by “Clear Dew” Ibuse

The sound of water:
he drops everything at once
to go take a bath.

“Clear Dew” Ibuse is a haiku poet.


Like as a Clape
          by Drew U. A. Eclibse

He sat upon the light gray couch, his baseball cap still on,
and he got in the lotus pose, like as a cosmic pawn.
He bent his knees and spread his legs for meditation’s boon.
O, could it help him reach tanquility base on the Moon?
He thought about th’ Orion capsule orbiting about
the far-flung regions of the Moon, there on that light gray couch.
He often felt like as a puppet hung from godly strings,
as he went up-and-down through life, its leaps, its dips, its springs.
He’d love to man his rocket to a peaceful time and place;
but he, it seemed, was like a migratory pecker clape.

Drew U. A. Eclibse is a poet of the Moon. NASA’s Orion left its retrograde orbit on Thursday to return to Earth. The clape is the flicker, or golden-winged woodpecker.


In China, massive protests grow against the CCP,
and Xi Jinping, for their harsh zero covid policy.


To Contemplate Reality
          by Sree Leci Budwa
          “Go, go, go, said the bird: human kind
          Cannot bear very much reality.”
              —T. S. Eliot, “Burnt Norton”

He got into the lotus pose upon the long, black mat.
that he had place beside his desk. That was where he now sat.
He meditated there beneath the near computer screen.
He opened up his inner eye to see what could be seen.
He saw a floor; he saw a door; he sought out vigour’s source.
He loved to comptemplate reality, though it be coarse.
So coarse, in fact, he wondered just how much he could endure,
when what he wanted was the beautiful, the true and pure.
He sat up high, engaging in the awesome cosmokarm;
he tensed his abs, he wrenched his spine, and clenched each folded arm.

Sree Leci Budwa is a poet of the transcendental. According to Beau Lecsi Werd, “cosmokarm” is this fated Universe.


To Find Peace Within
          by Sri Wele Cebuda

He needed to find peace within; society was hard.
He braced himself upon the mat; sobriety, so harsh.
In lotus pose, his head uprose; his spine curved up his back.
He lifted up himself from the supine, he was high, jacked.
He moaned and groaned his tones of OM, while pressing on his knees.
To him this was a strange way to be happy and at ease.
It seemed so odd, as he was not best pleased where he was at,
yet still he meditated on the cosmos where he sat.
Perhaps some others could attain nervana in that pose,
but he felt more, like as he was a prickly, sickly rose.

Sri Wele Cebuda is a poet of nervana [sic].


Iranian Security has killed Mehran Sammak;
he honked his car at the Irani loss, a soccer match.
And he was not the only one receiving their defense;
one saw pics of Iranians shot on the Internet.


Paraphrase of Maxim 177
          by Claude I. S. Weber

Just as the happiest soul on the planet is the one
who is quite satisfied with few possessions of his own,
th’ ambitious are among the most miserable in that,
because they NEED accumulate more stuff to be content.

Claude I. S. Weber is a poet of France. This maxim comes from French classicist Francois de La Rochefoucauld (1613-1680).


To See If They Could Land
          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 from 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, Neil Armstrong (1930-2012), Buzz Aldrin (1930- ), and Mike Collins (1930-2021), PostModernist American astronauts. In the above prosepoem, “O” is a trunc for Ocean.


Two minerals not seen before have been discovered in
a massive meteorite from Somalia’s Hiiraan.


The Actors
           by Cawb Edius Reel

The old actors sit in the folding chairs
and barely clap at all. The curtain drops.
They stand to leave, and leave. They have no airs.
They walk out slowly, for they have no props.
They can remember certain scenes and lines;
but they cannot recall their former parts.
They are resigned to certainties and signs.
They have assumed, resumed the living arts.
The youthful actors back stage bask in lights.
Their jokes are pompous and their smiles are large.
They banter wittily all through the night’s
bright trip in an imaginary barge.
Their vehicle, a play, was very fun.
It was a comedy—Shakespearean.

Cawb Edius Reel is a poet of the stage. His favourite English poetic dramatist is William Shakespeare (1564-1616), mentioned in the above English sonnet. One of his favourite films was 20th century Alfred Hitchcock’s Vertigo, based on the novel D’entre le morts by PostModernist French duo Pierre Boileau (1906-1989) and Thomas Narcejac (1908-1998).


A California Couple
          by Cal Wes Ubideer

They walked amid the great Sequoia trees,
dwarfed by their towering and shadowed trunks.
The sunlight filtered down. They were at peace
amongst those dark and aged, growing hunks.
They held each other close, within their arms.
Their hearts were beating uncontrollably.
They strolled along, enthralled by thrilling charms,
two lovers under leafy canopy.
They passed a long log laying on the ground.
They felt as if this was a wonderland.
They heard each other only, and the sound
of an occasional bird in that stand,
and stood the test of love; but time moved on,
and passed them by, and now they both are gone.

Cal Wes Ubideer is a poet of California.


George Raymond
          by Wic E. Ruse Blade
          “Thanks I’ faith, for silence is only commendable
          In a neat’s tongue dried, and a maid not vendible”
              —William Shakespeare, “Merchant of Venice”

He is American, a funny New Millennial,
a blogging logger and a flowering perennial.
His site, Trefology, was like a grove of falling trees,
where one might sight him, yes, for his appalling drolleries.
And yet, one laughed time and again for what he had to say,
succinct, so tidy, easy too, those wood-strings on display.
For years, one would see him—that flan—in some swell restaurant,
there grimacing before his plate or drink, so nonchalant,
as if his frolic slices were not quite commestible,
or even worse, like forest humus, weren’t digestible.

Wic E. Ruse Blade is a poet is a swashbuckling wordsmith. Geo. Raymond is a con…temporary LA humourist. According to Beau Lecsi Werd, “flan” is a trunc for flaneur.


Grokking the Meaning of Grok
          by Esca Webuilder

Pronunciation of this word with fifty shades of gray,
that’s like a gutteral grrr terminated by a k,
with very little or no vowel sound—a sharp, harsh flat—
accordingly, like as a bullfrog fighting with a cat.

For its remote intelligence it gathers by the way,
it is the keystroke logging software used by NSA.
To regrok code is to reload its intricácies and
its memory, o, yes, ah, one can overunderstand.


Data Cata-Logging
          by Esca Webuilder

He sat up at his wooden desk, black socks upon his feet,
in his black, cushioned chair on rollers, new news was his beat.
He had a lot to balance on reportage he would do,
which he could never quite fulfill, that open-ended dude.

On line, he would blow through a score of sources hourly.
He tried to figure out the best, not being dourly.
He focused on the beautiful, the truest and the good;
but did not overlook the ugly or misunderstood.

In fact, he loved to catalogue the data he had seen,
o, there, yes, on that ever-aging, ever-changing screen.
The process was on-going; it could never be complete.
He stood up at his wooden desk, black socks upon his feet.

Esca Webuilder is a poet of computer data and computerese. One of his favourite data-cata-loggers is NewMillennial British business figure John Keating.


Another Early Morn Commute
          by Bruc “Diesel” Awe

It was another early morn commute, old coffee cup.
He jumped into the car, released the brake, and started up.
He backed up down the driveway; it was 31°;
but carefully, and artfully, car camera for ease.
He faced the road ahead, observing traffic in his way.
and he went forth, his engine north, o, yes, without delay.
He drove along down concrete streets, and wide-berth avenues,
down highways with the semis, and so very many views.
He felt like as he was a rolling vehicle himself.
When would he reach his satisfactory place in der Welt?


Sunday Morning
          by Bruc “Diesel” Awe

An early cup of coffee on an early Sunday morn,
and followed by a trip down to two local, focal stores,
he gits into his car, and sits upon its heated seat,
and drives along the roadways, going north, west, south and east.
He picks up varied items, milk, cream, pants and post-it notes,
assessing, o, so many things, avoiding droids and sotes.
While listening to orchestrations of the High Baroque,
he guides his vehicle across the highways, o, to grok.

Bruc “Diesel” Awe is a poet of transportation.


At the Crack of Dawn
          by Walice du Beers

He woke up at the crack of dawn. O, he was feeling good.
He loved to greet the morning light, it brightened up his mood.
The dude did not indulge in doom; instead he longed for bliss.
Indeed if he did not have it, he still strove for its kiss.

Like as the birds, he loved to launch into a freeform song,
though it be gutteral as crow, or deep as trumpet swan.
The listener might be offended, but he didn’t care;
he let his phonemes fly about thoughout the heavy air.

He’d heed the call of fellow Fall, and win through Winter’s win.
There were so many areas he’d want to enter in.
O, yes, he loved the rolling hills, and strolling through the day;
and if he came upon a gladsome place, o, he would stay.


Black Friday
          by Walice du Beers

The door was boarded up, there was no way he could escape,
although he pushed as hard as he could, o, for Goodness’ sake.
He didn’t care about the pictures hanging on the wall,
or nearby sofa, gray and staid, no, nothing—bugger all.

He shoved against that piece of plywood with all of his strength.
The key desire was to leave behind that wretched place.
Against his angst, his pain, though mild, was visceral and real,
desiring fleeing, yes, this claustrophobian ordeal.

But he would not give up. There had to be a way to fly
beyond that constant shoving in upon his soul and mind.
O, my, he sighed. Outside the rippling, oceanic waves
continued pressing in on him. Could he not them evade?

Walice du Beers is a poet of moods.


Night skies are hellish scarlet over Mauna Loa’s rise.
although Long Mountain’s ash and vog don’t come as a surprise.
Since 1843, Hawaii’s huge volcano has
erupted more than thirty times in fluid lava gas.
Appearing like a warrior’s shield, with low-ground-pro-file:
it’s one of five volcanos that make up Hawaii’s isle,


The Realtor
          by Brad Lee Suciew

He felt he was, o, far too meek, too flabby and too fat,
as on the wooden chair, beneath the wooden fan, he sat.
In front of him the wooden, kitchen cabinets were brown;
but he was looking to his left, behind his froward frown.
What light through yonder window lit the kichen where he was?
He wondered if he’d be content, if he was on a buzz.
His house was Houston homed; there was a sign upon his yard.
For sale by his realtors; but int’rest rates were hard.
How many months had gone by since he got an offer, ho?
No one would come to pay the fee. O, he was feeling low.
How could he feel comfy if there was no buyer for
this nice abode upon this road. He sat there still and bored.

Brad Lee Suciew is a poet of business.


House sales have declined for five straight months—the count abates.
The housing’s sector’s borne the brunt of higher int’rest rates.


Disturbing His Circadian
          by Carb Deliseuwe

He got up off his butt, although it was still dark outside,
disturbing his circadian with work and exercise.
But he could get a cup of coffee, and that helped a lot;
He smelled that warm and rich elixir on the table top.
O, yes, he could be happy at that place where he now sat,
because a cup of coffee hat him good—Jehoshaphat.
He felt secure observing that brown liquid in his cup,
its shiny curvy lines reflecting light from on high up.
It was the one thing that could get him going in the morn.
O, yes, despite surrounding murk, he felt much less forlorn.


The Rain
          by Carb Deliseuwe

The rain was pouring down. He was so glad he was inside.
He heard the pounding on the rooftop; here’s where he’d abide.
Here there was heat, there was just wet; the slamming droplets hit.
He loved the heater on his feet where he, yes, now would sit.
He sat up at his desk; he drank a glass of water too,
so clear and bright beneath the light; it was a shining view.

Carb Deliseuwe is a poet of drinks. According to Beau Lecsi Werd, the past tense of hit is hit, or hat, as in northern England or Scotland. Jehoshaphat (c. 900 BC – c. 850 BC), whose name means Yahweh has judged, was successor to Judah’s King Asa (930 BC – c. 870 BC).


His Exercise Routines
          by Rudi E. Welec, “Abs”

He had a cup of coffee for his exercise routines.
He did his stretches, push-ups, then his squats, and bent his knees.
But as he was not wide awake, performed mechanic’lly;
he only had the energy to struggle manic’lly.
It was like some strange movie’s pace, all speeded up and fast.
There was no chance for thoughtfulness, or fine analysis.
He did his presses, tensed his shoulders, focused on the count.
His sit-ups were phenomenal; he saw his numbers mount.
Although his eyes were semi-closed, he was not comatose;
and he continued till the end, that strapping lad, ah so.

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