by “Clear Dew” Ibuse

Even the stars are
whispering to each other
thought Kobayashi Issa.

“Clear Dew” Ibuse is a haiku poet. The above katuata leans upon Kobayashi Issa (1763-1828).


Those Days
          by I. E. Sbace Weruld

He still remembers summer days when he,
his kids and him, would go outside at night
and gaze upon the starry galaxy,
and watch each little pinpoint of starlight.
It was so fun; it was so wonderful;
but now those days are gone, forever gone;
and here he sits alone now under all
these stars. He won’t wait for translucent dawn.
That world, crepescular and new, may bring
forth a horizon never seen before,
spectacular in its unerring air-
ing. For humanity there’s always more,
a day which is the start of something fine,
and frightening, that won’t be his or thine.

Mr. I. E. Sbase Weruld is a poet of the stars.


Grecian Astronomy
          by Esiad L. Werecub

He felt like as he was within a strange, arrayed dreamscape.
He saw the shining stars above in constellated shapes.
He felt like as he was within the realms of ancient Greece.
The gods were looking down on him, but just what did they see?
He saw their movements in the dark, so stark, and large in span.
They were so distant in the skies, beyond this pond of Man.
Did they lack spines—those gods—far from this canopy of pines.
What was their purpose up so high? Were they like us—but spies?
He tried to understand their overarching grand display,
but all that he could feel was unusual dismay.

Esiad L. Werecub is a poet of Ancient Greece.


From the “Aeneid, Book II, Lines 250-267”
          by Acwiles Berude

Meanwhile the sky revolves, night rushes from sea-surging spawns,
and wraps its mighty shades around the wiles o’ th’ Myrmidons.
The Teucrians lie stretched in silence, wine-drenched, comatose;
the Argive host, with marshaled ships, has moved from Tenedos,
approaching th’ well-known shore, amid the friendly, quiet Moon,
and Sinon, shi-el-ded by gods’ malignity and doom,
sets free, so stealthily, the Danaans within the womb,
restored to air, in brazen mood, come forth from hollow wood.
The captains and Ulysses slide on down the lowered rope,
and Epius, deviser of the fraud, in calloused grope.
They storm the city, slay the watch, and at the opened gates,
stand multitudes of Grecian comrades and confederates.

Acwiles Berude is a poet of Ancient Greece.


At Cape Canaveral in Florida, it blasted off,
the NASA new moon rocket with three dummies now aloft.


          by I. E. Sbace Weruld

Its length is almost thirty feet, its height is almost ten,
its wingspan almost fifteen feet, its weight is five-plus tons.
In front and back, its thrusters do the ship’s maneuvering;
its fuel tank uses JP-8, that’s based on kerosene.

Robotic X-37B has landed—USA—
at NASA’s Kennedy Space Center on last Saturday.
Th’ unmanned, reusable space plane spent more than two long years
in orbit, round the planet, tests of varied engineers.

Above the hydrogen peroxide tank and engine main
of th’ Orbital Test Vehicle, the sixth since 2010,
is where investigations were conducted, by the way,
within the center of the craft’s experimental bay:

like guidance, avionics, navigation and controls,
flight systems and materials round thé celestial poles,
high temps, conformal insulation that’s reusable,
propulsion systems, thermals, and that which is fusible.

Because it was a secret mission, not all things are known.
Was it a testbed for space weapons in Earth’s orbit zones?
Of the more than four thousand present vehicles in flight,
could it be used to capture adversary satellites?


Half a Century Ago
          by I. E. Sbace Weruld

Atop a pillar of bright, blazing fire,
Neil Armstrong, Buzz Aldrin, and Mike Collins,
rose slowly at the first burst, then higher
and higher on th’ ignited, launched engines.
When all propellants were used up, first stage
was separated from the Saturn 5
and fell into th’ Atlantic O—downrange.
Next followed second stage and third t’ arrive
at orbital velocity. It took
about twelve minutes since blastoff to get
here—there! and then, according to the book,
they checked if all systems were ready, set,
and go. They headed to the moon to see
if they could land. The rest is history.

Mr. I. E. Sbace Weruld is a poet of astronomy and space.


          by “Clear Dew” Ibuse

The infant causes
the adults to laugh and smile,
blowing raspberries.

“Clear Dew” Ibuse is a haiku poet.


Childhood Lament
          by Abecederi Uwls

Weather is foggier
Socks are now soggier
Cannot go out because
Dirt is now cloggier


          by Abecederi Uwls

He leaned against the aqua wall, to keep himself secure.
He put his hand upon the desk, his balance was unsure.
He turned around to see the image of the genie that
had risen up above him from the lamp near where he sat.
Would he be given any wishes—maybe two or three.
He wished that he could be released from pain and misery.
He wished that he could reach sweet peace; he wished that that could be.
And finally, he wished for love—more love was a good thing.
But then, what did this tall, large genie do there by the door?
but turn his wishes into naught but dust upon the floor.

Abecederi Uwls is a poet of children.


Some Meditating Gains
          by Sri Wele Cebuda

He got into the lotus pose beside the window panes.
O, he was truly hoping for some meditating gains.
But it was hard to move beyond his ordinary thoughts.
He took deep breaths, to take it in, o, yes, the flux of lots.
He opened up his inner eye. He hoped that he could find
new realms and new ideas of an activated mind.
He rose his head, and lifted up his spine from the supine.
He closed his outer eyes, and left beind his old opines?
He felt affixed to cosmos energy that soared within.
He wished that he could open up to time’s eternal spin.
As ecstasy was far beyond the place where he now sat,
yet still he dreamed that he could touch the edges of its plat.

Sri Wele Cebuda is a poet of meditation.


Vlad Putin’s military has departed from Kherson,
reminding one of Adolf Hitler, or Napoleon.


The Surrounding Trees
          by Ubs Reece Idwal

How beautiful is the green, rolling lawn
in the cool, evening air in hot summer.
How nice it all is now to gaze upon
the surrounding trees, not for their lumber,
but merely to see them growing up tall,
not for wood in cabinets and tables,
but just standing there: the vibrant laurel,
the spreading limbs of old and young maples,
the tough, prickly holly, the Douglas fir,
towering up high, stretching to the sky,
the mountain ash, the widening alder.
They are all so winsome, pleasing to the eye,
especially when winds kick up a bit
and send leaves and branches into a fit.

Ubs Reese Idwal is a poet of Washington state.


The Lumbermen
          by Des Wercebauli

Their skins are hard and rugged, quite rough, like tree bark;
and they are browned from sun and soil. Their clothes are warm
but ragged; even red, orange, and gold turn dark,
while covering full length each long, muscular arm,
those large and strong branches that hold and haul and heave
upon the forest floor or at the edge of farm.
Sinewy legs, like wooden pegs, beneath each sleeve,
secure and grounded, firm in meadow, park, or glen,
do love their freedom of movement, but do not leave
the site until the job is done, and only then,
knees bend, feet walk, hands sweep, they who have left their mark
upon the land, those toughened crews, the lumbermen.


A PE Teacher, or a Soda Jerk
          by Des Wercebauli

He wore a lengthy blue and white hung lanyard round his neck.
Did he possess a whistle at the end of it? Who kens?
Perhaps he was a PE teacher pausing after work,
or maybe stopping for some fun, a joking soda jerk.
Whatever was the case he was clean-shaven for his job;
but was now not enjoined in the rat race of rush and bodge.

Instead he was enjoying resting near a garden wall;
for that was something, yes, that he indeed could give his all.
He loved to take time, so as to inhale the peonies,
to drink in all the lovely flowers growing at his knees.
Absorbing beauty was his mission, going with the flow,
to smell the roses in the breezes, that around him blow.


With a Vaccum Cleaner
          by Des Wercebauli

I saw him with a vacuum cleaner by the fire place
where he was cleaning up that rug and floor around that space.
He shoved that clean machine along; white socks were on his feet.
He had to move this way and that to make his chore complete.
He gazed upon the rug’s design, its interwoven lines.
He flexed leg and arm muscles, as he lifted up his spine.
He focused on the dirty bits, and tried to suck them up.
He moved about throughout the house, with thrusts of push and pull.
He felt it was important to be neat and tidy, yes,
for that way he thought he could be, o, next to godliness.

Des Wercebauli is a poet of work.


Sam Bankman-Fried made FTX, his crypto ponzi scheme,
destroying millions on his way to “realizing dreams.”


Black Coffee
          by Carb Deliseuwe

He wondered if it was true that black coffee started up
autophagy in every major organ, from his cup.
He wondered if it triggered with its rich variety
of antioxidents, in incidental diety.
He loved a cup of coffee in the morning when he rose.
It waked him from his sleepiness—that jazzy, java jolt.
It put a smile on his face, when all he wanted was
to jack his spirits up, o, with a glowing, rolling buzz.
It was the most, yes, such a roast would rouse him from his rest.
He felt like he was flying, ah, beyond his rising chest.

Carb Deliseuwe is a poet of drink.


The End of a Game
          by Cu Ebide Aswerl

They were lost in a game of chess,
his mother and his father, yes,
and they moved the pieces over
and over again. Oh, no, sir,
the game did not last forever.
One warm afternoon, my father
passed away. Yes, sir, it was sad;
but for my mother it was bad.
She sat alone at the table
for as long as she was able,
and then she went insane. No, sir,
no one was able to save her.
She fell into a dark river
from which no one could retrieve her;
and that is where she is now, sir,
floating downstream with chess pieces.

Cu Ebide Aswerl is a poet of games.


Exercises in the Morn
          by Rudi E. Welec, “Abs”

He didn’t want to do them, exercises in the morn;
but he knew they were good for him; they made him feel reborn.
Squats, pushups, lunges, presses, crunches, plunged him in to might,
force, power, energy and strength, to lengthen out his life.
Though he would rather rest, he did his best t’ invigourate,
his chest, his arms, his legs, his heart—so much to palpitate.
He needed to get in and do his warmups, yes, indeed,
to git up off his butt and generate some drive and speed.
To shake his head, dead-lift his dread, to bring some gusto to,
his guts, his back, his spinal track, his lack of derring-do.

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


To Sleep
          by Walice Bed-User
          “Sleep, that knits up the ravelled sleave of care…”
              —William Shakespeare, “Macbeth”

O, it was time to go to bed, to git a bit of rest.
to sleep around the clock’s tick-tock, to take its timely test.
How beautiful it was when he could lay back on the spread,
the pillows fluffed, the light subdued. Ho, it was super, yes.

O, one could dream in REM…about life’s loveliness,
the plunging in to gorgeous realms of peace and sleepiness.
How beautiful it was to get away from task and chore,
t’ escape the rapid pace of things, all that one does abhor.

O, how he longed t’ unleash autophagy, improve his mood,
slow down his heart, and regulate the sugar in his blood,
allow the brain time for increasing productivity,
relieve his stress, and, yes, restoring his immunity.

Walice Bed-User is a poet of sleep.