The population in November 2022,
according to the UN is 8,000,000,000, Planet Blue,
three times as many as were here in 1950’s zoo,
and though the planet’s warming up, its birth rate seems to cool.


          by “Clear Dew” Ibuse

A butterfly pair
skitters in tandem about
red oaks and roses.


          by “Clear Dew” Ibuse

The blood-red moon moored
above the Earth’s cloud cover,
peeks through the morning.


          by “Clear Dew” Ibuse

The ailing toddler
coughs uncontrollably,
not understanding.

“Clear Dew” Ibuse is a poet of haiku.


          by “Wired Clues” Abe

Steeped in Earthly news,
th’ early morning riser has
a cup of green tea.

“Wired Clues” Abe is a haiku writer.


          “There is no perfect place to get the news…around the Globe;
          one simply picks up sampled snippets from the Cosmic Blow.”
              —R. Lee Ubicwedas


The twenty-one-ton Chinese rocket, way out of control,
smashed into Earth in the Pacific, south of Mexico.


At Tal Afar
          by Abdul Serecewi

Perhaps it was ancient Tel-assar—Tal Afar—
inhabited by Eden’s people in 2 Kings,
I could not tell, but certainly it was afar
off in the northwest of Iraq, near to Turkey
and Syria, west of Mosul and “Nineveh,”
a dry and yellow brown site of Shia Turkmen.
Located at the center are the remnants of
a castle of the Ottomans, where since the Brits
and the Americans have found themselves within.
Amidst the golden tan rocks, one can accomplish its
essential core. “Iraqis” have lived with that for
ages, Allah, Qalah, this gritty city’s pit.

Abdul Serecewi is a poet of Iraq. Th’ above bilding [sic] uses interlocking terz rima in a 12 x 12 syllabic structure.


The COP27, global climate summit change,
was held this year in th’ Egyptian green site Sharm El-Sheikh.

Sharm El-Sheikh is a city on the tip of the Sinai Peninsula of around 75,000. António Gutierres said that humanity is on a “highway to hell.”


More than a dozen people died in Tanzania’s Lake
when a Precision Air plane crashed in to Victoria.

Lake Victoria is the second largest fresh-water lake by surface area in the World, after Lake Superior between Canada and the United States of America.


Spain’s Olive Crop
          by Raúl de Cwesibe

Short, gnarly olive trees cling to the dry, hard rocky ground,
and still continue thriving, when the sun comes pounding down.
In torrid midday heat too dry for or’nge or lemon trees,
they close the microscopic pores upon their drab-green leaves.
This year, however, has been quite a challenge for Spain’s crop,
as temp’ratures have risen and the trees are plagued by drought.

Of Spain’s 350,000 farmers, harvesting
for olive oil usually starts in October, but
it is November and so many still want watering;
and many farmers wonder if they can get over this.
Predictions of just half a crop are not that sinister,
right now according to Spain’s agriculture minister.

Raúl de Cwesibe is a poet of Spain.


The Dutchman in Lisboa
          by Luis de Cawebre

Some time ago, he had been shot in his left upper arm.
The bullets flew, like as a hive of hornets in a swarm.
It hurt, but he pressed on; he had no choice; it had to be.
He ran up to the car; he jumped inside; he tried to flee.

The enemy was all around. Lisboa was the site.
Like as Pessoa he would go another day and night.
No one would ever know what he had done, where he had been.
He pressed on furiously with but hope and faint chagrin.

If he could only make it out—that image in the fog—
if he could only get away…he would be gone, and off.
And none would know or care what he had done back in that war
that raged around him in that port of deadly Portugal.

Luis de Cawebre is a poet of Portugal. Fernando Pessoa (1888-1935) was a Modernist Portuguese poet.


          by Waldeci Erebus

These linden trees with falling leaves infest these ancient mounts.
They scream aloud like tran-sylvanian mobs from the towns.
These monsters spread among the landscapes of these present days,
dystopian, myopian, an opium-mad haze.
Their savage war of bloody horror and insanity
has been unleashed upon the shield of humanity.
O, Shelley, yes, that hellish situation’s now with us;
we grabbed, with little forethought, fire from Prometheus;
and all around are scattered ghoulish souls and body parts,
in this fierce breeze, these linden leaves fall on these buried hearts.

Waldeci Erebus is a poet of darkness. Romantic British writer Mary Shelley (1797-1851) wrote the remarkable book “Frankenstein”, from which th’ above tennos draws.


July 27, 1943
          by War di Belecuse

The weather was very warm and dry, when
in 1943, the RAF
attacked the German city Hamburg. Then,
the night was July the 27th.
The high explosive “cookies” that were dropped
caused a whirlwind of fire, the Feuersturm!
A blasting furnace flared as the bombs plopped
down. Asphalt in the streets began to squirm–
then burst into a raging, flaming blight
one hundred and fifty miles per hour
at fifteen hundred degrees Fahrenheit!
a second but more horrid Gomorrah!
twice fifteen thousand people sucked to death,
like leaves within a vacuum cleaner’s breath.

War di Belecuse is a poet of war. Mentioned in “Genesis, Chapter 19”, Gomorrah (and Sodom) had sulphur and fire rained on it, leading to its destruction.


Lot’s Lot
          by Israel W. Ebecud

He said, “Flee for your lives. Do not look back.
Do not pause in between the plain and hill.
Flee hell. The enemy is on the tack.
Flee, or you will be swept away. You will.”

We ran, and reached the small town of Zoar.
The sun had risen high up o’er the land.
Burnt sulfur rained on Sodom and Gomor-
rah, but my wife looked back. It wasn’t planned.

She turned into a pillar made of salt.
The vegetation died beneath her feet.
She came, like Daphne, to a complete halt,
dead in her tracks from the appalling heat.

When Abraham looked down next morning’s dawn,
he saw dense smoke, as if from a furnace,
that left a pall, oh, over…all…was gone.
Such unraveled hate cannot but burn us.

Israel W. Ebecud is a poet of Semitic history. Born Abram, in the city of Ur (circa 1800 BC), Abraham was the son of Terach, an idol merchant. Zoar was one of the “five cities of the plain”, located somewhere around the Jordan Valley and the Dead Sea.


Giant Christmas Baubles Wreak Havoc on London Street
          by Red Was Iceblue
          “They were like the rover capture pods on ‘The Prisoner’”
              —Cawb Edius Reel

Two giant, silver, Christmas baubles, sixteen-foot-wide spheres
came barreling down Tottenham, in London; they weren’t steered.
They were a part of “Four World Set” Tom Shannon had designed,
but were dislodged from the display. The artist was resigned.

Storm Claudio had loosened them from the St. Giles’ array.
The orbs went rolling wi-ld-ly due to high winds and rain.
Eventually bystanders could stop and dismantle them,
and luckily there were no injuries or damages.

Although the artist felt unlucky chaos had ensued,
his gutted gift was caught on video and hit the news.
“Four World Set” was meant to bring the people closer to
each other, yet in smiles it’s what it did exactly do.

Red Was Iceblue is a poet of New Millennial art. Cawb Edius Reel is a film critic. “The Prisoner” was a television show from 1967-1968 seen in Canada, Britain, the United States of America, inter alia.


As the parade for World Series winners went along,
the mascot Orbit did his dance among the Astro throng,
an estimated crowd—more than one-million people strong—
watched the confetti falling…on…the Houston cosmotron.

Houston, Texas, is the 4th largest city in the USA with a population of around 2,300,000.


The Young Consumer
          by Brad Lee Suciew

It is merely a large department store,
as big as a warehouse filled with dry goods;
but to one entering its sliding door,
like a child, it offers all sorts of new moods.
He feels a swashbuckler crossing the moat
as electric glass doors close behind him.
Leaving the darkness of the night, he can gloat,
looking at the brightly-lit things shining.
And though he has very little money,
he can purchase an item he fancies.
A world so lit makes everything sunny,
including him, everywhere he glances.
Even if all he can afford is a
small coloured notebook; this night is his day.

Brad Lee Suciew is a poet of business.


Control of Congress still remains unsure as of today,
though midterms have already happened in the USA.
American vote tallying seems to take longer than
most other democratic and undemocratic lands.


The Nursing Student
          by Des Wercebauli

The nursing student sits upon a wooden chair
at a fat table filled with big, thick books and drink.
She types away on laptop keys. The light that’s there
comes from the overhanging light bulb on the brink
of darkness. Papers form an arc around her space
and into which she does her mind and study sink.
Her eyes are focused, concentrated, serious.
It is as if all else has vanished, gone away;
and naught but that which counts is on her narrowed face;
for from the task at hand she dare not stray. Her day
is hard; but she does not shrink back. She does not dare.
So on her way she goes, through tomes and time amain.

Des Wercebauli is a poet of work.


Find the Thimble
          Cu Ebide Aswerl

Find the Thimble was a game of his youth
that very few people play anymore;
it’s as if the game has, to tell the truth,
vanished into the mists of time. What for?
No longer do women darn clothes as much;
a thimble’s not as common an object;
nor are there so few pastimes, and as such,
that humble game folks presently neglect.
That leisured life, and that longing for games,
with that lack of them, has forever gone.
Our present has innumerable claims;
and looking for a thimble isn’t one.
In life, time and again, things show, and then
they go, hidden till you find them—again.

Cu Ebide Aswerl is a poet of leisure. One of his favourite books on opera is that by 19th century British essayist Vernon Blackburn (1866-1907) “The Fringe of an Art.”