by “Clear Dew” Ibusa
Umber, dried-out leaves
tumble up the lawns and street.
by “Clear Dew” Ibusa
The baby can’t walk,
he hardly holds his head up.
But he sees further.
“Clear Dew” Ibusa is a poet of Japanese poetic forms, like free-verse haiku.
Xi threatened Biden o’er the island nation of Taiwan;
a red-line not to cross, or you’ll be burned, the tyrant yawned.
A former vice premier had forced her into having sex.
But after saying this, she’s been erased. Where is Peng Shuai?
More than a dozen ships, detained by In-do-ne-si-a,
have been extorted hundred-thousand-dollar sl-easy funds.
In Sphinx Asana Pose
by Sri Wele Cebuda
He opened chest and shoulders up in sphinx asana pose,
reducing pressure on his spine, o, more than he supposed.
He opened up his inner eye in simulating glance,
by stimulating body, lifting forehead for his trance.
He raised his abdomen; his palms were on the scarlet ledge.
He turned his head off to the left out to time’s awesome edge.
His breaths were deep, each mo-em steep, and though he hardly moved,
he felt like as he’d landed on—ho, miles away—the Moon.
The drapes were pa-le lavender, the wall a pa-le blue.
His upper pecs, abs, deltoids, traps, were all worked, tried and true.
He loved his stomach feeling cleaned, his passions cleared, and clocked,
like as he’d reached sweet inner peace, yes, stress regressed, unblocked.
Sri Wele Cebuda is a poet of yoga, as, for example, the sphinx pose, salamba bhujangasana.
by Wisduree Ecbal
SideCopy are computer hackers based in Pakistan,
who recently are targeting some in Afghanistan,
by sharing links to websites hosting malware to surveil
devices of the people in Kabul they can assail.
By using Facebook and creating young “romantic lures”,
they chase their marks by preying on keyed, heedless sufferers.
They trick their targets into clicking phishing links or apps
they then download, o, foolish dupes, to cruel, malicious chats.
And too, they compromise legitimate sites where they can
manipulate their targets—data for the Taliban.
Wisduree Ecbal is a poet of South Asia.
Soyuz 11 Crew Is Buried in the Kremlin Wall
by Rus Ciel Badeew
The crew should not have flown without some spacesuits on their backs.
This had been going on for seven years—this risky lack.
So many said de-pres-su-rí-sa-tion had not occurred
in hundreds of unmanned and manned spacecraft—thus no concern.
The retrofire was fine. The BO module jettisoned.
But suddenly, the warning panel depress light came on!
So Dobrovolsky checked the hatch, but that was still OK,
with less than 35 to 40 seconds left in play.
Volkov and Patsayev undid their straps, clicked radio,
but all that’s heard is whissss-ling of the air—the vent valve, no.
It could have been preventable, Soyuz pioneers;
Kamanin discontinues diary for two more years.
Rus Ciel Badeew is a poet of Russian skies. BO was the orbital module.
by Cui Eberswalde
“Wish that you could see this city, just how it used to be…”
—Sam Outlaw, “Ghost Town”
It was known once for its strong, thriving heavy industry,
until the fall of th’ eastern wall, but since that time, you see,
this city—Eberswalde—has, o, fallen on hard times.
It it a fact—the factories could not compete—war crimes.
The remnants of these now abandoned plants cross this town’s streets.
I wish that you could see this city as it once was seen.
So many of the Soviet-Bloc style apartments are
becoming empty…de-te-ri-or-at-in-g…being r-a-z-e-d.
And yet it’s not as bad as after Thirty Years’ War—no,
when only twenty had survived—this forest of the boar.
Cui Eberswalde is a poet of eastern Germany. Eberswalde has a population fo around 40,000.
That Fell, O
by Slade U. W. Bierce
“(To break the pentameter, that was the first heave)”
—Ezra Pound, “Canto LXXXI”
On each side of the bed, the lamps were glowing gold and bright.
The bed spread red was flowing past the pillows, taut and tight.
There was a fellow standing by the covers over sheets,
that none could see, because it was arranged, tucked neat, complete.
I saw him at the edge, his cheeks caved in his narrow head.
It did not look like he was planning getting into bed.
What was he doing then? and there? at that time of the day?
It did not look like he was there for a roll in the hay.
That lanky dude was lean; but was he leaning to one side,
like as the Pisan Tower, glowering, but on a slide?
Slade U. W. Bierce is a poet of the realms of Realism (1850-1900).
The Soldier in Fatigues
by War di Belecuse
I saw him striding on the ground—the soldier in fatigues;
in vee formation over him—a honking flock of geese.
That panting man was breathing hard. How long had he been there
out in the warm, hard maelstrom that formed around his air?
Left-right, left-right, his hips were tight, as he moved through—Varoom.
He saw the Sky up in the Moon in topsy-turvy turf.
What was he running to, o, Lord? What was he running from—
that panting and breathtaking dude down in that mucky mud?
Apparently the enemy was nearer than he knew;
for when he turned around to see, one fired & he was through.
War di Belecuse is a poet of military matters.
The Brand News Church
by Caud Sewer Bile
They cannot let the truth get out. They will not get the truth.
They must not let it get out through the gateway of their noose.
There’ll be no thorough thought analysis of what’s occurred.
They will not leave behind a record of trust-worthy word.
The World will not know nor long remember anything
that does not fit their narrative, their falsifying dream.
Their scheming will not stop. They will keep bringing up their themes,
a min-gl-ing of me-mo-ry—de-si-red meaning strings.
The Main Stream Media, that Corporation purchased perch.
You must believe in what they preach. They are the Brand News Church.
Abridging Freedom of the Press
by Caud Sewer Bile
The pre-dawn raid on James O’Keefe’s home by the FBI
shows just how far press freedoms are now under siege—well-nigh.
This White-House Resident is using DOJ to strike
against those that it does not like, like Project Veritas.
He cannot stand to have corruption whirling round his name,
ineptitude, decrepitude, that fuels his admin’s fame.
Was this because of Ashley Biden’s diary? Who knows?
Like Hunter Biden’s laptop, what are all the things it shows?
And did the New York Times collude against an open press?
Is this the record of these Times? Is this what they profess?
Caud Sewer Bile is a poet of the Swamp.
He don’t need cash, says “Big Short” Burry of rich Elon Musk;
he just wants to sell Tesla and leave California dust.
An Autumn Scene
by Ileac Burweeds
How beautiful it is—the grass—enclosed within the fence,
light green and tan in th’ afternoon, defining common sense.
The fabric—thick—beneath the brick house in the Texas sun,
the type—Bermuda carpeting—in excess of the knit,
a nexus for the game croquet, played by one family,
enough of fun for Dick and son, as well as Emily.
Each soft step, paws and pause, the cat proceeds so cautiously,
beneath the Bradford pear tree’s deepest green and dark brown leaves.
The new-born baby, in the car-seat on the patio,
sleeps in the shade, all bundled up. When will it have to go?
Ileac Burweeds is a poet of nature.
by Cawb Edius Reel
He wasn’t a Tchaikovsky, no, nor a Prokofiev;
yet what he wrote was good in its own way for scores of films.
Dimitri Tiomkin, Russian-born composer, who became,
the film composer of America, his claim to fame.
He studied at St. Petersburg, enjoyed Stray Dog Café,
left aft the rEvolution, later to the USA.
Though it appear strange that he wrote so many western themes,
to him, like Cossacks on the Steppes, the US cowboys seemed.
Among his scores are those for “Lost Horizon”, “DOA”,
“Red River”, “Rio Bravo”, “High Noon”, “Strangers on a Train”,
“Wild Is the Wind”, “Bridge of San Luis Rey”, “The Alamo”,
“The Thing”, “The Old Man and the Sea”, “The Guns of Navarone”,
“Friendly Persuasion”, “Shadow of a Doubt”, “Duel in the Sun”,
“Dial M for Murder”, “Giant”, and “Smith Goes to Washington”.
“The Moon and Sixpence”, “It’s a Wonderful Life”, “The Big Sky”,
“The Unforgiven”, “I Confess”, “Return to Paradise”.
Cawb Edius Reel is a poet of film. Among so many others, between 1948-1958, American composer Dimitri Tiomkin (1894-1979) composed 57 film scores, including 9 in 1952, when he composed the music for “High Noon”, perhaps the best black-and-white western, and one of the “truly great” movies of the 20th century.
At the Train Station
by Bruc “Diesel” Awe
The time was ticking, space was sticking, in that Western scene;
the rails stretched beyond the town, past wrongs still festering.
Beyond, one saw the tracks go to the mountains, over plains,
on wooden ties, the rocky lies, past fenced-in grassy grains.
The iron horse was on its way; three men were waiting there
at the train station, in the dusty, dry, and arid air.
One drank his whiskey bottle, one played his harmonica,
the third one gazed at the horizon with a haunting look.
In cowboy boots and hat, that guy was glaring, gun belt donned.
What was he staring at—that sky? What was he focused on?
Bruc “Diesel” Awe is a poet of transportation.
At the Missoula Motel
by Derec Wasie Lub
He stood up at the motel window, gazing at the sights,
Missoula’s rock-steep hills bathed in the early morning light,
at the convergence of five mountain ranges: Rattlesnake,
Sapphire, Garnet, Bitterroot and Reservation break.
How beautiful, how gorgeous, climbing through Montana skies,
dramatic and dynamic, wonderful before his eyes.
Off Highway 90’s guiding, winding, in the blinding sun,
refining and refinding all the fine things he had done.
He loved that rising, closed-in feeling, pressing in on him,
as if it was a binding minding’s sought-for synonym.
How long it had been, since he had been there where their tryst was.
They’re no things better than that, o, he thought, in that air’s buzz.
Derec Wasie Lub is a poet of the Rocky Mountains. Missoula, Montana, is a city of around 70,000.
This Classic Cereal
by Carb Deliseuwe
“Quid faciat laetes segetes?”
—Vergil, “Georgics I, L1”
Consisting of oats in the shape of solid toruses,
this classic cereal has some essential minerals.
Though processed, o, it still can satisfy some mighty yens;
it’s low in fat and calories, and has some vitamins.
Kid-friendly, it can be consumed by only eight-month-olds,
and usu’lly it’s inexpensive everywhere it’s sold;
it’s a great finger food for fellows looking for a treat,
that doesn’t compromise their health when they want such to eat.
Its fiber-rich whole grains may help reduce cholesterol,
and instances of heart disease—the lovelorn overall.
Here in the Sweet Hum-Drum
by Carb Deliseuwe
It was the early morning at the table—time to drink—
Ah, the full coffee cup there, just beyond the kitchen sink.
Th’ aroma was so tempting, o, the texture thick and rich;
he was excited, yes, to take a sip, a dip—that beach.
Around him in that dining room, agreeable gray walls,
he sat there in that fair and airy place, pale overall.
He closed his eyes to savour it, each moist and tasteful touch.
perhaps, he thought, that all this was, was just a bit, too much.
But he was happy, yes, content, to take all of it in,
the coffee, room, the table, zoom, the spiral and the spin.
How could he not enjoy that mo-em separated from
the cosmic-flux-eternal-crux, here in the sweet hum-drum.
Upon the Cusp of Dawn
by Carb Deliseuwe
He stood upon the cusp of dawn, a cup was in his hands,
brown coffee drunk with grit and spunk, a man with but few fans.
His cheeks were hollow, in his bearded face, as he stood there
about to pounce and bounce upon stark heaven’s door—good air.
He rose up to the gorgeous sunrise, rosy-fingered light.
How many would not follow him into dark-pink fore-night?
Like as Odysseus setting sail for new horizon suns,
he would embark, time and again, refreshing eyes unspun.
He navigated through deep channels, past the Shadow d’ If,
between both Rock and Hard Place, keeping skiff off reef and cliff.
Carb Deliseuwe is a poet of food and drink.
by Rudi E. Welec, “Abs”
His top was black, his bottom green, his shoes were red and white;
he led the race with strength and grace, his face filled with delight.
Behind him was another runner, basic black attire;
o, he did not look fired up, but sore and panting, tired.
Across that orange autumn field both ran for all their worth,
the one like he was in the sky, the other on the Earth.
Their elbows bent, their hands in fists, they both kept to the trail,
one grabbed some bush as he went past, one failing to assail.
Still neither quit; they kept it up, until they reached the end;
exhausted then, when they descended, spacetime’s pace unbent.
Rudi E. Welec, “Abs”, is a poet of sport.