by “Clear Dew” Ibuse

Looking for acorns,
the squirrel climbs the oak tree.
It runs to the top.


          by “Clear Dew” Ibuse

The infant stared up
at the singing, flying birds
past the leafless oak.


          by “Clear Dew” Ibuse

On the window pane,
the winter wind and rain spray…
the sound of water.

“Clear Dew” Ibuse is a poet of Japanese poetic forms, like the haiku, or the katuata (side poem).


          by “Wired Clues” Abe

In the plastic tub,
the baby splashing his feet—
the sound of water.

“Wired Clues” Abe is a poet using Japanese forms united with technology, who although he appreciates the Gendai movement and New Rising Haiku, very much admires traditional haiku.


The Chinese Cyberspace Administration—CAC—
called on commercial websites: Do not dare conduct livestreams
with hashtags that relate to the invasion of Ukraine.
All mention of that nation must be stopped. Refrain. Refrain.


In Padmasana Pose
          by Sri Wele Cebuda

I saw him sitting on the pad, in padmasana pose,
detached from the reality, which all about him flowed.
He hardly noticed fellow workers, busy at their jobs,
from fearless lowly labourer to fired-up, fearsome boss.
He simply sat there looking off, plain painted-walls nearby,
uninterested and uncaring, watching nothing nigh.
The wi-ld frenzy in a flourish, flowering with flair,
was hardly his concern at all, as if it were but air.
He kept on sitting on that lily pad, like as a frog,
enamoured by fog round about those gorgeous realms of God.


          by Sri Wele Cebuda
          “The vanished gods to me appear…”
              —Ralph Waldo Emerson, “Brahma”

O, Shiva, the auspicious one, controller of the time,
responsible for carrying out great Destruction’s crime.
Past, present, and the future are from him, and lie within,
amalgamating the Rigvedic storm god Rudra’s wind.

O, Shiva, the protector and transformer of the All,
omniscient Yogi and Destroyer, the Apostle Pall,
the patron of the arts and meditation of the mind,
he is the demon slayer with his opened, mighty eye.

O, Shiva, with his silver necklace snaking round his neck,
adorned with golden crescent moon and muscular pec-deck,
the tall trishula rising high above damaru drum,
the upright spine, the pines divine, th’ atomic, ticked tom-tom.


Industrial, Large Rolling Shutter Doors
          by Sri Wele Cebuda

Construction of industrial, large rolling shutter doors,
providing safety from the weather, burglars and the hordes,
can be installed with pulleys, or a motor, if one please,
for cost-efficient, weight-reduction durability.
The main part of the shutter is the interlocking slat;
the pipe is what the curtain rolls upon, rat-a-tat-tat;
the U-shaped channels are the guides, directing shutter path;
connecting the assembly to the brackets is the shaft;
the springs are used for counterbalancing the shutter’s roll;
cast iron casts are used for roller cleats and gears in flow.

Sri Wele Cebuda is a poet of India, where Shiva Malekopmath works, in Gadag in Karnataka.


In Babylon
          by “Scribe” El Uwade

In Babylon, there was a bee, a buzzing, stinging thing,
in times around the 6th and 7th century BC,
on banks of the Euphrates River, twitter-spitting through,
disrupting people with its biting truths and bitter ruth.
They tried to kill it with their pesticides and swinging swats;
but they could not get rid of it, around their honeypots.
And so they banned it from their minds; they liked thoughts flat and pat.
Though any time at all, it could call, and they’d be stung in fact.
They were not safe, not even in high-climbing ziggurat,
for this bee flew wherever there was air, and that was that.

“Scribe” El Uwade is a poet of ancient Egypt and Mesopotamia.


Why has Joe Biden not yet sanctioned Russian billionaire
Yelena Baturina, friend of Rosemont Seneca?


          by Ibe Ware Desu, LC
          for Roy E. Peterson

In Fukuoka,
cheery cherry blossoms bloom,
far from Chernihiv.

Ibe Ware Desu, LC, is a haiku poet. Fukuoka is a city in Japan of approximately 1,600,000. Chernihiv is a city in Ukraine of about 285,000 in 2021.


In Chernihiv, March 3, 2022
          Radice Lebewsu

A soldier hears the howling wind. A missile hits the ground.
He rushes from the makeshift camp to reach the heavy sound.
With hawk-like eyes, he sees the withered grass and broken street.
His cold heart melts. In army boots, his run is fast and fleet.
No sooner than he comes to where the former bread line was,
he has arrived there on his feet, that dread and dying place.
He looks back where that vulture flew into that hungry crowd,
but in harsh silence it is now a leaden kind of loud.
A pale sun shines among no pines, a thousand miles of clouds.
Among the heaved and heavy concrete slabs, o, dozens drown.


Mariupol, March 20, 2022
          by Radice Lebewsu

There still are other cities left—Odessa and Ky’iv.
There still are people in Ukraine, who want to be and live.
Amidst the ruins, other men appear, their faces dark,
from dust, gun powder, and the breath of freedom burning, stark.

Those chests that burst and fall are followed by avenging souls;
they are the loving, living fighters, Mariupol’s own.
Their breadth is heavier than death’s explosions going off.
Their firm resistance greater than the sneer of Putin’s scoff.

We wake up to the headlines of Ukraine. We are dismayed.
We sleep, we eat, we work; they still resist, day after day.
From land, from air, from sea, bombardment keeps continuing,
the piling misery and ruins this first day of Spring.

Radice Lebewsu is a poet fond of Ukraine. The impetus for this dodeca takes its cue from “Letter to Stalingrad” by Brazilian Modernist Carlos Drummond de Andrade (1902-1987). One irony of Putin’s war is that his military minions are killing hundreds of Mariupol’s inhabitants who are largely and traditionally Russian. Of a prewar population of more than 400,000, over 40% were of Russian ethnicity.


Within Byshiv
          by Audre L. Besciew

Within Byshiv, upon a rocky pedestal, it stands,
a bust of Taras Shévchenko, in pink and gray commands.
The balding, mustached face, is faced away, from busted House
of Culture, in the ruined rubble of the Russian roust.
The trees are bare, but for the evergreen there by its side;
the clouds are covering the yellow sun and azure sky.
West of Ky’iv, the village has been shelled by Russian planes;
amidst the massive mess, the chiseled block of stone remains:
March marches on, the fate of the Ukrainian dissent
in humble hands, hard truth’s armed lands, a faithful testament.

Audre L. Besciew is a poet of Ukraine. The last, full two lines are drawn from “Fate” by the Romantic Ukrainian poet Taras Shevchenko (1814-1861). Byshiv is a town 40 kilometers from Ky’iv between two-and-three-thousand inhabitants.


In Mozart’s String Quartet in C
          by Ebert E. Eisbruc

In Mozart’s String Quartet in C, the introduction starts
with quiet Cs upon the cello—slowly it imparts—
there joined by the viola, A-flat moving to a G,
then second violin upon E-flat—meaningfully—
and the first violin on A, creating dissonance,
Masonic, step-by-step suspense, a minor missing mance,
as if one had just come upon an alien world’s set,
unsure of what exactly it was that one would forget,
the ordinary tuned into an other-worldly realm
and turned into a re-al mo-em in a dreamy rem.

Ebert E. Eisbruc is a poet of musical criticism.


          by Rawle Budicees

gaze up
at the Moon,
to keep tap dancing, Leonard Dabydeen.

Rawle Budicees is a poet of Guyana. Leonard Dabydeen (1948-2022) was a Guyana-Canadian poet.


No Nur
          für Verrückte
          by Dic Asburee Wel
          “Hit the road, Jack Kerouac”
              —“Weird” Ace Blues

The language was not free, a pattering of pantaloons,
a slave to ancient ideologies and marxist goons,
the mind en-joy-ing ram-bl-ing; but to what purpose, Jack?
just kidding, Kim—balls orbiting the Luna Sea and Black,
like as the goings-on of cummings, but without the means,
his ends, like as a ghost that hardly anybody’s seen,
a semi that’s retired from the road in Idaho,
North Carolina trekker on the loaded ride to Roam,
his splashes buried in the ocean by some light-house gleam,
the after-language glow of Boston or a New York scream.

Dic Asburee Wel is a poet of New York. One of his favourite poets is PostModernist American poet John Ashbury (1927-2017); his favourite after-language poet is contemporary Jack Kimball.


          by Brad Lee Suciewe

The Fed refuses to consider that inflation is
due to its dizzying expansion of US supplies.
Apparently the buck does not stop there—that what they think—
as they sink in to much more paper printed with more ink.

And Congress doesn’t think inflation comes from spending more,
a deficit insanity continuing to soar.
Inflation rising higher in four decades cannot be,
though it’s the largest seen in decades, recent history.

And White House present residents are sure inflation’s not
caused by attacks on capital. That cannot be their thought.
So when three US institutions won’t consider that
they are what’s causing this inflation, how can it be zapped?

Brad Lee Suciew is a poet of business.


The Dentist Appointment
          by Lu Dewie Braces

He sat up in the dentist office, waiting to be called.
Although the hair upon his head was short, he was not bald.
Apparently he needed braces for his crowded mouth.
He wasn’t looking forward to this—no, he wanted out.
He sat upright. No magazine was in his hands to read.
Indeed the furniture was like that seen within a dream.
A sofa and a single chair dovetailed by bare walls;
no windows to look out of, only hanging waterfalls.
He stared up at one’s splashing waters, gorgeous bubbled pools;
and then his name was called; he had to face the dentist’s tools.

Lu Dewie Braces is a poet of dentistry.


Another Work-Day
          by Des Wercebauli

Although it’s just another work-day in the Metroplex,
it’s gorgeous warming up for exercise, flushed flux and flex,
especi’lly after “live wild lime and active mandarin”,
some high fructose corn syrup, laced with maltodextrin’s spin.

The Sun is on the East horizon, blazing in the sky;
there in a vehicle, it’s glaring, flaring on one’s eyes.
One feels like as a soldier dressed in camo at the wheel,
prepared to pay the tribute, rip it from the beau ideal.

But even here at home, nearby house-finches on the roof,
with silver jet planes in the distance, flying high, aloof,
one can observe the gorgeous land scrape through the window frame,
in pants and belt, so deeply felt, the wonderful dismayed.

Des Wercebauli is a poet of labour.


          by Rauc E. Sedilube

Continually squeezing, as he was assailing hills,
as well as in his hard abseils, o, those horrid thrills.
Rappelling with abundant energy and mighty rope,
connecting hitches, locking carabiners, focused cope.
Yes, double checking, making certain all knots were secure,
delts heightened and belts tightened, stepping steadily and sure.
Descending mounts re-qui-r-ing th’ utmost diligence,
aware of dire warnings and attendant vigilance.
One notices the bulk of the responsibility
falls on one’s shoulders, with outright infallibility.

Rauc E. Sedilube is a poet of rock climbing.


Via Vortex, Worm-like Holes
          by I. E. Sbace Weruld

He longed to glide and ride, yes, via vortex, worm-like holes,
to reach new universes, parallel and novel zones;
for there no souls would keep him from new lows and highs or news
about the whirling worlds in which he found his selves con-fused.
He slid into a silver top, brown belt, black shoes and socks.
He entered into novel situations, bracing walks.
He traveled forth from LA to the parks of Germany,
from London to Virginia, to the lengths of Italy;
He wondered at the wonders that he passed along the way.
O, Slider Cubeawe was pre-pared to bear another day.

Mr. I. E. Sbace Weruld is a poet of space travel.