by “Clear Dew” Ibuse

The baby giggles
repeatedly for “high-fives”,
amazing th’ adults.

“Clear Dew” Ibuse is a poet of haiku.


Time to Laugh
          by Wic E. Ruse Blade

While all around are people blowing up
themselves and others, even on the beach,
we stroll along with tea or coffee cup
in hand. All of a sudden we reach
the dead. The seagulls send their high-pitched screams
out to the day. We still have time to laugh.
The humorous surrounds our waking dreams.
If we will look, we’ll find it on a graph.

Wic E. Ruse Blade is a poet of humour.


          by “Wired Clues” Abe

Driving home, he felt
the blood pouring down his cheek:
a wart removal.

“Wired Clues” Abe is a poet using Japanese forms united with technology.


Into the Lotus Pose
          by Sri Wele Cebuda

He lifted up his spine, yes, elevated from a slouch.
He got into the lotus pose upon the light-gray couch.
He closed his outer eyes, but opened up his inner eye,
extending upward, like as he was flying in the sky.
But he was still inside, beside the lovely drapery,
the gold and silver, light-blue curtains, shining napery.
The time stood still as if an eon passed beneath his yawn.
He felt like as he’d been pushed up by rosy-fingered dawn.
His legs were spread out to each side, his head rose up in peace,
a rocket in slo-mo, o, going to the cosmic sea.

Sri Wele Cebuda is a poet of basic yoga.


From Genesis
          by Israel W. Ebecud

Now Adam knew his wife named Eve, and she conceived
and bore a son named Cain. She said, “I’ve got a man
with help from God.” Then bore another boy, Eve did,
his brother Abel. Abel was a shepherd; and
Cain was a tiller of the ground. In time, Cain brought
the Lord an offering of fruit out of the land,
while Abel brought the firstlings of his flock, the lot
that had the fattest portions. And the Lord God had
regard for Abel and his offering, but not
for that of Cain. So, Cain was very angry, and
his countenance did fall. The Lord then said to Cain,
“Why are you mad? Why did your countenance turn bad?
If you do well, will you not be accepted fain?
If you do not do well, sin crouches at your door.
It sin wants you; you must not master it in vain.”
Cain said to Abel, “Brother, let us go now toward
the field.” And when they reached the field, Cain rose in heat
against his brother Abel, killing him. The Lord
then said to Cain, “Where is your brother Abel at?”
Cain answered, “I don’t know.” And on continued he,
“Am I my brother’s keeper?” And the Lord said, “What,
then, have you done? The voice of Abel cries to me.
Your brother’s blood is grieving from the ground. And now
you’re cursed from that same ground, whose open mouth receives
your brother’s blood drawn by your hand. When you plow ground,
it shall no longer yield to you its strength. Fore’er
you’ll be a wanderer and fugitive unbound.”
Cain said, “My punishment is more than I can bear.
Behold, You’ve driven me away from land’s great girth,
and from Thy face I shall be hidden here and there.
I’ll be a lonely fugitive that wanders earth.
Whoever finds me thus will slay me dead.” “Not so,”
said God. “If anyone slays Cain, vengeance shall thirst,
and then be taken on that one some sevenfold.”
The Lord then put a mark on Cain, lest those who came
upon him slay him. From God’s presence he did go,
and dwelt in Nod, just east of Eden, full of blame.

Israel W. Ebecud is a poet of Israel.


The Wilton Diptych
          by Wilude Scabere

Both strange and extraordinary,
the Wilton Diptych depicts King Richard
of England kneeling down before Mary,
who holds the Baby Jesus in her arms,
surrounded by eleven angels. One
upholds the red cross banner in her hands,
the Child is reaching for. In addition,
above some seven angels’ backs commands
a sweep of white, blue, and black wings. White harts
adorn the long blue flowing gowns of all but that
of Mary. To the left, less crowded, are
four figures: Edmund with an arrow; at
his right side Edward the Confessor holds
a ring; then John the Baptist with a sheep;
below him draped in red and golden folds
the Lion-hearted bends down low and deep.

Wilude Scabere is a poet of early England. This last week Queen Elizabeth II (1926-2022) of England died, and Charles III became king. Earlier English kings include Richard II (1157 – 1199), King Edmund (c. 841 – 869) and King Edward the Confessor (c. 1003 – 1066). Mentioned religious figures include Jesus (c. 4 BC – c. 30 AD), his mother Mary (c. 18 BC – c. 42 AD) and John the Baptist (1st decade BC – c. 30 AD).


To Join the Military Vat
          by Radice Lebewsu

He hated to be in a war, but what choice did he have?
His country said he had to join the military vat.
So here he was upon these hills disguised in camo gear,
but did not feel he was secure, though he had ammo near.
The enemy could launch a strike from anywhere, he thought.
He wished that they would go away, and let him rest. O, God.
He crouched there taut, black, green and tan, awaiting orders that
would send him elsewhere, or tell him what he must do, or not.
He hoped the enemy was blind to him where he was at,
beneath these trees, beside those leaves, in dogtags, rags and capped.

Radice Lebewsu is a poet of Ukraine.


The Music of Joseph Bodin de Boismortier
          by U. Carew Delibes

What a relief it is to remove oneself to
the music of Joseph Bodin de Boismortier.
His was a delightful and a beautiful muse
who nicely trod between piano and forte.
In a world mad with emotional vanity,
his is a world of serenity and courtly
elegance, a world of balance and sanity.
Though some may condemn his simple, easy musing,
I am happily pleased by such sheer lenity
and desire to lose myself in such fine fusing.
The rarity of such a lovely sound and true
is all I need to count it worthy of choosing.

U. Carew Delibes is a poet of French music. Joseph Bodin de Boismortier (1689-1755) was a French Baroque composer.


Neuf Réflexions sur Monet
          by Claude I. S. Weber

Two flags flutter in the wind at the top
of the painting, the tricolor at right.
White clouds scoot across light blue sky. Th’ eyes drop
to the horizon, where ships are in sight
and go scudding by over green water.
At the edge is a low wall covered with
bright reddish-hued flowers where two saunter,
a woman in white, a man in black. Hith-
er his father in the foreground sits
in a chair, observing sky, sea, land,
gray smoke, dark sails, and white parasols. It’s
all bathed in sunshine, shimmering and grand.
Unseen, behind, looking down and out, is
Monet in the Terace at Sainte-Adresse.

Residing on the coast of Normandy,
in December of 1868
in Etretat, in nature’s organdy,
The Magpie was painted by Claude Monet.
The bird, alone, rests on a wooden grate.
Snow everywhere does cover everything:
the house, the bare trees, the wall, and the gate.
The setting and the seen are breathtaking:
the cool blue shadows, including that of
the magpie; violet light in the sky
brilliantly lighting the sky from above;
and those bright blinding whites. O, what an eye!
It’s almost as if the whole comes alive,
and we were there to watch the bird arrive.

The Thames below Westminster by Monet
is quite an interesting painted scene.
What’s seen along the riverside is gray:
the sky, the water, sidewalk, and Big Ben.
All is a haze, though color is throughout;
a duller brilliance would be hard to find,
reminding one of Wordsworth—there is no doubt—
though this is filled with people, ships, and kind.
Yet it’s the pier that pierces from the right
that focuses the picture. Vague and black,
yet crisp beneath the City bathed in light,
we leave some leaves but peer not too far back.
Above the House of Parliament does rise
and we are left with memories and eyes.

It is so open, airy, Springtime by Monet
of 1874, the wind sweeping through
a few scattered trees bending above grassy hay
to the faint hills in the distance and the vast grey-blue
sky, almost ominous and insignificant,
all the hues subdued, rude, as reality, true.
Th’ individuals are seen in indifferent
poses, unknown, seemingly without character,
as if such knowledge were oddly irrelevant,
including the closest woman, her wide skirt spread
on the field where she sits on this blustery day
near her discarded and inverted parasol.

Impression, soleil levant by Claude Monet,
a quick rendition of the harbour of Le Havre
from his window, shows a bright orange sun, a
few boats, the closest one black, and some with masts mar-
velously arrayed in blue mist. A title was
needed, so he said, ‘Put Impression.’ There you have
it. Louis Leroy entitled his critical
pan The Exhibition of the Impressionists,
and it took off from there, from the insubstantial
to officialdom, from vagueness to specialists.
So always, that desire to capture just one day
goes away before you can even mention it.

From La Rue Montorgeuil, in Paris, Claude Monet
rushed up a stairway to a corner apartment,
looked out a window, and painted what he saw, a
street filled with crowds of people everywhere heartened,
the tricolor flapping from bottoms to the tops
of buildings. If he was moved that’s where his art went.
If it was possible, he’d pull out all the stops,
even in cities. He painted the picure on
June 30, 1878, shapes and shops,
bright reds, whites, and blues, a whirlwind in the urban
landscape on a day of celebration, away
from the World’s Fair site, at the pulse of the real one.

La Gare Saint-Lazare, a painting by Monet, is
an oil on canvas, which has as its picture,
th’ arrival of a train. Blues, greys, and whites top his
frame, where one sees smoke, light, and an architecture
of steel and glass beneath which the three trains pass.
As usual, what impresses is his texture.
At center, a track curves to a faint caboose past
several figures, including a man in blue.
On the left a more visible caboose sits, as
a dark engine enters at right. Out of it does spew
forth billowing clouds of pollution, gas and fizz,
while under, warm earths, amber and umber, accrue.

Monet painted the facade of Rouen
Cathedral over and over again,
sometimes in warm tones of red, gold, and brown,
other times in cool greys and blues; for then
ever was he trying to catch the dance
of light upon the stone, how things are seen,
whether in bright and brilliant radiance
or touched by shadow’s darker glimmering.
Somehow he took a Gothic structure, and
turned it into something else, a scene
where color, weather, and ever changing
time were transforming, always altering
that which stood over him, imposing, grand,
as if it were an insubstantial thing.

In Giverny, Claude Monet painted them
from the pond he maintained, water lilies,
in picture after picture, each a gem,
of scintillating subtlety. The ease
of his realism, a reflection
of his vision, was more than a mirror;
it was the quite credible suggestion
that a clearer world awaits a peerer
whenever he or she dares penetrate
what Paul Claudel called the “airy azure”
in the liquid. There ripples generate
the image of the sky, and reassure
us that the world of the spirit is, and
we can see it in what we understand.

Claude I. S. Weber is a poet of France. Monet (1840-1926) was a French Impressionist painter.


Gas prices have been going down. O, to what will they verge?
But is this due to using the petroleum reserve?
One million barrels each day till October 31st;
but will the price rise after that? One hopes it will not burst.


The Famous Comstock Lode of Silver Ore
          by “Wild” E. S. Bucaree
          “Was it a silver bullet used by hunter Jean Chastel
          who killed the Beast of Gévaudan and sent it back to Hell?”
              —Duc Blaise Were

The famous Comstock Lode of silver ore
in Nevada in 1858
caused much excitement. First discoverer
is still disputed. Was it Hosea
Ballou, who died of septicaemia,
or brother Ethan Allen Grosh, who died too,
and perished from gangrene? When Comstock learned
of both their deaths, he claimed their lands his own.
And there were other men who claimed and earned
some money, like McLaughlin, and Penrod,
who sold for short. O’Riley made some dough,
but lost it all, and later went insane.
James Fennimore sold his tenth share for one
old blind horse and a whiskey bottle. Then
Comstock sold his holdings to Judge James Walsh,
and opened stores with the cash; but went broke;
then went to Idaho and Montana,
prospecting, but with no luck, near Bozeman,
in the Big Horn country, he killed himself
in late September 1870.

“Wild” E. S. Bucaree is a poet of the Southwest. Hosea Ballou Grosh (1826-1857) died in Gold Canyon near Silver City; his brother Ethan Allen Grosh (1824-1857) died trying to cross the frozen Sierra. Henry Comstock (1820-1870) was a Canadian miner. Among the Sagebrush School of American literature were Mark Twain (1835-1910), Dan De Quiulle (1829-1898), and British-born poet John Brayshaw Kaye (1841-1909).


Jeff German was a journalist who covered courts and crime,
at the Las Vegas Sun, for years, where he put in his time;
but he was stabbed by Democratic Robert Telles’ knife,
September 3, in 2022; he took his life.


The Fixed-Wing Plane Mechanic
          by Des Wercebauli

He trained to be fixed-wing plane mechanic at the camp,
near Newport News, Virginia, focusing on varied craft.
He did his BST in Oklahoma, at Fort Sill,
and, at Fort Eustis, did his AIT—hard core, for real.

He trained to work on maintenance, U-8/U-21,
inspecting and detecting, troubleshooting entries gunned,
correcting all defects, adjusting or replacing parts,
as authorized by operation allocation charts.

He trained with special tools, and instruments for measuring
flight rigging, engines, and propellors, plus accessories,
brake cylinders, hydraulic hoses, reservoirs and valves.
There was so much to look out for, evaluate and solve.

He trained to check the gages, generator, oxygen,
in metal, plastic, fiberglass, check scratches, cracks or dents,
interpret wiring and schematic diagrams, and more.
There were so many things to do, so that the planes could soar.

He trained to taxi down the runway, after being flown,
straight up and down and all around, a vomit test to own,
preparing and repairing systems through the fuselage.
He felt like Atlas with such weight, he feared to do a bodge.

Des Wercebauli is a poet of work.


The Fisherman
          by W. S. “Eel” Bericuda

He was a fisherman, out fishing, very patiently.
He held his rod above the lavender and lovely sea.
He tried to hold as still as he could, waiting for a bite,
a quick and nimble nibble down below his line of sight.
He didn’t seem to be content, but he continued on,
attempting to draw up, some flappy, sinewed fishy spawn.
How long would it be? this he wondered, till he’d get his first,
and then his limit? O, how long? He watched the waters stir.
Abiding time, he might arrive at more than just a hope;
he felt dawn’s rosy fingers round his neck with warmth, and, ho!

W. S. “Eel” Bericuda is a poet of fish. One of his favourite writers on fishermen is Petter Dass (1647-1707), a Norwegian Baroque poet and hymnist. Perhaps his most noted work “Nordland Trompet” are verses on northern Norway.


A Coffee Cup
          by Carb Deliseuwe

He longed to have a coffee cup with sweet Italian cream,
though as for that some oatmilk creamer also was a dream.
However, he was not one who despised the bitterness,
accepting sour touches gladly, whether hit or miss.
It was caffeine that he would glean to wake him from his sleep.
O, please, it’s time to shake these drooping eyes up from this deep.
To top it off with lemon water would keep the drowsiness
from taking over or succumbing to the succubus.
He drank a cup of coffee, though he didn’t savour it;
but it left him content, if not his top or favourite.


Ah, Autophagy
          by Carb Deliseuwe

Th’ efficacy of good autophagy is plain to see,
in loss of weight around the waist, and rise in energy;
and intermittent fasting is a lasting way to eat,
to focus on the things one needs, that one could feel complete.

Carb Deliseuwe is a poet of food and drink.


Joe Biden celebrated passage of th’ “Inflation Bill”,
although inflation grew in August and the market fell.