by “Wired Clues” Abe

High, on th’ empty limb
of an ornamental pear,
a plastic bag flaps.

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


Quotidian Tidying
          by “Clear Dew” Ibuse

The day was hot, o, he felt taut, in his blue jeans and belt,
his dogtags’ tintinnabulant, a tiny, tinny bell.
He went about his business, bringing in the groceries,
and putting them in pantry, frij, by, o, so-slow degrees.
Next came the laundry; it was time to dry the wet, rinsed clothes;
to toss a dryer sheet in with the freshly washed-up load.
Then later lay, o, place and drape, warm tow’ls and linens spread,
to fold and shelve the undergarments, and to make the bed.
He paused to take a sweet, fast break; and, with a cool green tea,
o, had a key-lime yogurt, yes, ere washing dishes clean.


          by “Clear Dew” Ibuse

The baby flexes,
examining his fingers.
There’s so much to learn.

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


Big John
          by Euclidrew Base
          “At the bottom of this mine lies one hell of a man…Big John.”
              —Jimmy Dean, “Big Bad John”

Like Horton, big—that Elephant—a large, grey character,
John Conway was an English mathematical acteur,
who played the game of life, upon a grid of cells, with fun,
to live, or die, or multiply, like an automaton.
Based on fin, spin and twin, and also sometimes even min,
his free-will theorem, with S. Kochen, was a winsome win.
His winning ways, with Berlecap and Guy, were quite a prize,
surreal numbers, recreations, under sportive skies.
With Simon Norton, he conjectured Monstrous Moonshine was,
and after Borcherds’ proof, felt vindicated for his fuss.

Euclidrew Base is a poet of mathematics. Richard Guy (1916-2020), John Conway (1937-2020), and Simon Norton (1952-2019) were British mathematicians, Elwyn Berlecamp (1940-2019), was an American mathematician, Simon Kochen, is a Canadian mathematician and Richard Borcherds is a British mathematician. Horton the Elephant is a character from PostModern American naïve poet Theodore Seuss Geisel (1904-1991), Jimmy Dean (1928-2010) was a PostModernist country singer.


Quebec has axed its brand new plan to tax all the unvaxed,
the trucker “fringe minority” made Ottawa relax.


Neil Old
          by Educable Wires
          “old age sticks”
              —e. e. cummings

He wouldn’t kneel young—that gray, old rocker in his chair;
he didn’t want podcaster Rogan getting any air;
and so he pulled his music from the likes of Spotify;
the old protester had become new censor reified.

The one-time free-speech fighter joined the new-gauge gagging cult
and trotted to G-Mafiat—“Kneel Lives Here” the result.
That northern man, who once was searching for a heart of gold,
had dropped his rockin’ in the free world for a social m-old.

Educable Wires is a poet of rock. One of his favourite docusongs is “Ohio”, to which Neil Young, a PostModernist Canadian-American rocker, contributed.


Tabloid Tabs:
Jeff Zucker has resigned; he left his job @ CNN;
for his relationship with Allison Gollust—the end.


Bharat Dynamics Limited and Army India
have signed a contract for some Konkurs-M, for th’ infantry,
those Russian guided missiles used as anti-tank machines,
indigenized up to the maximum they could achieve.


In Bharmanasana
          by Sri Wele Cebuda

The barman got into bharmanasana, ably, ah;
a pause from serving drinks, he thought; his heart began to throb.
He got upon his hands and knees, ignoring customers.
He wasn’t really interested in street hus-tl-ers.
He brought his knees hip width apart, his feet were firm behind;
his palms beneath his shoulders, hé sought nó sots in his mind.
Like as a table top, thereat the corner of the bar,
he pressed his tailbone back, o, to lengthen spine…so far.
Dressed all in black, from top to bottom, hardly seen at all;
he breathed in deeply, holding breaths, a sirdar near the wall,
a corrugated metal panel, polyethylene,
that barman in bharmanasana, reaching inner peace.

Sri Wele Cebuda is a poet of yoga. Polyethylene, our era’s most common plastic, is a polymer used for bottles, bags, films, geomembranes, and the like. Though, in the main, it is not biodegradable, Canadian Daniel Burd, in 2008, discovered that together Pseudomonas fluorescens and Sphingomonas (Gram-negative, rod-shaped bacteria) can degrade plastic bags. Since then others have discovered more degraders and metabolizers.


With Captain Morgan
          by Cale Budweiser

He was a hired hand with Captain Morgan at the helm,
that rum-spiced character with toothy grin—o, what the hell—
with blue, gold-trimmed, wide-flying cape, draped wide across his back;
to take a sip upon his ship prepared one to attack.
He’d give each order in his scarlet uniform. Avast.
One big brown boot upon a barrel, th’ other firm and flat.
Yarr, what a sweet trade on the high seas—plundered booty’s joy.
I’ll crush Ye, Barnacles, ye lads. Yo-ho-ho. Hail. Ahoy.
Hey, limeys, note his gold-trimmed tricorn on his long black hair.
If you are long within his service, matey, o, beware.

Cale Budweiser is a poet of alcoholic beverages, wine, beer and spirits. One of his favourite anthologies is “Last Call”, edited by contemporary poet James Bertolino. Here is one of his poems, reminiscent of “Mushrooms” by PostModernist American poet Sylvia Plath (1932-1963).


          by James Bertolino

The carrot says
don’t be confused

by appearances.
My lacy green

friendship with air
gives me the confidence

to make demands
of dirt. Consider me

a prosecutor probing
with my own gold.


As Biden toured, in Pittsburgh, touting infrastructure law,
he stared upon Fern Hollow Bridge, amazed at what he saw,
a gaping mess left by the crumpled bridge and smell of gas,
a nearby leak that rose above the broken steel mass.

His stop was part of a campaign to tout his victories,
though Josh Shapiro didn’t show because of scheduling,
like Stacey Abrams earlier, or Beto’s terse remark,
he didn’t need Joe Biden’s help in his planned Texan arc.


Down a Wormhole
          by Brad Lee Suciewe

According to Blockworks, Wormhole has recently been hacked—
three-hundred-million, or one-hundred-thousand ETH,
one of the largest DeFi hacks in terms of dollars dropped;
it seems the break in their security had not been stopped.

Wormhole supports six blockchain bridges, like Etherium,
Solano, Terra, Avalanche, Binance and Polygon.
The hacker has transferred the stolen tokens to themselves;
three differing transactions caught them offguard in the shelves.

Wormhole has offered a whitehat agreement, and as well,
ten-million for bug-bounty and details of the steal.
Return the tokens, Wormhole will forget the crime was done.
Vulnerability was patched, but not the hit and run?

Brad Lee Suciewe is a poet of business. DeFi stands for decentralized finance.


Teton Mountain Range
          by Raise Club Weed

I still remember it—the gorgeous Teton Mountain Range;
enroute to Yellowstone, we paused to gaze upon that chain.
French voyageurs referred to its peaks as les trois tétons.
Perhaps Shoshones called its pinnacles the Teewinot.

But long ago, six-million years, or so, faults in Earth’s crust,
caused movement to create the Rocky Mountains’ newest busts.
As peaks did rise up to the skies, while forming Jackson Hole,
that geologic whole was on two-billion years ago.

I still recall observing those dramatic’lly sharp climbs,
not dissipating, o, those elevations over time.
To me they were sublime, breathtaking, o, those sunlit slopes,
so beautiful and natural, there in their undimmed pose.

Raise Club Weed is a poet of Wyoming. Established in 1872, Yellowstone National Park is widely held as the first national park in the United States of America, and perhaps, the World. Present day Jackson, Wyoming, has a population of around 10,000.


Captain’s Chair Knee-Raises
          by Rudi E. Welec, “Abs”

It was time for his early morning fitness regimen.
He needed so to work upon his flabby abdomen.
He warmed up properly. He did some stretches, and some moves,
that helped him git into the mood, git good into a groove.

He started with the captain’s chair knee-raises carefully,
by lifting up his legs with tightened abs and energy.
He gripped the handles firmly, with his forearms on the pads.
O, he was ready to embark. Ahoy, ye lads. Egads.

He didn’t arch his back or let his back sag for support,
and deeply breathed in oxygen, as he engaged his core.
His ship departed on this trip; he aimed for distant lands,
against the rest, at the behest of captain’s chair commands.

Rudi E. Welec is a poet of physical exercise.