“Clear Dew” Ibuse

Boom! White blossoms bloom
through th’ ornamental pear tree,
far from Chernihiv.

“Clear Dew” Ibuse is a poet of natural settings and Japanese poetic forms. Chernihiv is a city in Ukraine of about 285,000. One of his favourite haiku writers is the French Modernist philosopher and doctor Paul-Louis Couchoud (1879-1959).


          “Wired Clues” Abe

The freeway driver
cuts a slower driver off:
a pinball machine.

“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.


At the Beach
          by W. S. “Eel” Bericuda

He went out to the beach; the waves continually fanned.
He was involved in standing-tall asanas in the sand.
The Sun was pounding on the people sunning near the sea;
they were attempting to achieve a kind of ecstasy.
The clouds were white and few in the azure sky overhead.
The waves continued forth with froth, again against the zed.
He got into utkatasana, on that airy chair,
and bobbed a bit, while he was balanced in the palace, bare.
O, God he saw the Dog that’s friend to Man, o, passing by.
He felt the force of course, and opened up his inner eye.

W. S. “Eel” Bericuda is a poet of the beach.


Will Smith hit Chris Rock at the Oscars down in Hollywood,
as Kim Jung Un appeared within his latest video,
in leather jacket and sunglasses, looking at his watch:
Was this a Hwasong 17 or 15 at the launch?
a monster missile or some older missile used to fill
his terrifying power on the screen, his deadly skill?


New World
          by Baidu Wercs Lee

With his New World Order, he had caviar hors d’oeuvres,
with white baijiu and worldview, forever and for sure.
He sipped his bleak and cyclic interconnectivity
with moral-relative reactions to stability.
He hated the New World Disorder raging round the Globe,
attempting to protect his people from its deadly blow.
He knew the clan and not the individual was the
foremost and first productive unit of society.
So, unforgiving, ego-driven, striving to do well,
he hid his head in thoughtful dread avoiding New World Hell.

Baidu Wercs Lee is a poet of NeoConfusion thought.


A Gorgeous Weave
          by Sri Wele Cebuda

Dressed all in black, he got into a padmasana pose.
Behind him was a blackboard—grey, rectangular, it rose.
He saw the faint white chalk marks, that around his body curved.
Although he sought nirvana, he was still a bit unnerved.
His hair-cut short, his breaths were deep, his arms were at his side.
He raised his head up high, o, my, but did in peace abide.
O, yes, he felt so blessed to be exactly where he was.
Upright, his spine, divine, not tight, receiving cosmic awe.
He sat secure, a bit demure, like as he’d reached a plane
that flew off to the sky so blue, that tilted from his nape.
He knew it was important to strive to achieve this eave,
for this was where his inner eye could see a gorgeous weave.

Sri Wele Cebuda is a poet of meditation.


Attempting to Stand Tall
          by Ed “Bear” C. U. Lewis

He tried to stand up tall, but had a hard time doing so;
his shiny dogtags hanging down, his torso, bending low.
Was this the ending, stretching, that no longer he could go?
He turned his head, o, filled with dread. He couldn’t hold this hole.
The bombed-out city wasn’t pretty, no, it was quite bad.
He never knew how good he had it, lying on this pad.
He tried to do his padmasana on the battlefield,
between the shells and blasting hells, the pounding, pounding yield;
but peace was minimal for all beleaguered manimals,
the cubehead, squaring shoulders and the jutting mandibles.

Ed “Bear” C. U. Lewis is a poet of military equipment.


Sergei Shoigu, the Russian minister of the defense
was missing two weeks from the public. There was some suspense.
But when he had resurfaced recently on a Zoom find,
somebody said the minister has a lot on his mind.


Those Early Morning Baths
          by Acwiles Berude

Those were the days, he loved to laze long in the filled-up tub,
the water warm, from leg to arm, the bubbles and the suds.
He read his Homer and his Aristophanes in Greek.
Line after line, it was divine, each day, week after week.

But it was not eternal, no, those early morning baths
gave way to other languages and other measured maths.
Those soaks, so cozy, turned to showers, briefer, quicker, fast;
nor could such cleansing with less cleaning be that long to last.

Acwiles Berude is a poet of Ancient Greece. His favourite poetic comedic dramatist is Classical Greek writer Aristophanes (c. 446 – c. 386).


The Linguist
          by Casber Wieldue

He felt, like as his city, sitting in the rubble of
the trouble and the misery, the lack of luck and love.
He was a linguist spending nights locked in bomb-shelter hell.
He heard the constant pounding, shaking, of each rocket shell.
No water, heating, electricity, no medicine,
besieged in heaving Chernihiv, his dreams, sheer jettison.
Why won’t cruel Putin take his fantasy of death away,
o, check the black smoke choking residents another day?
The images from satellites show burning o-i-l tanks.
The linguist cannot hardly raise his legs for aching shanks.
Who can he speak to of the agony he fe-els now?
He lifts his head, and turns around, his knees are on the ground.

Casber Wieldue is a poet of Ukraine.


In Chernihiv, March 3rd, 2022
          Radice Lebewsu
          “Lips that would kiss/ Form prayers to broken stone”
              —T. S. Eliot, “The Hollow Men”

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 dead 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.
The hung sun shines among no pines, a thousand miles of clouds.
Below the heaved and heavy concrete slabs, and dozens down.


Mykola Kostiantynovich Zerov
          by Radice Lebewsu

They did their very best to make a zero out of you—
Mykola Kostiantynovich Zerov—and others too.
They didn’t understand how hard translating Horace was,
and into base Ukrainian, Greek drama choruses.
The agony was there, exactitude and some finesse,
in alexandrines and in sonnetoids you sought success.
They didn’t want it, no; they wanted you to disappear,
between what had been said, and what was to be done in fear.
Who’d care? There wasn’t an Ivan Kotliarevsky or
some other Neoclassic Modernist there at the door.

Radice Lebewsu is a poet of Ukraine. Ivan Kotliarevsky (1769-1838) was a Romantic Ukrainian poet, Mykola Kostiantynovich Zerov (1890-1937) a Modernist Ukrainian poet.


A Fire on the Azov Sea
          by Uwele Berdiasc

Was it the Orsk, run by the Orcs, in the port of Berdyansk,
a fire on the Azov Sea, its crew in utter angst?
It could not be confirmed, although one saw the flames and smoke.
One would not want to be too close, lest one might gasp or choke.
And was it true two other boats had also been attacked,
and damaged from the incident, the foggy air turned black?
The birds were scattering, as some explosions could be heard;
but the reporting had more questions than it had sure words.
Was this a drone there come and gone beyond Mariupol?
Who caused this to occur? Were vile Orcs not in control?

Uwele Berdiasc is a Ukrainian populist journalist poet. Berdyansk is a Ukrainian city of about 100,000.


The NewMillennial English Essayist
          by B. S. Eliud Acrewe

He worked in English liter’ture, like as a lycra slave.
O, he was gunning for a postcolonial e-vade.
He laboured on those rightings, labeled most political,
echoic economical and ecological.
With serious knit-brow, he forced the words out from his head,
in certain topics, unsure optics, and a dose of dread.
He spoke of poetry and how its forms were being shaped
along divisions powered by hysteria and rape.
He was quite int’rested in voices people could produce,
essential essays in the hissing/pissing of a goose.
His own research was focused on an angst-obnoxious bile,
a social justice harden’d bard ‘n’ harsh combative style.

B. S. Eliud Acrewe is a poet of British leanings. Lycra, invented by American Modernist chemist Joseph Shivers (1920-2014), is a synthetic fiber known for its elasticity.


I saw he paused a moment—Cebas Ur Ewilde did;
but why, I had no real idea, likely never would.


US Population Growth: 2021
          by Usa W. Celebride

In 2021, the US population growth
occurred in varied counties, as some dropped and some arose
Five of the top ten counties growing were some Texan ones:
Montgomery, Fort Bend and Denton, Collin, Williamson.
The other five included Maricopa, Riverside,
both Polk and Lee in Florida, and Utah’s Utah rise.
In Phoenix, Dallas, and St. Petersburg, those were the tops
in metro growth, in 2021; they did not stop.
The reasons for this change included the economy,
high taxes, covid, immigration, wanting to be free.

Usa W. Celebride is a poet of the United States of America, data from the US Census Bureau.


          by Dr. Weslie Ubeca

Sotrovimab, a monoclonal antibody used
to treat the CCP-created virus, Wuhan Flu,
is not considered to be an effective treatment plan
against the BA.2 subvariant of Omicron.
Because apparently it isn’t an effective tool,
the FDA says there’s doubt too as to its value too—
New Hampshire, Massachusetts, Vermont, Maine, Connecticut,
Rhode Island, New York, and New Jersey should quit using it.
But Vir Biotechnology and GlaxoSmithKline say,
as makers of the drug itself, that its use is okay.

Dr. Weslie Ubeca is a poet of medicine, not a medical doctor, a medical scientist, or a pharmaceutical representative. At its launch, May of 2021, sotrovimab’s active pharmaceutical ingredient was produced by WuXi Biologics of China.


At College
          by Educable Wires

He found himself at college at the fall edge of the year.
He dreaded going to his classes. He was filled with fear.
He even longed to skip his PE class, because the work
was, o, so hard, or worse, his classmates utterly absurd.
His PE class, for instance, exercises in a gym;
it was the size of some gigantic auditorium.
One could get lost within the wide array of students there,
one didn’t know what one was doing, why, or how, or where.
The place was packed, no teacher tracked just what was going on.
He fled the wild activity, that frenzied magnetron.
But if he couldn’t even make it to his PE class,
what knowledge could he gain in physics, chemistry or maths?

Educable Wires is a poet of education.


At the Interview
          by Des Wercebauli

He didn’t want to wear a tie, but for an interview,
he put one on and pulled it straight, green, black and white in hue.
He wanted to be a chip off the old block of his boss.
He sat upright while he was interviewing for this job.
O, how he longed to get it, but would he say the right words?
He wanted, o, to be strong, solid, even sturdier.
He focused on the questions, and the answers that he gave.
This job would bring financial help. He did not dare be vague.
He held his head up high. He did his best to meet the test.
O, could he be, yes, good enough, so neat and tightly dressed?

Des Wercebauli is a poet of labour.


The Sable
          by Bud “Weasel” Rice

The sable is a martin species, small, omnivorous,
inhabiting Siberia’s dense woodlands, river fronts,
in forests of birch, cedar, spruce, as well as larch and pine,
defenders of those territories that they claim as “mine”.
They hunt small musk deer, hares and ermine, birds and weasels too,
and follow wolves and bears for fill-leftovers they may view.
Primarily crepuscular in twilight or in dawn,
they also feed on wild berries, rodents and/or fawn.
Their fur has been a valued item for two thousand years.
The priestly Byzantines would wear their smooth pelts on their ears.

Bud “Weasel” Rice is a poet of wild animals. One of his favourite works, around the sales of sables, is “Gorky Park” by PostModernist novelist Martin Cruz Smith.


On Meat Eating
          by Carb Deliseuwe
          “A human…has no hawk’s bill, no sharp talon, no roughness
          of teeth, no strength of stomach or heat of digestion, as can
          be sufficient to convert or alter such heavy and fleshy fare.”
              Plutarch, “Moralia”

At sites in Kenya, dating back 2,000,000 years ago,
some modern archeologists have found flaked “knives” of stone,
near heaps of fauna bones, with corresponding butcher marks;
it seems the vegetarians were carving fleshy arcs.
Although with stronger jaws and larger teeth, the ancients used
their tools to get the nutrients of meaty, marrow ooze.
Their “knives” designed to dig up tubers and crack open nuts,
were then used to make humans omnivores with stronger guts.
Diversity in diet brought forth new developments,
like the ability to thrive in more environments.


Three Turkey Vultures
          by Carb Deliseuwe

It was on Nicosea near the bushy bluestream grass,
three turkey vultures were devouring one hare’s hard pass.
The morning summer sun had cast bright light upon their feast,
still pouring forth sheer energy from th’ bright and beating east.
Each eats what each is able to between disturbing cars,
that cause them to fly off, but momentarily, of course.
One driver stopped to watch the scene, as out of Gilgamesh,
the bald, red-headed, large, white-beaked, black birds tear chunks of flesh.
He’s not alarmed, it’s natural, as is the concrete street,
the turkey vulture has to eat, and mainly hunks of meat.


Banana Cream Pie
          by Carb Deliseuwe

It is a dream—banana cream pie—when it is complete.
It is one of the tastiest deserts that one can eat.
Within a saucepan one can place the flour, sugar, salt,
and add the milk in gradually; one is not making malt.
Cook over heat until what’s mixed is bubbly, luscious, sweet,
then add the egg yolks in, that are already warm and beat.
While stirring, then add butter and vanilla to the mix
until the texture is quite smooth, thin sliced bananas fixed.
Next put the pudding on the pastry shell that’s cooled and good,
and bake until banana cream pie is prepared—grand food.

Carb Deliseuwe is a poet of food and drink. Plutarch (c. 46 – c. 120) was a Greco-Roman biographer and noted thinker. “Gilgamesh” is an ancient Mesopotamian epic.


At Some Space Port of Call
          by I. E. Sbase Weruld

I saw him travelling through time, o, Slider Cubeawe, yes,
that blockhead in the window frame, with dogtags on his chest.
His belt was brown, his socks were black, he stood up straight and tall,
like as he was about to enter some space port of call.
Like Sid Cee Uberawl, he seemed to balance on a wire,
when he got up and stood erect. O, could he get much higher?
He sat up at attention, tense and palely loitering.
Was he about to take off in a rocketship’s ka-ching.
He turned around, his shoulders sound, his head and neck secure.
What was he doing there, pray tell, his pec-deck firm and sure?

The poet I. E. Sbase Weruld writes of real alternate universes.