This Little Bioland
          by I. E. Sbace Weruld

At the center of Earth, an inner iron core
writhes, and currents there produce a magnetic field;
whose action once created the magnetosphere,
and formed around our planet a protective shield
that guards us and retards the deadly particles
of the solar wind. That core keeps us partly sealed.
Meanwhile, the brilliant Aurora Borealis
and Australis show that the sun’s violent
solar wind soars into interplanetary
spaces with the force of myriad megatons,
methodically eroding our atmosphere,
but still can’t yet destroy this little bioland.

Mr. I. E. Sbace Weruld is a poet of the Solar System.


          by “Clear Dew” Ibuse

Scurrying quickly,
the opossum shows his face,
at the fence’s edge.


          by “Clear Dew” Ibuse

A turtle plods forth
to a wide and sandy beach:
the sound of water.

“Clear Dew” Ibuse is a poet of natural settings and Japanese poetic forms. “The sound of water” in Japanese is “mizu no oto—水の音.


          by “Wired Clues” Abe

In the white bath-tub,
a wide-mouthed baby lounges.
A techno duck sits.

“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.


Life Must Be Unstable
          by Sri Wele Cebuda
          Duḥkha “दुःख”…

He got into the lotus pose upon the sofa’s cush.
He didn’t feel very good; he felt like he was shook.
He stretched his hips, he spread his knees, he lifted up his head.
He wished that he was feeling better, wanting peace instead.
He closed his eyes, but opened up his inner eye to see,
in hope for universal flux of godly energy.

His hands were at his knees as he sat there upon that couch.
He sought tranquility within those walls and windows—ouch.
So much for happiness, his face, his arms, and abs were tight.
Where was contentedness? Where was the joy of cosmic light?
O, life must be unstable, far from any ecstasy,
there on that sofa in that pose upon life’s vexing sea.

Sri Wele Cebuda is a poet of yoga.


Russian Composition
          by Waldi Berceuse

And around that crazed, blinding fury came
the dented decadence of Tchaikovsky,
steel fisted Prokofiev’s blazing flame,
the formalism of Stravinsky,
Glazunov’s clear compositional style,
Kabalevsky’s colorful, clownlike smile,
Rachmaninoff’s romantic flourishes,
th’ extravagance of Khachaturian,
Myaskovsky’s soviet overtures,
Shostakovich’s paradoxical
complexities, Scriabin’s mystical
constructs, and the others too numerous
to list, conservator, iconoclast,
and in between, all in scuplted sound cast.

Waldi Berceuse is a poet of Slavic music.


You, Ukrainian Cranium!
          by Radice Lebewsu

The soldier was exhausted as he leaned against the ledge.
He knew he needed to be vigilant for passing jets,
for missiles flying overhead and landing near to him.
He knew he needed to be vigilant of deadly men.

His stomach muscles tightened, dreading Titans of the sky.
He was bound up in knots; he was a wound-up kind of guy.
His enemies, around each corner, showed at any time;
and they were armed with tanks and choppers, mighty, frightening.

His black boots on the ground, his dogtags hanging from his neck;
his heart was pounding hard behind his chest, his nervous specs.
He wished that he could meditate, relieve some of his stress,
but peace in war is hard to find. Death does not de-com-press.

Radice Lebewsu is a poet of Ukraine, the nation Putin and his war machine are pounding the hell out of and making a hell of on Earth.


The Trojan War
          by Acwiles Berude

The Trojan War, a mere decade amid
myriads, is still remembered after
three millenia, like the pyramids.
Though no monument, it was a chapter
in time of the clash of human titans,
characters immortalized by Homer
in his Iliad: Achilles, Hector,
Odysseus, Ajax, Diomedes,
Menelaus and Helen of the Spartans,
Paris, Agamemnon, Priam, Nestor,
Andromache, Hecuba, Thersites,
and many others, including the gods,
all struggling on that barest of stages,
below Troy’s wall on the surrounding clods
for one brief time and for all the ages.

Acwiles Berude is a poet of Ancient Greek epic. Homer, a noted Greek poet, flourished circa the 8th century BC.


In the Neighbourhood
          by Ercules Edibwa
          “No I am not Prince Hamlet…”
              —T. S. Eliot, “Song of J. Alfred Prufrock”

He was no monster Frankenstein; his head was not a cube;
but he was quite content to be there in the neighbourhood.
He was no Hercules, like Hamlet, nor a princely Dane,
but wore a stern decorum and a sneer of sheer disdain.

He did not smell of lavender or wear a purple robe,
but faced the World with open eye and did his best to cope.
He was no lean and mean machine; he carried extra weight;
but when he needed to he could take on some added freight.

His cheeks were sunken in, his lips were chapped, his body drooped,
but he could be quite rigourous, for he was not a prude.
I saw him once, when he was younger, by a ruined town,
but still he seemed like someone I would like to hang around.

Ercules Edibwa is a poet of Greek literary aspirations.


The Land of Hope and Opportunity
          by Usa W. Celebride

The legal and illegal migrants storm America.
They long to reach this country, doing anything they can.
This beacon of the World draws those from all across the Globe,
from Asia, Europe, Africa, and nearby Mexico.

And they come in, the hundreds and the thousands, every day.
Their numbers swell to hundred-thousands, millions on the way.
For them this is the land of hope and opportunity.
Most are arriving and surviving free from enmity.

They long to be Americans, like those who came before.
Four centuries they’ve poured in to this nation’s open door.
They risk their lives and fortunes, people, huddled, tired, poor;
and bring all of their energy, the good, the bad, and more.


Nighttime July 3rd, 2022
          by Usa W. Celebride

The window blinds were open, and above the rooftops were
bright, coloured giant spheres exploding into flashing hurls.
He was so far away from them, he didn’t hear a thing;
but only saw against the night the brilliant splattering.
He missed the waiting, parking fees, ten-dollars for each one.
The pyrotech display was only thirty minutes long.
And yet he was content; this was one of those rarest firsts;
he’d never had a better place from which to view those bursts.
He saw the fireworks, red, white, and blue, they caught his eye,
while lounging on a cushioned couch—ah, there up in the sky.

Usa W. Celebride is a poet of the United States of America. The first tennos draws diction from American writers Thomas Jefferson (1743-1826) and Emma Lazarus (1849-1887).


On Robinson Jeffers
          by Lew Icarus Bede

Does anybody even care about
him, that hard, unlikeable soul, breaking
rocks on the Pacific, making a tow-
er of stones to no one, forsaking
society for sobriety’s sake?
Why? Was his pessimism really all
that different from most Americans’?
Was his fatalism unique? His ache
was real; but that is only natural.
Did he possess any less arrogance?
He certainly saw the absurdities
of civilization, but did he see
also nature’s follies and crudities
there upon the edge of eternity?

Lew Icarus Bede is a poet and literary critic. The above poem is an American sonnet with an ABABCDECDEFGFG rhyme scheme. Robinson Jeffers (1887-1962) was a Modernist American poet.


A Black-and-White Film Noir
          by Cawb Edius Reel

He sat upon a couch and watched a black-and-white film noir.
His head was squished against its back; it was an unknown hour.
He loved to watch the film progress, suspense hung in each cel,
so realistic, he felt he was truly there himself.[The star was a tall dude who was attempting something good,
although it seemed that he was in some seamy neighbourhood.] The guy upon the couch squirmed, like as he was not at ease;
perhaps an upset stomach, food with which he was not pleased.
The show went on. He did not change the channel he was at.
He watched the black-and-white film noir. Until the end he sat.[But at the end, all he remembered on that sofa was
an overactive star, and him still pressed to what he saw.]

Cawb Edius Reel is a poet and critic of film. One of his favourite movie genres is film noir.


Disturbing Caliban
          by Rudi E. Welec, “Abs”

He sat up, ah, beside the wall—blue lockers high in length.
He socks were black, low-cut. The beast was balanced on a bench.
He had a sneer upon his face, a tattoo on his arm,
with chiseled head, close-shaven, looking like he could do harm.
He was not an assassin, but a brutal dude indeed.
One would want to get too close to him lest one might bleed.
Nearby one saw an individual, his necklace gold,
whose lips between his cheeks revealed he was rather bold;
for he dared now disturb that resting, idle animal,
who could at one fell swoop attack, like as a Caliban.

Rudi E. Welec, “Abs”, is a poet of physical exercise. Caliban is a character from the play “The Tempest” by Elizabethan William Shakespeare (1564-1616).


A Cup of Coffee
          by Carb Deliseuwe

He loved a cup of coffee in the morn; it was so good.
There in his study, he’d feel ruddy, o, a ready dude.
It made him fe-el wonderful, a good get-up-and-go,
prepared to learn new knowledge; there was so much more to know.
Like as Olavo Bilac, at the end, he could exclaim,
“O, give me coffee! I am go-ing to write!” if I may.
It perked him up, picked up his aspirations and his hopes,
if he were actively engaged or in a lotus pose.
He loved a cup of coffee in the morn; it warmed him up.
Yes, he was so content—that blockhead—with a coffee cup.


Waiting in Line to Order Food
          by Carb Deliseuwe

There I was waiting in line again for
the umpteenth time. I was waiting
in line to order food. It was a bore.
So while I stood there, anticipating
it would take forever, I just started
looking at nearby newspaper pages.
But while I was looking, the line parted,
and when I looked up, it seemed like ages
had passed. There would be no way I would be
able to figure out what to order
in time no matter how I might hurry.
There I was floundering at the border
of eternity again, and I could
not make it, so I gave up on the food.

Carb Deliseuwe is a poet of diners and drinkers. Olavo Bilac (1865-1918) was a Brazilian Parnassian.