by “Clear Dew” Ibuse
On the horizon,
Jupiter has moved closer.
The Sun is setting.
“Clear Dew” Ibuse is a poet of haiku.
by “Wired Clues” Abe
The bath water pours;
the baby drops everything:
the sound of water.
“Wired Clues” Abe is a poet using Japanese forms united with technology.
The NASA DART collision was successful on impact.
The asteroid Dimorphos was knocked off its orbit track.
by I. E. Sbace Weruld
But, hold, what light through yonder window breaks? It is the East.
The Sun is flaring, glaring, blazing, like a gazing beast.
The Moon is pale, barely shining in the glazing light,
relying on its solar neighbour for its slight, faint sight.
This hollow, seen from in between the mountain heights aloof,
is little more than but a floor bequeathed to fiend and fool.
Here is not love. The stars are hidden in this blinding scene,
upon this Earthly sphere appearing in the Holocene.
Mr. I. E. Sbace Weruld is a poet of the solar system.
September 16, 2022, a fire broke out,
engulfing China Telecom, in Changsha’s high-rise Tow’r.
The orange flames and thick black smoke soared forty stories up
ferociously the cladding burned—a giant dragon’s puff.
Some blazing bits of flared debris fell from the charred façade.
According to authorities: “no casualties amassed.”
by Sree Leci Budwa
Across the north the Himalayas stretch;
below the rich and fertile Ganges flows;
Rajasthan Desert burns in the northwest;
and in the south are hills and old plateaus
that date back to ancient Gondwanaland.
Out into ocean, sea, and bay it sticks
the vast, peninsular and Hindu hand
with Muslims, Christians, Buddhists, Jains, and Sikhs.
all densely-packed together—one belly—
that is filled up with cities, sites galore:
Ahmadabad, Mumbai, Chennai, Delhi,
Hyderabad, Kolkata, Bangalore;
one-third the size, is this sub-continent,
with thrice the people, of America.
Sree Leci Budwa is a poet of India. The snow abode, the Himalayas, stretch over 2400 kilometers, from Kashmir and Tibet, through Nepal, Bhutan and India.
Down Face Dog
by Sri Wele Cebuda
He got into the adho mukha śvānāsana pose,
that down face dog, whose dry and peeling skin was taut, and rose.
He lifted up his butt—that mutt—his shoes upon the floor,
and in that white and empty space, he worked upon his core.
His hands were clenched, black wrist bands cinched; he balanced firmly there,
as if he were a foldable computer in the air.
His red and white athletic shoes, securely on his feet,
his dessicated, wrinkled face approaching pale beet.
He hoped this pose would help in counter-acting his duress,
and healing his hot, itchy head, and, too, depressing stress.
That Churl in a Lotus Pose
by Sri Wele Cebuda
He got into the lotus pose upon the dark-blue mat.
He was alert and focused in the corner where he sat.
Positioning his front and back beside the clean, white walls,
he lifted up his head and spine, like lined-up billiard balls.
His clothing was a pale tan, perhaps a bit too tight;
and yet, he felt, while doing yoga, situated right.
His gaze was off…an empty stare…his inner eye unclosed;
he felt like he was getting close to lorma undisclosed.
He felt so warm…his total form…as he pressed on his perch;
and yet he wasn’t sure his search would bring much, o—that churl.
Sri Wele Cebuda is a poet of yoga.
In Shahr-e-Rey, an anti-riot shooter aimed and shot
his AK-47 at protesters, mad and fraught.
If He Indeed Did Rule
by “Scribe” El Uwade
He sat upon a comfy, dark-blue chair, to meditate,
to do some breathing exercises; he did not feel great.
He closed his eyes, while opening his inner mental eye.
He deeply breathed to ventilate his body and his mind.
He flushed his body and his system with his thoughtful breaths.
He dreamed he was in contact with the enigmatic Seth.
He longed for greater strength, as he was feeling very low,
like as a wild ass, saluki, or an antelope.
He felt like as a macehead of King Scorpion the Two,
who reigned five thousand years ago, if he indeed did rule.
What loot did he gain from lands in Mesopotamia,
while doing breathing, exorcizing demon-flaming po’ms.
“Scribe” El Uwade is a poet of Ancient Egypt. Seth was a patron god of the pharaohs. King Scorpion II was a pharaoh of the Protodynastic period of Upper Egypt.
Fleeing the Death-Beast
by Rus Ciel Badeew
Choleric, they declaimed, it was insane—War in Ukraine.
Ach, killing, o, so many souls—incalculable pains—
Hell, blasting myriads to vultures and wild dogs—unsaved—
for a crazed maniac—ten thousands—Put in to mass graves—
evading the conscription, everywhere, from west to east,
great Russian masses rushing to be free of the Death-Beast:
from Finland south to Turkey, Georgia and Armenia,
to Kazakhstan, Uzbekistan, and to Mongolia;
lest they be sent off to the front, PDQ and untrained…
If they want to surrender call 1-800-Ukraine.
Rus Ciel Badeew is a poet of Russia.
by War di Belecuse
The soldier stood up tall in tan and dark-brown uniform,
like as a mere mirage, in camoflage, amidst the flor.
He hid within the dappled light, within the bushy brush,
the earthy smells surrounding him, his pausing in the shrubs.
Here in this dirty, furtive, shirty, smelly cavity,
he was on the look-out for enemy activity.
It was important to report it to headquarter’s staff,
so they would then be able to respond to it, and fast.
And so he kept on watching near and distant hills and skies,
with concentrated, focused ears and spanned, distillant eyes.
War di Belecuse is a poet of war.
O’er Sao Paulo
by Luc Ebrewe Dias
“God don’t let me die/ Without seeing 15th Street again/ And the
progress of Sao Paulo.”
—José Oswald de Souza Andrade, “Song of Going Home”
In every direction one looks, up in the skies of azure, white, and yellow, are enormous clouds.
Below, the gold, gray, white and beige skyscrapers rise by 20,000,000 people, incredible crowds.
Above, like pterodactyls, helicopters fly o’er Sao Paulo, South America’s loudest sauna, sounding like tyrannosaur din, screeching nigh, when the whole city’s streets are all struck in gridlock. Ten percent of Brazil dwells here, in traffic, dry, in high apartments, in cars, in block after block beneath the solar disk in haze, an egg God fries, its radiance in circles glowing round the clock.
Luc Ebrewe Dias is a poet of Brazil. José Oswald de Souza Andrade (1890-1954) was a Modernist Brazilian proset, poet, and literary critic.
The FBI denies it sent a SWAT TEAM after Houck,
although more than a dozen agents came out to his house,
and pointed rifles at him and his wife in front of kids.
Because he shoved some guy some time ago? Is justice this?
The Commonwealth Building in Portland, Oregon
by Arcideb Usewel
Cubicles make up the Equitable Building,
the previous name of the Commonwealth Building,
in Portland, Oregon, a perfect example
of geometric purism, with ample
supplies of flat bands flush with window surfaces,
where the blankest of blandest faces suffices.
This is a place where the grids count—from the ground up,
where square and rectangular matter from top down,
and straight is a stratum for which one is striving.
What a fantastic vista for us visiotrs.
Here, effect is what is the most important thing.
All else is frills, mere lengthening and shortening.
A giant block amidst the other giant blocks,
it sits rectangularly on 6th Avenue
between both Washington and Stark. This big, glass box
of wide-eyed, sea-green-tinted windows, offers you
some thirteen stories of commercial office space,
as well as a remarkable, death-breaking view,
with double-glazed panes in aluminum encased.
Yes, it is modern, and complete by ’48,
designed by architect Belluschi; and, your Grace,
it pioneered the use of pumps for heating. Wait.
Perhaps you’d rather see something down by the docks,
or something grassy, wanting care, and just as great.
Arcideb Usewel is a poet of architecture. Pietro Belluschi (1899-1994) was an Italian-American Modernist architect. Portland, Oregon, is a city of about 650,000.
To One on the Pacific Rim
by Cal Wes Ubideer
for Timothy Steele
He didn’t want it to occur again;
He’d had enough of sad, but meaningful,
profound analysis. No, not that end!
He wanted the undaunted beautiful,
the charming, captivating brilliances.
In short, he wanted happiness, those good
and lovely moments, fine resiliences,
or anything within the neighborhood.
Life should not be a series of events,
more or less dour, somber and sour.
There is a point at which it makes no sense
to listen to one more sob-filled hour.
He just had to get out. He could not take
it anymore. O, for sweet life he ached.
Cal Wes Ubideer is a poet of California. Timothy Steele is a PostModern American poet.
Freedom in the Sun
by Edruce Awe Blis
He really was…enjoying it—this freedom in the Sun—
that, once upon a time, seemed so far from a bounting bunce.
The distance seemed unreachable before he came to this;
yet knew it could be only but a momentary bliss.
And yet he loved to soar above, this tippler bibbering,
in sweet debauchery unleashed in solar liberty.
He longed to leave his grief behind, and fly up, like a leaf
the wind has taken for a ride in fluttering be…lief.
Edruce Awe Blis is a poet of bliss.
The hurrIcANe reached landfall on southwestern Florid’s coast;
more than two million outages, so many places closed.
It left Fort Meyers de-va-sta-ted, rains drenched around the town,
the winds and floods, the surf and surge, calm palms were slapped about.
Fort Meyers is a city in Florida of around 85,000.
by E. Dawber Sluice
It has no skeleton, no heart, no brain,
small Polyorchis penicillatus,
the bell jelly, as transparent as rain;
from Mexico to Alaska, it dwells.
With lots of tentacles it makes the most;
up from the ocean floor it rises, swells,
and sees a blurry world along the coast
with tiny eye-spots, its light-sensing cells.
But when the light turns purple, like a ghost,
it tries to escape and pulses wildly.
It wants to get away, and off it goes;
violet makes it wave violently.
Only when the light seen is green can it sleep;
and then its sinks into the ocean deep.
E. Dauber Sluice is a poet of sea life.
As Fast as a Hummingbird
by Birdee Euclaws
for Philip Levine
Since life goes as fast as a hummingbird,
is it a wonder that life’s so fast paced?
We all might wish that this world hadn’t whirred
by so fast with us caught in its rat race;
but that is water under the…log bridge
I called it Diamond Waterfall. The creek
meandered through the woods, while at the edge
my neighborhood grew…not, I think, unique.
But isn’t it unusual that we
reflect upon childhood when we get old,
before we launch into eternity.
Another page is turned and story told.
Each day is like an age, unfilled, unknown…
I see the crawdad underneath that stone.
by W. “Birdcaws” Eule
“We’ll know our disinformation program is complete.
when everything the American public believes is false.”
There was no Operation Mockingbird in the US.
The CIA did not, nor ever has, coerced the press.
The CIA does not surveil domestic citizens,
nor do they track and follow fellow Internetizens.
They don’t try to discredit leaders that they do not like.
America’s republic is not marxist or third-reich.
There’re no clandestine journalists throughout the USA;
they do not do covert assignments for the CIA.
The CIA won’t target those with other world-views.
The CIA has not, nor ever will, adjust the news.
W. “Birdcaws” Eule is a poet of shrill and screeching birds. William Casey (1913-1987) was Director of Central Intelligence in the 1980s.
The Early Monday Morning Work Commute
by Des Wercebauli
It was time for the early Monday morning work commute.
He had a cup of coffee creamed; he wore a dark brown suit.
The sunlight blazing in his eyes, on thé horizon, flared;
he hid behind the visors, in sunglasses as it glared.
From quiet lane to busy street, he drove along his way;
then on to highways, byways, in the traffic of the day.
The semis, cars, the trucks and vans, an interwoven maze;
the journey to his job was joyless, busy, noisy, crazed.
And yet, he knew he had to do it for his livelihood,
and so, although, it was not beautiful, it still was good.
So, in that sense of traffic dense, he was so glad to drive;
and quite content, when he survived, and managed to arrive.