by “Clear Dew” Ibusa

The frosticles cross
the mat of Bermuda grass;
icing on a cake.


          by “Clear Dew” Ibusa

At the gathering,
the baby ignores the group,
until he’s hungry.

“Clear Dew” Ibusa is a poet of Japanese poetic forms, like free-verse haiku. Frosticles is contextually understandable neologism.


The Greek alphabet, used in math and science, has been used for Wuhan flu variants: alpha, beta, gamma, delta, epsilon, zeta, eta, theta, iota, kappa, lambda, mu, nu, Xi, omicron, … pi, rho, sigma, tau, upsilon, phi, chi, psi, omega.


The brand new nu flu variant is renamed omicron,
because WHO doesn’t want the next called xi, no, o, my God;
because it would remind the World “Xi” Jinping has done
more to create pandemic Wuhan flu than anyone.


The WTA has cancelled all its tournaments,
in China, due to Peng Shuai’s removal for dissent.


Aron Atabek
          by Sawceeb Dureli
          “O, he was at the beck and call of all of Kazakhstan.”
              —Erasil Bucedew

His father was a slave of communism’s brutal ways,
in Kolyma’s harsh gold mines at the gulag where he’d stayed.
Both father and grandfather, and his great-grandfather too,
all were repressed or executed—communism’s rule.

So it was no surprise to see his destiny repeat;
he broke rocks with a pick axe, kicked down doors of the elite.
Inspired by the spirit of Makhambet’s poetry,
he saw truth even in a drop of pure reality.

He had been stuck in prison since the year 2006.
Released at one am, one day last month. What could he fix?
Emaciated at the end, he could no longer speak,
and then at sixty-eight years old, the poet died this week.


The Prisoner
          by Sawceeb Dureli

He wasn’t very happy; he was not content at all,
when I saw him in prison, standing up against a wall.
There were holes in his black shoes, his brown clothes, so ragged that
one could see through them when one saw chest hairs or body fat.
His prisoner ID hung round his neck down to his pecs,
a day-old beard was ever there , his hair trimmed short, cheeks flexed.
He didn’t have much energy. He wanted to lie down.
But th’ only place to do so was on hard, cement-like ground.
He didn’t want the guards to come around—at night or day—
because the problem was, if they did so, they just might stay.

Sawceeb Dureli is a poet of Central Asia. Aron Atabek (1953-2021) was a PostModernist Kazakh poet and political figure. Makhambet Utemisov (1804-1846) was a Romantic Kazakh poet and political figure.


From Senegal, the novelist Mohamed Mbougar Sarr
has won the 2021 French lit prize—Prix Goncourt.


Bronocice’s Pot (After Jules Laforgue)
          by Ludiew E. Sarceb

She keeps him well informed about just how a woman feels.
He tells her of the Bronocice pot’s depicted wheels.
She doesn’t really hear him, or if what he says is true;
and so he states methodic’lly, o, God, how I love you.
But what she hears is God helps them who help themselves to live;
He says some keyboards do have hearts but all is relative.
She cries you do not love me, but so many others do.
He thanks her for her thought, as boredom sprinkles into view.
She says the one who loses wins. He says he won the bet,
before the die was cast and she began one more lament.
The conversation dies away without a bit of fuss,
as evening passes into night…but was it serious?

Ludiew E. Sarceb is a poet of Poland. The Bronocice pot is a ceramic vase of the 4th millennium BC discovered in Poland along with aurochs, extinct wild cattle.


Cawsuder Belie
          by Acwiles Berude

He had been cursed to utter truths, but never be believed—
Apollo’s priest—though it was not as if he weren’t deceived.
Although he was considered clever, some thought him insane,
to speak so openly—that grey-eyed, brown-eyed weathervane.
He lacked the gift of prophecy—that lover of the gods,
though he was seen as an out-lier with a madman’s jaws.
Unlike Cassandra or her twin, the warrior Helenus,
he had indulged in rhapsody, like jaunty Silenus.
He was the oldest, wisest, drunken DioNietzschean,
satyric, often on his ass, that speechy, preachy one.

Acwiles Berude is a poet of Ancient Greece.


The Gübermensch
          by Wederic Eubals

He had a love of life, for any life he had at all,
a will to power up, when he was feeling down and small.
He sought consumption, comfort and frisk-free security,
a state of equilibrium, equali-puri-ty.
He thought a single, life-affirming moment was worthwhile,
although eternal repetition also made him smile.
He longed to strive for a supreme achievement while he lived,
arriving at a new, ecstatic vision worth a vid.
He was a gübermensch enjoying peanuts at a game,
a circus, or a restaurant, o, it was all the same.

Wederic Eubals is a poet of Dionietzschean sensibilities. According to Beau Lecsi Werd, vid is a back-clip of video, back-clip, a back clipping of back clipping.


Beneath Andean Heights
          by Ibewa del Sucre

He had a bowl of large blueberries, product of Peru,
so big and rounded, they astounded, with their alpine view.
So sweet and tart, good for the heart, the muscles and the brain,
o, such a gorgeous fruit to boot, to mountain top and plane.
Ah, such a very rich source of some antioxidants,
perhaps none more than flavonoids, like anthocyanins.
so easily enjoyed, o, this highbush variety,
so cool, so fresh, an awesome boost, such true satiety.
He loved to nibble, taste, and eat blueberries from Peru,
grown there beneath Andean heights in skies of deep azure.

Ibewa del Sucre is a poet of Central South America. Approximate top blueberry producing nations (in tons): 1. USA, 255,000; 2. Canada, 164,000; 3. Peru, 94,000; 4. Spain, 43,000; 5. Mexico, 40,000; 6. Poland, 26,000; 7. Germany, 12,000; 8. Portugal, 10,000; 9. The Netherlands, 10,000; 10. France, 9,000.


Thanksgiving Day, November 25, 2021
          by B. S. Eliud Acrewe

A red-tailed hawk sits on the varnished fence. The weather’s cold.
The oak-tree leaves are glittering green, orange, brown and gold.
The stream-lined clouds are scarce, the sky is blue, the shadows long.
Dead leaves skip down gray, concrete lanes, like rattled skeletons.
Like tumbleweeds, the garbage sacks dance round about the morgue,
in passive, pillowed passions to the music of Laforgue.
There plainly playing, praying: O, my God, the rondo reels.
The sunlight glints off windows in the parked autómobiles.
The jo-stl-ing of jew-el’d tree-leaves glisten in the sun.
The jaws are chat-ter-ing, the morning’s beauty has begun.

B. S. Eliud Acrewe is a poet and literary critic. French Realist Impressionist Jules Laforgue (1860-1887) was a Franco-Uruguayan poet.


Poeditor Parenteau
          by Cadwel E. Bruise

The editor I like the best in these United States
is undisputably Chad Parenteau of Oddball’s gates.
Week after week, he publishes Wiséan poetry,
despite the fact that he must not like some most certainly.
Of all the editors, I find he is the very one
who hardly pulls or alters words of this contrarian.
He prints the weak, and weaker still, as well, as weakest works;
he lets the jarring jarhead speak, as well as other jerks.
This grand poeditor, who grants free thoughts, free verse and prose,
is like a Thomas Higginson to Dickinson, I s’pose.

Cadwel E. Bruise is a poet of New England. Thomas Higginson (1823-1911) was co-editor of the first two collections of Emily Dickinson’s poetry, who although he changed some words and punctuation of Dickinson, did much to promote her poems.


The Old Grandfather Clock
          by Sec Wide Era Club

That was a diff’rent time for telling time, o, long ago,
the ticking of the old grandfather clock, in audio.
The seconds were more visceral; one heard each one’s full beat,
the Neverending pounding of tick-tock…tick-tock…complete.
The pendulum went back and forth for Odin and for Thor,
for anyone within its near vicinity’s encore.
One sees the rod go left and right, again, again, again,
its antique mechanism moving—in the minds of men.
One sees the disc go to and fro through alternating sides,
the counterpoint to one’s heart-beat. O, seize risk’s bonafides.

Sec Wide Era Club is a poet of time. Odin and Thor are important Norse gods.


That Man Who Walked at Night
          by Cal Wes Ubideer

He stood up at the mirror shaving in a white t-shirt.
He draped a white tow’l on his shoulder; he was smartly girt.
He weighed about one-fifty-five; his hair was neatly groomed.
He listened to a radio, while standing in the room.
O, he was twenty-six-or-seven, rugged, fair of skin.
Though never speaking, one assumed he was American.
His hair was brown, his features regular, without mustache.
He smiled broadly as he shaved; his attitude was brash.
Where was this wanted man—Seattle, Houston, or LA?
O, what went through his mind—this fugitive from moral day?
Why had he set his horrid soul against his fellow man?
Who was this man who walked at night, and did he have some plan?
When some man got in his way, would he get what he deserved?
How could he work so patiently with such a lot of nerve?

Cal Wes Ubideer is a poet of California. The approximate population of three cities of the USA, Seattle, 737,000, Houston, 2,300,000 and LA, 3,898,000.


As San Francisco entered the December shopping month,
instead of lights, its Union Square had boarded up storefronts;
because of mass retail thefts, policemen losing funds,
and politicians still involved in customary shuns.


Nishita, Kevin, murdered, while protecting a news crew,
in downtown Oakland, in broad daylight, in the afternoon.
The thieves were wearing masks and hoods, and looting cameras,
the killer’s vehicle a white, four-door Acura…was.


In the Supermarket
          by Carb Deliseuwe

I saw him in the supermarket shopping for some meat;
but he did not pick up in that aisle a small quantity.
O, I could not believe how much he threw into his cart.
O, would it satisfy his hunger? Was it just a start?

Thick steaks, sirloin, plump chicks, pork chops, a giant rack of lamb;
I swear, if they were selling such, he’d also grab a ram.
Although I was myself just shopping in a groc’ry store,
I stood in awe of that great eating, mighty carnivore.

I was embarrassed at those slabs, those hunks, that butchered art.
In my whole life, I’d never seen so much meat in a cart.
So when I drove away down street, down highway, frontage road,
I could not easily forget that crazy episode.


Another Cup of Coffee
          by Carb Deliseuwe

Another cup of coffee, o, to help one focus on
the beauty of the world in the early morning dawn.
The plain, white cup, containing that brown liquid spar-kl-ing,
life’s fine elixir caught in marketing, o darkening.
This morning’s minion wandering among the wondering,
meandering and gandering—abundant pandering.
So warm, despite the raging storm, so hot, despite the cold,
o, more, despite the aging form, content, though one grow old.
O, let there be another cup to shake one from this sleep,
so gorgeous and so pink amidst the dark blue and the deep.

Carb Deliseuwe is a poet of food and drink.


The Buck on Foot
          Bud “Weasel” Rice

The buck on foot was frolicking about the bare, grey woods.
It looked for food, o, unconcerned about supply-chain goods.
Alert, o, not inert, but wanting fecund plants to eat,
endearing deer weren’t needing steamy cereals to heat.
The tough, bear cub was hauling ass through barren, leafless trees,
not searching for a cup of coffee, creamer, or green sleeves.
The mountain lion, buff, uncut, not doing exercise,
unvexed by flexors, pecs or checked cores, even porcupines,
was stalking elk, coyotes, rodents, even feral hogs,
untroubled by a bubble bath, but cautious, watching logs.

Bud “Weasel” Rice is a poet of Nature.


On Anagrams
          by Beau Lecsi Werd

John Dryden (1631-1700) did not like anagrams. In “MacFlecknoe,” he called anagrams, the “torturing one poor word ten thousand ways”. However, others, like Hellenistic poet Lycophron (c. 320 BC – c. 260 BC), in his “Cassandra,” used anagrams.

Later, some examples were quite intricate: Ave Maria, gratia plena, Dominus tecum (Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with thee) Virgo serena, pia, munda et immaculata (Virgin serene, pious, clean and immaculate). The musically gifted French poet Guillaume de Machaut (1300-1377) likewise indulged in anagrams.

William Shakespeare chose the name Hamlet from Amleth, the Danish prince, who was the adumbrated inspiration for his tragedy. ‘I’ll make a Wise phrase’ from his name. In the 16th and 17th centuries, noted scientists, like Galileo, Huygens, and Hooke, used anagrams to stake their intellectual claims and protect their works.

As well, Edgar Allan Poe (Earl Aldon Page), in “The Narrative of Arthur Gordon Pym,” suggested the idea of literary anagrams; though prior to that, computer science, mathematics, and British cryptic crosswords, inundated with their anagrammatic word play. In PostModernism, Vivian Darkbloom appears in Vladimir Nabokov’s Lolita, while Mr. Mojo Risin’—Jim Morrison—shows up in the Doors’ “L.A. Woman.”

Beau Lecsi Werd is a poet and encyclopaedist.