by “Clear Dew” Ibuse

In the shady pines,
resting, eating, and thinking—
eight discrete regions.

“Clear Dew” Ibuse is a poet of haiku.


          by “Wired Clues” Abe

A tense judge sits on
a dense, dark-brown leather chair—
in the open air.


          by “Wired Clues” Abe

This dead, black cricket
has not adapted to life
in the Metroplex.


          by “Wired Clues” Abe

The windows rattled
as the jet’s huge shadow crossed,
beneath low, white clouds.

“Wired Clues” Abe is a NewMillennial haiku poet. The Japanese haikuist most attuned to the insect world is Kobayashi Issa (1763-1828).


Great Barrier Reef’s Recent Rise
          by Sbede Cawlie Ru

According to th’ Australian Institute of Marine Sciences,
the summary of 2021 brings high-end sense.
The coral cover levels of the GBR have grown
to th’ highest seen in thirty-six years; this is good to own.

The northern and the central areas recovery
have blossomed since El Niño’s 2016 hovering,
or Yasi’s cyclone, and the crown-of-thorns star-fish attacks,
continuing to decimate reef, sponge, and algae facts.

Related to the jellyfish, the tropic coral craves
degrees of 24 to 32 in centigrade.
One hopes the GBR will keep on growing and survive
500,000,000 more years, maybe more, and also thrive.

Sbede Cawlie Ru is a poet of Australian wildlife.


Sonnets From the Chinese: 35
          by Li “Web Crease” Du

Few have remembered his name, Zhang Guangren,
born in Qichun, Hubei, on that cold night
back in 1902; but the name of Hu Feng
did in ’55 burn hellishly bright.
Shortly before, he gave, in ’49,
for communist victory, “tears of joy”;
but in ’55, the communists divined
he was important enough to destroy.
Convicted of hiding behind Lu Xun,
who never was a communist, Hu Feng
was vilified, sentenced, and sent to prison
on a hint of independent thinking,
mentally rotting for twenty some years,
kissing the wounds of the past, shedding tears.

Li “Web Crease” Du is a poet of Modernist Chinese literature. Rehabilitated only after his death, Hu Feng (1902-1985) was a Modernist Chinese poet and literary critic. Lu Xun (1881-1936) was also a Modernist Chinese poet and literary critic who wrote in both vernacular and classical Chinese.


The New Disorder
          by War di Belecuse

Is the Red Dragon trying to eat up the peaceful Swan?
Is China planning war against the people of Taiwan?
Will the war mongers win the day against the people of
an island nation wishing for the landing of the Dove?
Imperialism is still alive upon the Globe.
The Bear tries to devour fields o’ th’ Sunflower Folk.
The Great Reset is coming to this New disOrdered World.
Into what harsh scenario is tyranny unfurled?

War di Belecuse is a poet of war.


At Novofedorivka, Saky airfield was attacked.
Explosions rocked th’ Crimean base; the skies were clouded black.
It’s hard to tell what had occurred due to the fog of war;
but plumes of smoke could be seen rising from the Black Sea shore.


The Basilisk
          by Esiud L. Werecub

I saw him walking down the street—that vile basilisk,
reptilian, Sicilian, like as a cockatrice,
a combination of both fowl and serpent, firm and brown,
the crest upon his dread head shaped like as a silver crown.
Erupting from his shoulders were great dragon muscle wings;
upon Earth it was one of thé most shudder-worthy things.
This deadly chimera attacked whomever it could catch.
Both front and back were dangerous. O, who might it not snatch?
I saw its dreaded gaze, but luckily from far away,
or I myself could have been pulled into its putrid face.

Esiud L. Werecub is a poet of mythological creatures.


From “Geste Danorum”
          by Lucas Eberewid

Horwendil, King of Denmark, wed Gurutha, who gave birth
to Amleth, Prince of Denmark. O, it was a time of mirth.
But brother Feng was jealous, and was filled with treachery.
He was a bitching butcher filled with lust and lechery.
So when he got the chance, Feng leapt, and took his brother’s life.
And quickly following thereafter, took his brother’s wife.

Amleth beheld all this, but shrewdly feigned he was not hurt,
pretending madness, smudged himself with foul and filthy dirt.
The court derided him, while he was waving lances made;
to see if he was merely faking it, got him a maid.
But after killing an eavesdropper, Feng sent him abroad
to have him killed in Britain, where he turned the tables round.

Lucas Eberewid is a poet of Denmark. The “Geste Danorum” is the first history of Denmark written by Saxo Grammaticus (c. 1150 – c. 1220).


The Plain Chant
          by Brulise de Wace

Several things conjoin to make
the plain chant hymn sublime.
First off, it’s sung for Jesus’ sake;
it weathers well with time.

Second the melody is smooth;
the notes don’t jump about;
they focus on a sacred truth
and slowly work it out.

Thirdly, they’re contemplative songs;
they aren’t hemmed in by beat;
they reach for what the spirit longs
in simple meters mete.

And lastly, they are monophone;
no instruments intrude.
So though they groan in somber tone,
the soul still finds them good.

Brulice de Wace is a poet of Medieval France.


A Honey Badger
          by Brice U. Lawseed

PostModern and praiseworthy, able to see through B.S.,
empirical and erudite, attuned to fight the cess,
traditional and talented, a patriotic dude,
engaged and economic, focusing upon the good,

reflexive, righteous, and against corruption all around,
not simply yielding to fraudulence and evil found,
a sober number cruncher of the antihumanists,
vizierial and vigourous, a trusty analyst,

a savvy, social scientist, a labour advocate,
remarkable, like as a honey badger or polecat.
Rav Rona was a Peace Corps worker once upon a time,
opinionated, individual, the foe of slime.

Brice U. Lawseed is a poet of the rule of law.


          by Caud Sewer Bile
          “Poetry is not an expression of the party line.”
              —Allen Ginsberg

As Justice has become politicized and weaponized,
corruption reigns supreme and criminals are deputized;
demonic rats have taken over Washington DC
in their outraged desire to destroy democracy.


          by Caud Sewer Bile

It couldn’t be the FBI has raided Prez Trump’s home
to get some documents that implicated him and them.


The Inflation Deduction Bill
          by Caud Sewer Bile

By raising taxes and increasing spending it may bite.
It’s over $700,000,000,000, and it might
not lower the inflation rate, O’Leary said.
It’s economical malpractice, Williams self confessed.
One major increase comes from agents for the IRS,
more than some 80,000, pumping up the mired cess.

Caud Sewer Bile is a poet o’ poli-ticks. Kevin O’Leary and Jonathan Williams are contemporary economists.


The Boxer
          by Rudi E. Welec, “Abs”

The kid was wild. I tried to tell him so,
but he just wouldn’t listen to my words.
I told him to slow down, to take it slow,
but all he wanted to do was go. Sure,
he could keep up the pace when he was young,
but when he got older he’d pay a price.
He kept on fighting and flapping his tongue.
It wasn’t a pretty sight. It wasn’t
nice. I told him he’d work himself into
an early grave. I told him to take off
that stupid baseball cap; he wouldn’t do
it. I told him to quit, but he’d just scoff.
So I left him to his own devices.
Let someone else patch him up, make splices.

Rudi E. Welec, “Abs”, is a poet of sport.


Moving a Large Chair
          by Des Wercebauli

The chair he had to move was huge; it barely fit the door;
and he would have to move it by himself down to the road.
At first, he dragged it carefully along the wooden floor,
but then he noticed scuff marks, o. No, this would never do.
Behind its back, he put it on its back legs in the air,
rotating slowly from one leg to th’ other one with care.
Outside upon the driveway by the plants and greenery,
at least the way was clear, and yet it was no easier.
He had no time for gazing on the scenery around;
he had to move that bulky seat, and had to move it now.
And so, although he panted, o, he kept on going, yes,
there to the concrete curb in sunlight past the growing grass.

Des Wercebauli is a poet of work.


Breakfast Wish
          by Carb Deliseuwe

Some extra virgin olive oil in a little pan
placed on th’ electric burner coil. O, I am a fan.
I break two eggs and cook them over easy on the stove.
Though pasture-raised eggs are not sexy—still they bring forth love.

I grab a plate on which to place the slightly heated eggs,
and lean upon my left leg, while I shift my right one, yes.
And now it’s nearly ready to put in the spatula
beneath the yellow yolk and albumen, ah, splattering.

Positioning the xanthus and the white disc on the dish,
with fork so bold, now running gold: this is my breakfast wish.
Profusely peppered, with a cup of coffee cream delight,
I take a bite. And then another; till it’s out-of-sight.

Carb Deliseuwe is a poet of food.