by “Clear Dew” Ibuse

He sits on the fence
in scarlet, feathered garments,
the red cardinal.


          by “Clear Dew” Ibuse

Between nectarings,
a pale, yellow sulphur flits,
amidst leaves falling.

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


          by “Wired Clues” Abe

On the patio,
the long, stretched-out cat lounges
near the ladybug.

“Wired Clues” Abe is a poet of Japanese forms and traditions with a modern twist.


Newsreel (2 hours):
The Biden-Putin conf’rence call discussed concerns they share,
Ukraine, Iran, and NATO, cybercrime and ransomware.


Newsreel (3.5 hours):
The Modi-Putin summit in New Delhi, India,
discussed expanding commerce in Far East Siberia,
as well as military-technical responsiveness,
cooperation in nuke energy, as well as space.


Supta Matsyendrasana
          by Sri Wele Cebuda

Reclined upon that empty mat, like as the Fisher King,
supine, his stretched-out spine—divine—the wished-for fissuring.
O, what a stress-reliever, Percival nearby and free,
the gorgeous Holy Grail filled, with life and liberty.

His lower back pressed flat, while bending knees, uplifting feet,
his shoulders and his arms extended—o, the whole complete.
He calms himself, rejuvenates his body and his mind.
He vitalizes inner organs, flesh detoxifi(n)ed.

He strengthens spine, and helps increase disgestion of G(od’s / f)ood,
improving flexibility, the lovely flux improved.
He stimulates the svadisthana chakra’s self-esteem,
associated with good love and creativity.

Sri Wele Cebuda is a poet of meditation. This dodeca on the supine spinal twist mingles Christian and Hindu elements.


In Badrud Skies
          by Abdul Serecewi

Twelve miles from th’ enrichment plant based at Natanz, Iran,
there was a loud and crashing flash of light. Was that a plan?
It was not probably a blasting nuclear device,
and e-lec-tro-mag-ne-tic pulse does not seem to suffice.
Was it routine, just an Iranian new missile’s test?
or detonating an attacking drone as some suggest?
There were reports two villages evaculated folks,
but was this after the explosive and dramatic spokes?
Whatever happened, it seems something very strange occurred,
and certainly in Badrud skies, the Force had been disturbed.

Abdul Serecewi is a poet of Iran. Badrud is a city of Iran of around 15,000.


To Rise Up
          by W. Israel Ebecud

He rose up in the morning from the white sheets on his bed.
He lifted up his body, from his he-els to his head.
O, he was quite content to rise up from his sleepiness
to focus on the beauty of life in sweet wakefulness.
How wonderful it was to leave unconsciouness behind,
to open up his inner eye and enter centered mind.
A gorgeous mass of images appeared before his eyes.
O, Lord, he longed to catch and fetch those fetching sunlit skies.
He stood up at the edge of ecstasy’s outstanding curves
of spacetime’s infinite-eternal spreading Universe.

W. Israel Ebecud is a poet of wakefulness.


Mediterranean Meditations
          by Erisbawdle Cue

According to famed Aristotle, the Philosopher,
Thales was the Magnificenter Magnetometer.
He thought this Orb re-lied on water, rested on its surf.
Did he conclude that Earth was rocked by waves upon its turf?
He thought that water was the stuff from which all matter came.
Did he think hydrogen was the material archê?
He thought the magnet has a soul; it was alive somehow.
Did he regard that motion was important for the Plow?
He thought the Globe, things in themselves, were filled, o, full of gods.
Did he suppose the Great Bear roamed upon the cosmic clods?

Erisbawdle Cue is a poet of philosophy. Thales (c. 623 BC – c. 547 BC) was a preSocratic philosopher, mathematician, and scientist. Aristotle (384 BC – 322 BC) was a Classical Greek philosopher. The Plow, the Big Dipper, is part of Ursa Major, the Great Bear. According to Beau Lecsi Werd, “Magnificenter” is a neologism.


Ah, Mathematics
          by Euclidrew Base

O, God, I love its ever mounting structure. It’s so fine.
Ah, mathematics is the wonder of the human mind:
O, all throughout these thousand-years from ancient Greece to now,
it grows with ebbs and flows, and goes, a flushing, gushing spout,
a rushing fount, that’s ever broader and more beautiful,
magnificent, with a foundation, strong and suitable,
as functional as it was when great Thales flourished here,
upon this touring, turning planet, in this atmosphere.
O, let us drink a toast to it, of coffee, milk, or wine,
and all its mathemagic splendors, base and/or divine.

Euclidrew Base is a poet of mathematics.


Angela Merkel has been replaced as German Chancellor
by Olaf Scholtz, without the fraud seen in America,
unlike dictators in Red China, Russia or elsewhere,
that plague our Planet with their plans to quash the human spir.

According to Beau Lecsi Werd, “spir” is a trunc of spirit, and a homonym of spear.


          by Bruc “Diesel” Awe

Ducati is a group of companies who are known for
the manufacturing of motorcycles, yes, and more.
Their bikes are powerful and pleasing to the eye as well,
their first was made in 1950, and was quite a sell.

They still are made by hand by workers skilled in what they do,
which is a reason why they’re so expensive yet to date.
In 1960, they created Mach 1 motorbike
that was the fastest of 250cc’s at the time.

In 1993, they made the Monster muscle hog,
and logged above 300,000 choppers—what a gob.
The rider Casey Stoner in 2007 won
the MotoGP World Championship on one of them.

Their logo is a rounded red triangle with their name—
DUCATI over a white winding road—their claim to fame.
A stable chassis, refined beast of a V-Twin, seat great:
the 2022 Streetfighter V2 has street cred.


A Dream
          by Bruc “Diesel” Awe

It was a dream. O, he was in…a dungeon dark and stark.
He’d placed his keys aside, his SuperSport Ducati parked.
More like a nightmare than a fantasy that he was in;
so many parts of this seemed seamy much to his chagrin.
He felt tied up in knots internally. Why must he stay?
Where could he go? What could he do? He longed to get away.

This Dali landscape bothered him. How could he be content.
And yet, the dream continued on. He slept through its intent.
Who was that buff-cut flat-top there? Who was that leggy guy?
What battle were they both engaged in? Would somebody die?
Then he awoke. Thank God. Reality appeared again.
And he returned back to the troubled realm and world of men.

Bruc “Diesel” Awe is a poet of cars. Contemporary, NewMillennial motorcycle racer, Casey Stoner was both a 125cc and 250cc World Champion, “cc” cubic centimeters. Salvador Dali (1904-1989) was a Spanish surrealist painter.


          War di Belecuse

Eyes left. He could not be bereft. He had to turn his head.
While facing front, he had to twist his neck, but front pec-deck.
His socks and tie were pulled up tight, as was his inner eye.
He had to focus on commands, as they went passing by.

Eyes right. The soldier turned his head off to the right to see
the passing military figure from the infantry.
His cap was straight, his dog-tags tame, his uniform was neat.
His chest was out, his abs in hard, he dared not move a tee.

Eyes front. He had to face each order, as it came to him.
He should not think of women here. He should not have a whim.
It was important that he stood, as still as he could stand…
it…with his gun slung firm, snug at his side…each arm and hand.


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. According to Beau Lecsi Werd “&)” is a Cummingsesque technique.


The Lang-widge Ec-spurts
          by Beau Lecsi Werd

Blacklisting words, though they have been grandfathered in, is lame.
The tribe of tone-deaf brainstormers ask, what is in a name?
O, sensitivity is better than free speech, they say:
Don’t speak of inner-city ghettoes; that is not okay.
They are not dumb, this tribe of spooky PC speech-police,
they know first-world problems can be cured, and maybe ceased.
Their latest powwow has come up with spirit animals
one should avoid, like savage black sheep or white cannibals.
It’s dumb to sell somebody down the river, don’t gyp them,
and leave them crippled on the banks of “Huckleberry Finn”.

Beau Lecsi Werd is a poet of language. The attack, by American Realist Samuel Langhorne Clemens (1835-1910) on civilization, in “Huckleberry Finn” runs every bit as deep and as profound as Swift’s attack on civilization in “Gulliver’s Travels”. Its range is panoramic: from its attack on brutality to its mockery of sentimentality; from its exquisite contemplative moments of loneliness and intense internal crises to its antagonism toward vile mob rule; from its madmixture [sic] of Shakespeare, Dumas, et alia, to its freewheeling criticisms; from its remarkable combination of comedy and tragedy to its extraordinary prose, both playful and deadly serious; from society’s contracts to individual conscience. It is indeed one of the great American masterpieces of freedom from one of the greatest of American humourists, who thoroughly understood the horrors and undersides of human existence and presented them with local colour, colloquial dialect, and unflinching realism. It is a novel that has remained controversial, from its inception (1885), touching a deep, internal, human chord. Though few may see them, it is a novel chock-a-block with messages for the New Millennium.


Coronavirus Winter Work
          by Des Wercebauli

Though winter fast approached with roaring winds of Boreas,
inside he sat before his monitor, in tank-top cast.
His feet in low-cut black socks perched upon his wooden desk,
a heater blew warm air upon him during his week’s sked.
He shaved about his neck and chin, and all around his lips,
continuing to do his work there at his fingertips.
While writing out reports, positioning his brown belt’s loop,
his gray tank-top was tight, and stretched. There was still much to do.
He hung back in his swivel chair, he sucked in guts and abs,
and sent e-mails out amidst the documents and tabs.

Des Wercebauli is a poet of work. Boreas is the Greek god of the North Wind and winter.


Monday Morning
          by Walice de Beers

Anxieties of the work-week come quickly to the fore,
a cup of coffee on the run, another out the door.
The silver slavery of a caged cockatoo in steel,
behind the whe-el on the seat of an au-tó-mo-bile.
The holy, crushing rush of ancient sacrifice appears;
he fe-els the dark encroachment of the job-place as it nears.
Among commuters in a train upon the highway loop,
he drives in a procession, o, that passing mass of Boole.
The day is wide with clouds, beyond the pond of Palestine:
dominion of the blood, and life; ah, strive, and all is fine.

Walice de Beers is a poet fond of the poetry of Wallace Stevens. George Boole (1815-1864) was a British philosopher, mathematician and logician.


His Hard Workout
          by Rudi E. Welec, “Abs”

He loved to be…outside beside the lovely greenery,
there by the gray fence, tall grass, and the thin-stemmed scenery.
How beautiful the rising stalks, the corn, holed in the ground,
that climbs up past the open gym, the barbell’s clinking sound.
Just in from his hard workout, in the sunny morning light,
alone and palely loitering, alive to time and might,
he sits back in that happy place, observing all around,
at peace, and resting, breathing, yes, and glad to be unbound.
It’s time to take a shower, and the water trickles down,
machinery and sight refreshing. There’s no room for doubt.


Casey at the Bat
          Rudi E. Welec, “Abs”

He had come to the priest to do some penance for his acts.
He still remembered overconfidence when up at bat.
He wanted to get right with God, to lower self-esteem.
Whatever would be needed, he would do it—in between.
His gaze was lowered when he saw that modest priestly garb.
He spilled his sins. like sequin spins; he did not boast or brag.
He longed for cleansing, blubber flensing, trimming extra fat.
O, Casey wanted, yes, to be much better at the bat.
He did not want to strike out for far-distant fans unseen.
He wanted only to redeem his questioned answering.

Rudi E. Welec, “Abs” is a poet of sport and exercise. “Casey at the Bat” is a poem by American Realist Ernest Lawrence Thayer (1863-1940).


Covfefe Fever
          Carb Deliseuwe
          “The real struggle is not between…capitalism and communism,
          but between education and propaganda.”
              —Martin Buber

Cup after cup, he couldn’t stop, he loved rich coffee so,
and flavoured with some French vanilla creamer—God, my, O.
That torus, circular, a donut, dipped into a mouth,
a thousand would not be enough to satisfy the Thou.
Sip after sip, it was a trip, an awesome one, in fact,
that took him to and through reality, in cáffeine act.
The coffee cup is filled again with coffee to the top,
especi’lly if one has prepared another Bunn-made pot,
for home, for diner, or for restaurant—across the land,
a single cup in minutes, lots of gallons on command.

Martin Buber (1878-1965) was an Austrian thinker known for his philosophy of dialogue.


The Door’s Ajar
          by Educable Wires

The door’s ajar. I hear a bang. Bang! in my Metrotown—
I get up…to find out what it is…and then…I get down.
I close the chamber door. And then I hear a knock, knock, knock!
Is this a snare? Is that a kick? My eardrums hear some Bach.
I take my high hat off, and toss…it bounces on the floor.
I swing around. A baseball player’s on the radio.
I turn the d-i-a-l. It’s a piano with a beat…repeat.
And then I go into slow-mo. Though full, I’m not complete.
A trumpet calls. A tom-tom falls. The subway stops…again.
It’s been a hellova ride. Here we go. Smile. Don’t be neg.

Educable Wires is a poet of popular music. Johann Sebastian Bach (1685-1750) was a Baroque composer and musician. AJR is an American pop indie trio.