by “Clear Dew” Ibuse

The baby crawls forth,
two new teeth are coming in,
seeking nubbly things.


          by “Clear Dew” Ibuse

Moving towards standing,
the baby’s doing a plank,
holding himself up.

“Clear Dew” Ibuse is a poet of haiku.


          by “Wired Clues” Abe

The faucet turned on
activates the baby’s mind.
He crawls to his bath.

“Wired Clues” Abe is a NewMillennial haiku poet.


The magnetar SGR 1806-20
          by I. E. Sbace Weruld

SGR 1806-20
has quadrillion times the magnetic force
found upon planet earth, more than plenty
enough for an inaccessible source.

Mr. I. E. Sbace Weruld is a poet of outer space.


An Historical Note
          by Euclidrew Base
          “It was a stirring streak.”
              —Ewald E. Eisbruc

When mathematicians computed the twelfth root of two,
musicians could divide the octave into twelve notes—woot.
Bach got excited when he could write tunes in every key,
as in his 48 preludes and fugues, “a stirring streak”.

Euclidrew Base is a poet of mathematics. The twelfth root of two (approximately 1.059463) was first formulated by mathematical music theorists, like Chinese Zhu Zaiyu (1536-1611) and Flemish Simon Stevin (1548-1620), the latter who was himself inspired by Galileo’s father Vincenzo Galilei (1520-1591). Johann Sebastian Bach (1685-1750) was a noted German Baroque composer.


The landscape of Chongqing and its surrounding area,
have been tranformed by an unusually long drought/heat wave.


These Meditations
          by Sri Wele Cebuda

He got into the lotus pose beneath the open sky.
Beside the thick, green woods he opened up his inner eye.
He raised his head up high; he spread his legs, he bent his knees.
He loved the feelings that he got by sitting by the trees.
O, he was very satisfied; he lifted up his spine.
He felt so good, relaxed, untaxed, next to the growing pines.
The awesome, cosmic undulating waves swept him away.
He felt like as he was in ecstasy. He longed to stay.
But knowing feelings ever change, he knew he’d have to go;
and yet he loved these meditations taking him to, o…


In an Asana Pose
          by Sri Wele Cebuda

He got in an asana pose upon the king-sized bed.
He stretched his legs out to each side, and grabbed his ankles stead.
His outer eyes were closed. His inner eye was open wide.
He felt like as a butterfly that flapped across the sky.
O, how high could he go above the lovely, gorgeous woods,
between white, puffy pillowed clouds, and other spreading goods?
He felt like as an undulating, rolling flow of hills,
with floral yields, patterned fields, massive, grassy spills.
He felt like as a happy clam by a Pacific Sea,
absorbing warmth from top to bottom on a sandy beach.

Sri Wele Cebuda is a poet of meditation.


The Snow Man
          by Walice du Beers
          “set down this”
              —T. S. Eliot

He was abominable, like a Snow Man in the Alps,
or Himalayan Mountains. Yes, he had a silver scalp.
Yet he was not a yeti from the Cascade Mountain range,
nor anyone who lived along the Ganges downward drain.
He wasn’t furry, though he had a belt of flabby fat,
which one could see when he was standing or when down he sat.
He didn’t have a mind of winter; still he loved the pines,
he saw around him as he walked the ess-curve of his spine.
He was more like what one might find upon the sea’s great gauge,
perceived by Captain Ahab, or, perhaps, Earl Aldon Page.

Walice du Beers is a poet of Modernist tendencies. Captain Ahab and Earl Aldon Page were 19th century sea voyagers.


A Revelation at Patmos
          by Crise de Abu Wel

O, God is near, so hard to grasp, and danger’s also here;
but, like as well, the eagles in the dark fly through the air.
The fearless alpine sons, on bridges, cross each vast abyss,
Time’s mighty summits all around, its mountains wrapped in mist.
O, give me water, wings and mind to go forth and return.
A spirit led me to this place, I thought I could not earn.
I miss the sky, the woods and brooks, here on this rocky isle,
my native country’s twilight too. Still I will stay awhile.
For suddenly, at any moment, in fresh splendor, I
can see a golden haze emerging from the Sun on high.

Crise de Abu Wel is a poet of spirit. Patmos is a Greek island near Turkey with a population of around 3,000.


He Watched the August Rain
          by Ileac Burweeds
          “in August…there’s a lambence, a soft luminous quality to the
              —William Faulkner

He watched the August rain pour down in lines of small, wet drops;
the Oriental pear tree whisking in the wind-borne plops.
He gazed upon the gray-white clouds that covered all the sky.
He saw reflections in the window o’ th’ observant guy.

The grass could not but be so satisfied to be so blessed.
The gardener was happy too to get a well-earned rest.
He looked upon the hedges at the edges of the house,
the pink dianthus, blooming still, touched by the dewy douse.

He saw the oak tree branches stretching out; up rose their trunks;
and down below, the roots absorbing water under those.
He loved the light in August with its graying, grainy rain.
The gardener was reading John beside the window pane.

Ileac Burweeds is a poet of Nature. The unnamed author of a gospel without parables, of linked epistles, and of a Patmos revelation, John (c. 6 AD – c. 100 AD), was a 1st century Greek writer. William Faulkner (1897-1962) was a Modernist American novelist and short story writer.


The Urban Partisan
          by Urbawel Cidese

He loved a cup of whip-creamed coffee in the morning light,
in w-r-a-p-a-r-o-u-n-d sunglasses, as the blazing Sun burned bright.
It satisfied the cravings of a raving lunatic,
the white Moon faint against the barely-clouded, azure sky.
He hid amidst the myriads of buildings, streets and trees,
afraid the enemy was lurking in au-tó-mo-biles.
A missile strike, a shooting gun, could suddenly come near,
when it was least predicted or expected to appear.
He watched out for the passing asshole who might take his life;
but did he have the strength to handle him in this mad strife?

Urbawel Cidese is a poet of urban spaces.


Zelensky said the Russians have now put the World on
the brink of hell, potential radiation hell unfurled.


Daily Artillery Strikes in Ukraine
          by War di Belecuse

Artillery strikes, overwhelming, indiscriminate,
obliterating what they hit, from home to tenement,
o, hammering Ukraine with shells and rockets every day,
some tens of thousands blasting varied neighbourhoods away.
He prayed that he’d be able to endure the fierce barrage,
from top to bottom wearing brown and drab-green camouflage;
but he was only human facing Russia’s mad land grab.


Th’ Ukrainian Combatant
          by War di Belecuse

He gave his all, although it was not good enough at times.
He could not smite his enemies assaulting from behind,
or up above behind the lines with vicious missile strikes.
He felt like as a punch bowl that some vile tyrant spikes.
He felt like as a punching bag, so many diff’rent types:
coke bottle, teardrop, speed, banana, upper-cutting swipes.
He longed to leave this horrid war; the horror was insane.
He felt like as he was a slave to fate and desp’rate men.
What chance did he have up against the Vi-kings of the North.
At times, it was as much as he could do, to just go forth.

War di Belecuse is a poet of conflict. One of his favourite 17th century writers was John Donne (1572-1631), an English Baroque poet, scholar, soldier and Anglican cleric.


Dogtags Redux
          by Ed C. U. “Bear” Lewis

He heard the tintinnabulation of the dogtags swing,
like as a jingling, tinkling—O, du lieber Augustin.
He wondered of their fabrication. What were they made of?
They seemed to be corrosively resistent, shiny gray.
What’s the material that makes them objects that are real?
Their metal—is it tin, aluminum, or some sheet steel?
Their colour—silver—often on a stainless steel ball chain
that hangs arount the neck, next to the pecs. They do not stain.
Rectangular with rounded sides, containing but one notch,
with which to draw the chain through for the regular armed motch.

Ed C. U. “Bear” Lewis is a poet of military gear. “Redux”, meaning “b-ringing back” is used postpositively. According to Beau Lecsi Werd, the meanings of neologisms “arount” (a blending) and “motch” (a Spanish trunc) are understable through context. “O, du lieber Augustin” is a Viennese song attributed to 17th century Austrian poet and balladier Marx Augustin.


          by Bèla Cedew Suri

Budapest, the capital of Hungary is
is its country’s largest city. Buda
on the west is hilly, while Pest on the east is
flat. This fused “charcoal kiln” on the Danube
stretches out in a spectacular sweep
of buildings, bridges, streets, retreats, and trees.
Two million people live, work, play, and sleep
within the two hundred square-mile city,
where two thousand years ago the Romans
conquered the Celtic settlement therein,
thence called Aquincum. Rome fell, the omens
were bad, and the site fell into ruin.
The Magyars reestablished two new towns;
but in 1241, the Mongol crew
destroyed them. When the latter left, on grounds
to the south, a new town on Castle Hill grew.
In the 14th and 15th centuries,
Buda became the seat of the royal court,
one of its brightest eras entering,
with splendid palaces and modest port.
In 1541 Buda’s fortress
was occupied by the Ottoman Turks,
who ruined both towns and added more stress;
the people left; the Turks left no good works.
In 1686 Turks were expelled:
Germans came to Buda, Hungarians
to Pest. The Hapsburgs ruled, while both groups built,
making vibrant 19th century towns.
In 1848, when the Chain Bridge
was constructed both towns merged together,
no longer each sitting at its own edge,
but rather like two birds of a feather;
and though the War of Independence from
’48 to ’49 fell in mire,
the city still prospered in the kingdom
of the Austro-Hungarian empire,
till that fell apart after World War I:
the communists crushing democracy;
the place looted by the Romanian
force, leaving in place, aristocracy.
World War II destruction was also great,
as was that during 1956,
but reconstruction and repairs to date
have brought it back to where it now is, sits,
the cultural center of Hungary.

Bèla Cedew Suri is a poet of Hungary.


Jean Baptiste Lully
          by U. Carew Delibes

He was Italian by birth, Jean Baptiste Lully,
and came to France when he was but twelve years of age.
At twenty he became one of the violins
in the king’s band of twenty-four, Louis’ court cage,
where he shined as composer, dancer, soloist.
By thirty he’d been given two court titles, staged
dance music, was naturalized French, and show cased.
At forty he obtained th’ exclusive privilege
of putting on the operas in Paris’s
Academie Royale de Musique before the deluge.
He also wrote with Moliére ten comedie-ballets
and fourteen tragedies with a majestic edge
made with Quinault, these finishing in his fifties,
and dying when he struck his foot with his baton
from complications rising from that injury.
By spring of 1687, he was gone.
He left upon his death much music of a grand,
magnificent, and stately form, this cut-throat man
of noble sentiment and splendid elegance.
And though as pompous and hard as the king he served,
he left behind divertissements, suites, ballets, and
the French overture.

Lully, filled with the spirit of Louis
(You can hear it in his music.), composed
majestic works that eschewed the frilly
and foreshadowed classic poise, not the posed,
avoiding th’ overly ornamental,
while striving for a dignified grandeur
that was noble, yet not sentimental,
especially in his French overture,
which initiated a new era
all over Europe, an Enligtenment,
an Age of Reason and a new clari-
ty that was by magnificence heightened.
But every new beginning is an end
to all that which has been there before it.

U. Carew Delibes is a poet and critic of French music. Jean Baptiste Lully (1632-1687) was a French Baroque composer. Moliére (1622-1673) was a Classical French poet and highly regarded playwright of comedies.


On August 21, the flooding, in the Metroplex,
began its crazy rainfall in North Texas. Clear the decks.
Some parts were inundated by the water pouring down,
more than ten inches in a day were covering the ground.


At the Gym
          by Rudi E. Welec, “Abs”

He didn’t want to exercise this morning at the gym.
He didn’t want to have to go. It seemed too hard to him.
He got upon the long black bench and stretched out arms and legs,
proceeding to go through the motions, flummoxed, fluxed and flexed.
He felt beset by heavy weights, by long and hard routines.
He wasn’t all that happy working out with the machines.
It didn’t seem that diff’rent going forth or going back.
He only wished that he could pass upon his being whacked.
And yet he needed to go on. He felt like kneaded dough.
O, at the gym all that he wanted was to stop and go.

Rudy E. Welec, “Abs” is a poet of exercise.