Aligned, Midsummer Morn, 2022
          by I. E. Sbace Weruld

He was out standing on the driveway in the open air.
He gazed into the morning sky and saw the planets there.
Faint Mercury and Venus; he could also see the Moon.
Oh, there were Mars and Jupiter. Ah, yes, and Saturn too.

As he stood there, they moved along in the Sun-burning dawn,
aligned, yet turning, each and every one. They were all on.
Though all looked paused, or in slo-mo, from the rotating Earth,
he knew that all were going faster than he could observe.

It made him realize his eyes, though very clear and true,
were looking at reality, but hardly had a clue.
It wasn’t that his vision was illusory or false,
but what he watched was a parade of f-a-s-t, g-r-a-n-d planet balls.

He stood there clear and in the sky, alone, aloft, aligned;
the planets of the Solar System seeming in a line,
along the long and curved ecliptic Cosmic equipage.
He felt as if he were upon a Universal stage.

Mr. I. E. Sbace Weruld is a poet of the Solar System. With a telescope Uranus and Neptune could also be seen.


          by “Clear Dew” Ibuse

Like a galaxy
of white stars on a green stalk,
bear grass bears its torch
in daylight, over scorched land,
waving weaves of basket bands.


          by “Clear Dew” Ibuse

After a whirlwind,
a swirl of frenzied workers
creates a new roof.


          by “Clear Dew” Ibuse

Plate tec-tonics crash
below; above one can see
snowy Mount Fuji.

“Clear Dew” Ibuse is a poet of natural settings and Japanese poetic forms.

          by “Wired Clues” Abe

The computer purrs
with activity amok—
cicadas’ voices.


          by “Wired Clues” Abe

The laptop screen can’t
keep out all of those damn bugs
trying to get through.

“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.


From “Sonnets from the Chinese, 1”
          by Lu “Reed ABCs” Wei

Willing to subject himself to thousands
of piercing arrows, Liang Qichao wrote to
guide hundreds, remove old customs, advance
people’s rights, and work to embrace new
knowledge. A disciple of Kang Youwei
and proponent of the Wuxu Reform,
he fled to Japan when a coup d’ etat
sentenced him to death. And then came the storm,
great winds and clouds pouring into the world.
He returned to China in 1912;
and, into politics’ whirlwinds, was hurled,
leaving, after he was unsuccessful,
his heart still warm, eager to continue
his work. He died in 1929.


From a Sentence of a Passage of Zhuangzi
          by Lu “Reed ABCs” Wei

Each morning I receive the mandate for activity
each evening I imbibe the ice of disillusion’s sea;
but in my mind I still remain as ardent as can be.

Lu “Reed ABCs” Wei is a poet of China. “Sonnets from the Chinese” is an unpublished poetic anthology of 59 sonnets on Chinese Modernist (1900-1950) poets; the first one is on Liang Qichao (1873-1929), a political figure who advocated the New Culture Movement, who said his collected works came from the ice-drinker’s studio. Zhuangzi is an Ancient Chinese book, whose works are attributed to Zhuang Zhou (c. 300s BC).


Joe Biden got stuck in his bike. He fell—the head of state.
So China’s Communists mocked he could not negotiate.


He was attorney for the Filipino government,
“Jal” Laylo killed, when he went past the campus of UPenn,
while riding in an Uber to the airport with his mom.
The shooting deaths continue. He was trying to get home.


May 29th, the bullets flew, Sidhu Moose Wala died.
O, if you speak the truth, then will you get 295?

Sidhu Moose Wala (1993-2022) was a Punjabi rapper, killed after an eighth assassination attempt.


A Prophet
          by Crise de Abu Wel

No man is a prophet in his own land,
nor is he regarded in his own town.
In his family he has no command.
If he be, he must be, one on his own.

Crise de Abu Wel is a poet of the Good Father.


Amidst high rising prices—food, gas, electricity—
Ahsan Iqbal suggested Pakistanis drink less tea.

In 1977 alcohol was banned in Pakistan. Pakistanis have become the biggest importers of tea in the World (over $600,000,000.00 worth yearly), most of it coming from Kenya.


The Static Cavalier
          by Acwiles Berude

I saw him at the window, looking out into the light.
His dogtags hanging from his neck, his pec-deck out of sight.
It seemed as if he was a shade in some infernal hell,
like as Achilles locked in Hades, hating it as well.
Rectangular the head, his thick neck held above his chest,
his flat crown leaning forth, eyes vacuous, obscure, vague, yes.
I saw his silhouette of straight lines, angles, angst and curves.
He was a wonderful example of restraint and nerves.
What did he see beyond the blinds that I myself could not;
and what was he there doing, ruing, in his ruined thought?

Acwiles Berude is a poet of Ancient Greece.


Much Better Than the Other Possibility
          by Erisbawdle Cue

A bit uptight, things weren’t quite right, but he was glad to be,
which was much better than the other possibility.
Life had its joyous moems; some were monumental too,
when one could rise into the skies of the eternal blue.
The ogre could have yogurt, and vacation in the Sun;
he could achieve all kinds of things which had not yet begun.
The lunatic could be more sane, though moonshine flood his nub;
the agony the soldier felt could one day be undone.
The old goat could achieve nirvana in a yoga pose;
although it might be momentary, there could still be hope.

Erisbawdle Cue is a poet of philosophical meanderings.


The Lithuanians announced that EU-sanctioned goods
are banned from trains that now are coming from Kaliningrad.

Kaliningrad Oblast, Russia, on the Baltic Sea has a population of about 1,000,000.


The Ukrainian Soldier
          by Radice Lebewsu

He once was straight, erect, upright and perpendicular,
but now was bare and bent, bereft, o, hardly Hercular.
He felt that he had been consumed by war’s infernal fire,
his lone piece of equipment was a rifle he held high’r.
War’s ire entered him, in to his muscles and his bones,
so fiercely piercing him, from hardened soles to oblong lobes
He felt too big. He wanted to be hidden from his foe.
He felt that he was targeted by sea hawk, cock, and crow.
He crouched in camouflage, his dogtags clanging, hanging down.
It was insane how Russia crushed Ukraine, o, there and NOW.


Skirmish Near Snake Island
          by Radice Lebewsu

The navy of Ukraine struck the Vasily Bekh tugboat.
Two hárpoon missiles turned it in to a “bonfire float”.
It was on June the 17th, upon the drab Black Sea,
transporting to Snake Island, soldiers, ammo, weaponry.
It too was carrying the surface-to-air system TOR
that did not stop Ukraine from keeping it off Zmeiny’s shore.

Radice Lebewsu is a poet of Ukraine. According to Beau Lecsi Werd, “Hercular” is neologism obvious from context.


The JK Bridge
          by Alec Subre Wide
          “…the bridge is a symbol of all such poetry…”
              —Hart Crane

How beautiful it is, that gorgeous steel and concrete bridge,
the Juscelino Kubitschek, Brasília, Brazil,
connecting eastern Paranoá to the city cent,
viá the Monumental Axis, hard, but pretty—ten.
Designed by Alexandre Chen and Mario Verdé,
this landmark for enjoyment, arching aerial away,
traverses water, as it crosses roadway back and forth,
resulting in its silver silhouette’s distinctive form.
Ah, yes, it is becoming, in its graceful artistry,
one of the best known symbols of Brazilian expertise.

Alec Subre Wide is a poet of bridges. Hart Crane (1899-1932) was a Modernist American poet. Juscelino Kubitschek (1902-1976) was a Brazilian politician. Alexandre Chen and Mario Verdé are involved in contemporary Brazilian architecture. According to Beau Lecsi Werd, “cent” is an obvious trunc. Ten is a common high ranking.


          “Give me coffee! I’m going to write!”
              —last words of Olavo Bilac (1865-1918), Brazilian Parnassian


Phoenix, Arizona
          by Urbawel Cidese

He loved the warmth, more than the North, cold Boreas unleashed.
Against such freezing agony, he wished he had a shield.
So he loved Phoenix rising high up in the Arid Zone;
although he knew its many flaws, from cacti to dry bones.
He knew about the crime and violence, the scorching Sun.
He knew about black widows, rattlesnakes, and scorpions.
He knew it was kidnapping’s capital, with crazed, drug scene.
He knew its housing, plagued by termites and bland colour schemes.
He knew about the rising cost of living, everywhere,
the dust storms and the lack of seasons, with the hostile air.
Yet still it was the fastest big site in the USA;
at fifth it now has passed up Philadelphia, PA.

Urbawel Cidese is a poet of urban spaces. Phoenix city proper has approximately 1,620,000 residents.


The Crime Averted
          by Bilee Wad Curse

He got up off the couch where he was recently ensconced
His crude response was to attack, not back away. He pounced.
He had a magnum in his hand; the dude was riled up.
He was out of control there, where his troubles piled up.
Gun regulation, his concern, had turned him to a wasp,
an asp, or like a poss, rod agitated in a wash.
He looked around. Was there someone to stop him from his act?
another person with a gun who could cause his collapse?
The fact was he was caught off guard, the situation safe.
He had not thought out carefully what he would have to face.

Bilee Wad Curse is a poet of crime.


Some Exercise
          by Rudi E. Welec, “Abs”

It was time for some exercise, a cup of coffee too.
He loved to run in place to get the juices on the move.
It was important to condition arms and legs and abs.
He needed to provoke his flab, it had so many slabs.
He took a deep warm drink of coffee, with its dose of cream;
it helped to make his workout seem like he was in a dream.

From shoulders, pec-deck, all the core, down to the thighs below.
He had to tighten glutes, shins, calves, to loosen feet—to go.
It was important to keep lithe, to fe-el blithe and strong.
Another sip of coffee, yes—O, make the session long.
Sometimes he wished his exercizing would be over quick,
but now and then he wished it lingered, like a lengthy kiss.


On Us
          by I Warble Seduce

It was so long ago, and we were both go-íng to school.
She was so lively, cute and plump, and I was quite a fool.
When she found out I was head over heels in love with her,
she gave me subtle messages, a warm and happy stir.
Though things got in our way, like the appointments that we had,
we happily got through them all, and came together, yeh.
How often do I wish we were back then and feeling grand,
when we were, oh, so glad, and she pulled me out of myself.
I look back on those times with joy; we were so carefree then;
before the cataclysm of the cosmic flux caved in…

I Warble Seduce is a poet of love.


There on the River
          by E. Dawber Sluice

There on the river surrounded by trees
rising up to the sky, we were fishing
in the scented breath of a quiet breeze,
the warm sun quieting all our wishing.
The world was far away while our clear lines
flew through the air and landed in the cool,
blue rush of water, watching out for vines
while the reels unwound, each spiraling spool
going click-click-click, each shiny wheel’s whirr
watched, as the diaphanous threads went out
further and further and further and further,
hoping to catch, coping to fetch, a trout!
jumping alive from that inspiring scene,
flopping about, through the fresh air winging.

E. Dawber Sluice is a poet of fishing.