by “Clear Dew” Ibuse
A red-orange streak
rises from the green grasses:
by “Clear Dew” Ibuse
The white blossoms bloom
on th’ ornamental pear tree,
and quickly vanish.
“Clear Dew” Ibuse is a poet of natural settings and Japanese poetic forms.
by “Wired Clues” Abe
In the waiting room,
the baby still in the womb:
a Russian bomb’s zoom.
“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. One of his favourite haiku writers is the French Modernist philosopher and doctor Paul-Louis Couchoud (1879-1959).
In a dystopian reality on Shanghai’s heights,
its residents are screaming from their balconies at nights.
Unable to get food or even leave their high-rise flats,
the harsh draconian lockdown has left them feeling bats.
“Control your soul’s desire for freedom,” drones repeat at them;
but still they yell; they feel trapped; like cons who are condemned.
On the Suicide of Another Chinese Prisoner
by Dr. Weslie Ubeca
And now we hear another Chinese doctor, Shi Jun died;
the neurosurgeon of Heilongjiang, a suicide.
We know it must be true, the CCP would never lie;
they’re always so forthcoming when it comes to people’s lives.
He was arrested and interrogated for his crimes,
by helping those he shouldn’t help. O, these are trying times.
He caused a covid outbreak in his hospital, we know.
The CCP tells us that this is true. It must be so.
It is his fault for the lockdown; it’s his fault for the mess,
and just before he died, they tried to make that rogue confess.
I don’t know the details…probably was a mistake…
some negligence at work that caused a Wuhan Flu outbreak.
Dr. Weslie Ubeca is a poet of medicine, not a doctor of medicine. Heilongjiang is a province of northeastern China with a population of around 30,000,000.
A Ram Navami Shobha Yatra in Himmatnagar
was targeted by vandals; throwing stones and starting fires.
With the removal of the recent leader Imran Khan,
Shebahz Sharif became Prime Minister of Pakistan.
by Saudi Becrewel
He felt like as a lad in some Arabian night scene,
Aladdin with a cup of coffee at a dark cave’s screen.
Recruited by a sorceror t’ retrieve an oil lamp,
he bravely entered in that magic cave, ill-lit and damp.
He strolled most carefully around, observing vile souls,
who hovered round each corner’s edge, a gig of hardened ghouls.
But there, ah, yes, he found a sultan passing by the cave.
Vacating it, he followed him; perhaps he could be saved.
Upon a magic carpet, crossing mountains and cascades,
he fled that City for his Hometown many miles away.
Saudi Becrewel is a poet of Arabia.
It’s horrible—the present situation in Ukraine,
with over 7,000,000 souls internally displaced,
including tens of thousands sent across Siberia,
the Far East, and the Caucusus. It’s getting eerier;
much like the communists in soviet CCCP,
as though the tyrant Putin is a neoStalin Tsar.
At a Train Station in the City
by Radice Lebewsu
“FOR THE CHILDREN”
—on a Russian rocket missile
The bodies wait to exit this war’s crematorium,
but these will not be leaving from that auditorium.
They lie upon the ground below no Tower of the Stork,
like petals fallen from a dead, black bough in Kramatorsk.
If one goes higher, one can see the Sun about to set,
Kazennyi Torets River en route to the long Donets,
and if one goes yet even higher, maybe one can see
a thousand miles away…such fine and lovely scenery.
But here they’re getting ready for the coming Russian troops,
the onslaught of the innocents continues forth, forsooth.
Radice Lebewsu is a poet fond of Ukraine. Kramatorsk is a city in Ukraine that recently had a population of around 150,000.
Two Neptune Anti-Vessel Missiles have cranked up the heat;
off of Odessa’s coast, the Moskva warship has been hit.
After the War
by War di Belecuse
O, in the spring the war was ever there;
but we did not go to it anymore.
It was quite cold in spring there in Ky’iv.
The dark came early. But we had to live.
And then, electric lights came on again,
and it was pleasant looking out—amen.
Though death hung all about the city shops,
including where immobilized tanks stopped,
and blowing winds attacked both bird and man,
there was a kind of hope kicked through Milan.
It wasn’t much, but it was something real,
and more than just a certain way to feel,
a horrid story in another land.
There was so much we had to understand.
War di Belecuse is a poet of conflict.
Matt Lee of the AP saw through the Biden Admin lies,
that Russia asked for China’s help and used chem-weapon siles.
The false flag that the Biden Admin claimed that Russia planned
was false, a fake pic of what really was the truth at hand.
Demonic rats have so infested Washington DC,
its citizens don’t freely recognize reality.
According to Beau Lecsi Werd, “siles” is a trunc.
Upon the Balance
by Acwiles Berude
He stood upon the balance sucking in th’ abhorrèd abs,
awaiting for the numbers that would tell him of his mass.
One-fifty-seven-and-point-eight: the digits there appear.
He stands up tall—but will he fall? What is he coming near?
His head and chest against the folded tow’ls upon the shelf;
up in the sky, o, way up high, he cannot find himself.
He sees the flashing of the zeroes lying at his feet.
He holds onto the opening into eternity.
Odysseus must weight his specimen upon the scales,
though he pines for far distant realms with masted spine on sails.
Acwiles Berude is a poet of Greek character, like Homer’s Odysseus.
Off to Skegness
by Edwar Lee Subic
He was a rather calm and carefree sort of popinjohn,
o, Nasty Jake went off to Skegness for a bit o’ fun.
He liked the North Sea air and seafront draws along the beach,
the pier, the night clubs and the pubs, the many eateries.
He liked the fairground and arcades, he liked the carnival,
and even every now and then an arsty festival.
And there he was with thousands making rounds; around he strolled;
a happy camper past clock tower circle on the road.
Edwar Lee Subic is a poet of England. Skegness is a tourist town of around 20,000 in England.
Machu Picchu Super Sport
by Carb Deliseuwe
He longed to fuel the beast with Machu Picchu Super Sport,
to up his game with strong hydration, 5/8th of a quart.
He wanted a well-balanced blend to shake him from his sleep,
electrolytes, b-vitamins, and BCAAs, please.
A good dose of caffeine would complement his coffee cup.
O, this was something he could really get in to and sup.
It felt like as it gave him energy to face the daze
of global troubles and the asininity malaise.
But it was just a drink, no more, or less, than what it was,
the cure for nothing, even if it gave a little buzz.
Carb Deliseuwe is a poet of drink. Some archaeologists believe Machu Picchu in Peru was constructed as an estate for the Incan emperor Pachacuti (c. 1418 – c. 1472). BCAAs are branched-chain amino acids.
by Rudi E. Welec, “Abs”
At times he hated getting in the lotus pose to think;
he wanted differentiated berths in switch to sink.
He also hated doing squats—up-down, up-down, up-down.
He felt like as he was upon a carousel-go-round.
The problem with the ordinary was it was the same,
and what became routine would leave one padlocked in amaze.
But still he knew th’ importance of traditional pursuits;
stability would bring edge on to which one could use tools.
It seems that both the regular and the unusual,
are vital for life’s beauty and its being functual.
Rudi E. Welec, “Abs” is a poet of exercise.
An offer Twitter could refuse has come from Elon Musk;
but if not taken, he’ll forsake ‘em, as no more than scum.
The Hardworking Manual Labourer
by Des Wercebauli
He was a stocky and hard-working manu’l labourer,
who all his life engaged in lading, loading, hauling, sir.
From youth to his uncouth age, he was ever moving things,
in tee-shirt or without, in scruffy, rugged, frayed blue jeans.
It was his lot, for though he’d got some schoolin’ on the way,
he’d be a rough-and-tumble jack, though it be night or day.
O, but he was okay with that, expecting nothing more.
One’s lot in life was labouring, no matter who you wore.
In fact, those who do not come to that re-a-li-za-tion
will have a harder time in life for all their snub and shun.
Des Wercebauli is a poet of labour.
Inflation surged again in March in the U S of A,
to 8.5%, the highest in four decades, Guv.
Goose and a Cup of Coffee
by Carb Deliseuwe
He took a gander—Alexander—at the rising goose,
that flew up to the blue, light-azure sky, aloft and loose.
It was so beautiful as it soared high up in the air,
a singleton, within a wedge, that plump skein over there.
He heard him honk, encouraging flock members to retain
the vee-formation that they were attempting to maintain.
He took another sip of coffee from his coffee cup,
as he watched closely that one goose go up and up and up.
It was as if, loosed from the Earth, that waterfowl flew free,
but tethered to a Power’s undisclosed eternity.
In a Rolled-Out Dream
by Carb Deliseuwe
Within the fog of morn, o, long before the crack of dawn,
I saw him standing tall and stocky in the back of gone.
It was before I’d had a cup of coffee touched with cream,
it was as if it it was a scene seen in a rolled-out dream.
I had to ask that guy some question on some minor thing.
I don’t recall exactly what it was—some clean machine…
malfunctioning—which he did not care anything about.
His mind was on some other item that he wanted now.
His attitude was pushy, and I thought he was too bold,
and so I walked away from him, my shoulders firm…and cold.
He’d have to change his disposition, if I were to stay.
I did not much appreciate all that he had to say.
Carb Deliseuwe is a poet of drink.