well, the modern Muskat International Airport,
home to Oman’s new terminals and Royal Flight Air-force.
In 2019, drone detection was installed, and is
the first one at an international port to exist.
News web-site Register, which bites the hand that feeds IT,
states, too, there’s a top secret site—GCHQ—at Seeb.

“Lucre” Wadi Seeb is a poet of small, wealthy Arabian kingdoms. Oman, the oldest continuous independent state in the Arab world, has a population of around 4,800,000. Seeb is a city of around 470,000. GCHQ is a Government Communication Headquarters.


Great Man-Made River
          by “Lucre” Wadi Seeb

The Aquifer, known as the Nubian Sandstone, beneath
Sahara Desert, is Earth’s largest reservoir bequeath.
It’s under parts of Egypt, Chad, Sudan and Libya,
where the Great Man-Made River has a network-ribby grid,
that pumps out water from the Nubian grand Aquifer
to urban centres, like Benghazi, Tripoli and Serte.

In 1953, in search for oil, there was found
large quantities of fossil water lying underground;
and there beneath the desert air, down shafts so dark and steep,
more than one-thousand wells were built—500 meters deep—
and giant pipes were laid, and grand aquaducts unfurled.
It is the largest irrigation project in the World.

“Lucre” Wadi Seeb is a poet of North Africa and Arabia. Benghazi, about 600,000, Tripoli, about 3,000,000, and Serte, around 100,000, are three ports of Libya.


Kaduna state shut down the networks of its telecoms,
and banned the use of motorbikes to tackle bandit squads,
which have caused havoc in the northwest of Nigeria,
in hopes that peace and tolerance, o, can some day be real.


John Falstaff
          by Wilude Scabere

He showed up in some plays of Shakespeare with the future king;
Prince Hal would drop him as a butt, when done with nurturing.
He was so fat, both fore and aft, a fulsome fellow he;
John Falstaff was high-flown and vain despite obesity.
He spent his time at Boar’s Head Inn with petty criminals,
and needed to suck in his gut to hit the urinals.
He was a lolling Lollard with a lotta lard on him,
but not some grand old castle lord, nor corn-on-the cob ham.
He would not fast oft, so to blast off his big midriff frame;
but there upon that tavern stage—he had some bloated fame.

Wilude Scabere is a poet attuned to Shakespearean creativity.


When One Is Tired
          by Beadle Crew USI
          “I’m so tired, my mind is on the blink…”
              —The Beatles

When one is tired, possibly exhausted from one’s toils,
and really only wants to lie down, leaving off one’s trials,
then one should rest a little while, if one can do that;
rejuvenation’s a good thing wherever one is at.
But if you can’t, then what is left but to continue on…
and fight the longing for reclining with what strength you can?
O, even then, one has to press forth, till one has no will,
and one succumb to giving up to the impossible.
Still, one may find one has reserves of wanted energy,
and one can find a second wind that blows one forth for real.

Beadle Crew USI is a group of persons who liked the Beatles songs when young.


Message in a Bottle
          by Seaweed Lubric

And then I made so bold to thrust myself among the crew;
but they paid me no manner of attention in their view.
It was so strange they were unconscious of my presence there
in that most eerie and mysterious of deepest air.
By being unobserved, I felt like as a spirit-sir,
a heron bird near Charon’s whirr, a wide-eyed mariner.
I was so fair and unaware to all of those around,
I felt as though I was within a whirling, dizzy swound,
As we proceeded to the Pole, the mast a single El.
Oh, God, I held on—going down—into the Ocean Dell.

But no one cared to fathom what I saw, or heard, or felt,
the taste of chloride sodium, the water sprays I smelt.
It seemed as if I were upon the weirdest ship asea,
a spirit-sir, like as a skirr that skirred e-tern-ity.
Oh, horror, horror, what course was I on? A trip, perhaps,
some unknown destination using old, o, dis-used maps.
I called forth other passengers I had met in the hold.
One’s name was Earl Aldon Page who wrote down words in gold.
But he was just another spirit-sir upon the sea,
whose presence and whose essence was such he could not see me.

My message immaterial, of no significance,
was plagued by sheer indifference of any audience.
Nobody cared to wade into the waves…come rolling in.
There was no trolling or consoling, only…holy shit!
Ignore the message in the bottle. Do not read its words.
O, ambergris used in perfume comes from sperm-whale turds.
This journey was the oddest one, beneath this modest sun,
an odyssey beyond the skies of any-every-one.
So then I put this message in a bottle in the sea,
and watched it fade into the eddies of e-turn-ity

Seaweed Lubric is a poet of the sea. Earl Alden Page was an American Romantic poet.


          by Dic Asburee Wel
          “Squeezed, like the words in sonnets, in its frame of banks…”
              —Eduardas Mieželaitis

Niag’ra River in upstate New York,
between America and Canada,
flows rapidly some thirty miles north,
and falls, falls sev’ral hundred feet down, down,
there draining Erie to Ontario,
in rain or/and sun-shine, day after day,
whatever weather its scenario,
o, whether skies are blue, white, bright or gray,
occasionally generating news,
some stories from prismatic silhouettes,
that offer tourists slendid, thrilling views
and residents its horde of kilowatts,
this massive moving water millions hoard
of cubic feet o’er sha-le and lime-stone.

Eduardas Mieželaitis (1919-1997) was an intertextual Lithuanian poet, full of positive energy directed towards technological progress and an absolute belief in the cognitive powers of humanity. In his late poetry, “Postskriptumai,” “Gnomos,” and “Laida,” however, there is disillusion with the myth of human omnipotence and self-reflection on the inauthetic existence of life under marxism.


Another Death: Protesting th’ Insurrection of January 6th
              by Caud Sewer Bile

US Marine Corps veteran John Anderson has died.
He was protesting th’ Insurrection, January 6.
He marched with thousands at the Capitol, protesting fraud,
and was sprayed with a chemical. Why later put in jail?
He’d been there for the protest, with his cellphone on recórd.
He’d hurt no one, attacked no one. Has justice been denied?
Who’d sprayed him at the protest? God, he couldn’t breathe. He fell.
What was that mix? Why was he being tried? He begged for help.
The prosecutors pressed him to admit a felony;
but he would not; and now his body failed at sixty-one.

Caud Sewer Bile is a poet of the DC Swamp.


One Has to Fight
              by War di Belecuse

One has to fight. Life is a battle—every single day.
Sometimes one’s more aware of that. Sometimes one is away.
How does one break the norms of decadence and dying word,
with decades since, dead cadences, to rise from rain and dirt?
And still…somehow…progress…into…new areas of life
to face the power of the massive, manage and defy.
None said that it was easy. No one does the hard that well.
And heaven is as difficult as hell is to le Él.
The Ancients knew that better, even if they could not say:
One has to fight. Life is a battle—every single day.

War di Belecuse is a poet of conflict.


The Hassling Torment
              by Cu Ebide Aswerl

He lay in a recliner, out, in bright, white underwear.
He seemed to be like as a man who didn’t have a care.
His folded hands were underneath his head, his elbows wide.
In sleeveless tee, he looked like he was taking stress in stride,
He was becoming…used to be…content where he was at,
like as a man in an asana on a sauna mat.
The patio was natty, o, like as a sheik’s chic space,
so neat, no plant or piece of furniture seemed out of place.
But though such peace would not last long—he’d be disturbed at last—
at least for just a moment, foment hadn’t yet harrassed.

Cu Ebide Aswerl is a poet of leisure.