by “Wired Clues” Abe

While watching the ball
go up and down, the baby
giggles happily.

“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 Rising Morn
          by Sri Wele Cebuda

He rose to greet the rising morn, the dun and golden dawn.
A blue and white bedeckled line about his neck was on.
His eyes were closed. He sat in contemplation of his state.
In such a situation, how he loved to meditate.
He heard the rooster’s cock-a-doodle-do repeatedly,
he felt the passing of the time, on bended, seated knee.
He felt like as a lotus blossom rocking on a lake.
He bobbed and floated back and forth, content with this his fate.
He opened up his inner eye to take reality
into his adumbrations of love’s ideality.


Morning Moems
          by Sri Wele Cebuda

I saw him standing by the blinds to keep the sunlight out.
With triple digit temp’ratures he needed darkness now.
He got into utkatasana to improve his stance;
stability and strength were wanted, balancing enhanced.
He did not dance, but simply stood there, closing mind and, o,
he contemplated energy amidst the white and gold.
His right hand reached up past his hips, by rosy-fingered dawn;
His knees were bent above the floor, his skin was tan and tawn.
Although he paced his yoga pose, his heart beat raced a bit,
but he did not want, o, to pause, he wanted to be fit.


Rapt in Feeling’s Real
          by Sri Wele Cebuda

He got into the lotus pose upon the plaid, gray mat;
he longed to reach a sweet nervana right where he was at.
He closed his outer sight, but opened up his inner eye.
He raised his head up high, attempting, o, to reach the sky.
He opened up his lips to take deep breaths; his throat was filled.
Although he only sat upon the mat, he was quite thrilled.
He felt as if his seat was rising in the atmosphere,
o, floating up into the wild and windy wonders near.
He focused on all that he sensed; he loved this altitude,
for it was so majestic, truly beautiful and good.
O, could he stay here wrapped in wonder, rapt in feeling’s real,
while reeling in the turning circle of the whirling Wheel?

Sri Wele Cebuda is a poet of the Wheel.


Joe Biden wrote a letter to the oil companies:
Produce more and don’t charge too much. He’s still at war with these.
And later he will travel to Saudi Arabia
to beg for oil. Will thé “Pariah” be enabling?


A Basalt Slab from Ancient Egypt
          by “Scribe” El Uwade
          “C’est un systeme complexe, une écriture tout à la fois
          figurative, symbolique et phonétique, dans un même texte, une même           phrase, je dirais presque dans un même mot.”

              —Jean-François Champollion

Recording a decree passed by the Memphis priests
to honor tyrant Ptolemy Epiphanes
of ancient Egypt, circa 196 BC,
for bounty to the temples, it contains many
terse proclamations of the king, whereby he tried
to rectify the sorry state of his country—
the prized Rosetta stone, and its near perfect side.
“All men” are thankful for its message written in
“the sacred, native, and the Greek,” from which were pried
the secrets of the hieroglyphs; and this was done
translating the demotic first, Silvestre de Sacy
and David Åkerblad, then complex text by Thomas Young
and the French scholar Jean-François Champollion.

“Scribe” el Uwade is a poet of ancient Egypy. Jean-François Champollion (1790-1832) was a Romantic French philologist and orientalist, decipherer of the Egyptian hieroglyphs. Ptolemy Epiphanes (c. 210 BC – 180 BC) was a Ptolemaic king. Silvestre de Sacy (1758-1838) was a French linghuist, David Åkerblad (1763-1819) a Swedish orientalist, and Thomas Young (1783-1829) was a Romantic British scientist, linguist and polymath.


Zelensky met with chiefs, France, Germany and Italy,
who promised more in military aid, financially.
Macron said that Ukraine must win against the Barbarous;
Medvedev mocked the Ky’iv trip, said it had “zero use”.
He mocked “the fans of frogs and liverwurst, spaghetti” too,
while Russians kept on killing, shelling, wrecking livelihoods.


Letter to Luigi
          by Alberdi Ucwese

Luigi, let him out. He is one of my friends.
He has suffered enough. He needs to get out now.
He has been locked up long enough. His heart distends.
Look at that worried look upon his weary brow.
Come let him see the light of day. Let him, oh, yes,
see light. He has been far too long in the hoosegow.
And though he certainly is no Edmond Dantès,
and this is not the Chateau d’If, he still wants out.
Why has he been in here so long—under duress?
About his right to breathe fresh air, is there some doubt?
Who knows into what deep, dark dens his soul descends?
I think that you should let him go. Your friend, the Count.

Alberdi Ucwese is a poet of Italy. One of his favourite novels is “The Count of Monte Cristo” by the French Romantic writer Alexandre Dumas (père) (1802-1870).


Sunday Morning
          by Walice du Beers

In azure shirt and shorts, reclining on a gray chaise longue,
in the receding shade upon the square, gray patio,
granola with some nuts and berries, yogurt, water, peace,
the moem seeps into his being, ninety-one degrees.

He seizes day’s delightful warmth, he lies contentedly;
he has the freedom, o, to breathe, and speak internally,
He sees the birds fly overhead beneath the jets and planes,
their liquid silver voices dense between these sunlit lanes,

the yellow crested flycatcher, th’ high flying red-tailed hawk,
the speedy swallow eating insects, blue jay sans his squawk,
the cooing morning dove, and whistling, trilling mockingbird.
He lounges, ah, not talking, thinking on what he has heard.

Walice du Beers is a poet fond of American Modernist poet Wallace Stevens (1879-1955).


Esther Cameron
          by Wilbur Dee Case

She did, what no one did, in this abyss
of PostPostModernasal drop and mist;
she wrote blank verse—I will not be remiss
in saying this, like it was going out
of style. She made it look so easy, like
a swallow swooping in loops through the air,
or a bicyclist pedalling his bike
downhill—uttered diffusion everywhere.

Wilber Dee Case is a poet and literary critic. Esther Cameron is a contemporary American-Israeli poet.


Idaho Idyll
          by Ubs Reece Idwal

Beneath the brilliant, blazing sun
in the vast, open, azure sky,
the yellow-gold black-eyed susan
thrives amidst the small rocks and ties
of the railroad tracks. It’s climbing
scraggly towards the hot solar rays,
as a train, in perfect timing,
roars past, loud, metallic neighs
issuing forth howls, shouts, and hoots
from its diesel locomotive,
faster than a horse on its hooves
on the loose, wild and elusive,
its trail of mechanized cruising,
apparently acceptible
to the scrawny black-eyed susan,
to such truck unsusceptible.

Ubs Reece Idwal is a poet of the Northwest USA. This small poem draws quite quietly from Realist American poet Emily Dickinson (1830-1886) and PostModernist American poet Richard Wilbur (1921-2017).


One Flower’s Ever Fading
          by Ileac Burweeds

One flower’s ever fading in our garden plot,
as one is rising up to add its loveliness.
In winter’s bleakness comes the crocus, orange, taut,
that quickly wilts besides the daffodil’s gold yes,
which drops when tulips lap the air labially
before they too collapse by rhododendron dress,
whose large, pink blooms begin to droop radially,
replaced by pale-red-violet, vibrant lilacs.
Spring turns to summer, slowly and casually,
while pansies in the window boxes wane and wax,
and other hidden ones call out, ‘forget-me-not.’
Then autumn passes on to winter’s parallax.

Ileac Burweeds is a poet of Nature.


The autopilot Teslas, Hondas, and the Subarus
are swerving, crashing, smashing, SPLAT, according to the news.


          by Brad Lee Suciew

Stagflation’s characterized by slow economic growth
with relative high unemployment, rising prices, ho.
It is a period when high inflation’s on the rise
and gross domestic product is decreasing from its highs.
The reasons for this may include, among so many things,
the rising cost of oil, the gold standard vanishing,
poor economic policies, like spending mindlessly,
increasing taxes, as one’s printing money recklessly,
or regulating markets, goods, and labour, services,
and then increasing taxes, o, across cross purposes.

Brad Lee Suciew is a poet of economics. In the US, the unemployment rate is about 3.6% in May, 2022, and the inflation rate is at a 40-year high of 8.6%. The US GDP in the last quarter (Jan – Mar 2022) was -1.5%. Is this the start of a recession? This week the US Fed raised interest rates .75%, the biggest hike since 1994.


The Coming Race
          by Bruc “Diesel” Awe

He stood up at the oval track to watch the coming race,
with coffee cup in hand and an expectancy in place.
He looked quite serious, but what was it he pondered on?
What was he mulling over, o, there in that wondered yawn?

The jutting jaw, the angled nose, the focused intense eyes,
made it seem he was thinking of more than the azure skies.
Dressed all in black and dark-brown, standing there he oozed disdain,
in olive-drab green baseball cap and hanging dogtag chain.

And then the race began. He heard the racers’ driving blast.
O, at the motor speedway they were going very fast.
He cast his eyes down to the track, each driver in his seat;
the cars sped past, the spreading jast, the checkered flags flap east.


US Gas Prices: June 16, 2022
          by Bruc “Diesel” Awe

The range, from Georgia with less than four dollars fifty cents,
to California with more than six dollars forty cents:
the price of US regular continues to increase,
and diesel higher too, especi’lly in the West and East.

Bruc “Diesel” Awe is a poet of motorized vehicles that run on fossil fuels.