Its power’s really low, these images may be its last.
Its time on Mars has been productive and serenely passed.
If it can keep communicating with its mission team,
it will, though soon it will be signing off—InSight’s late beam.


          by “Clear Dew” Ibuse

Red oaks lose their leaves
under the gray cloudy skies,
by still dandelions.


          by “Clear Dew” Ibuse

Countless leaves beneath
the ornamental pear tree,
no cicadas drone.


          by “Wired Clues” Abe

Moon…on top of…pines,
a whole haiku in a line,
he stretches his spine.


          by “Wired Clues” Abe

Coffee cup and watch,
sitting on a sloping bench,
he falls—that haunched mensch.

“Wired Clues” Abe is a haiku writer. The above haiku lean heavily upon NewMillennial poet and proset Stephen Page.


          by “Wired Clues” Abe

The infant can’t speak,
but he can scroll so quickly
through text messages.


          by “Wired Clues” Abe

Loudly they cackle
about the grocery store—
grackles on graupel.

“Wired Clues” Abe is a haikuist combining traditional poetry with technology.


The Grand Suspension Bridge
          by Alec Subre Wide

He gazed upon that high suspension bridge up in the air,
so simple, but ster-e-o-typ-i-cal, so grand, but fair.
Its deck was its load-bearing element; it was secure.
Its verticle suspenders held the cables, strong and sure.
There were two towers that were anchored firmly to the ground,
and thus that bridge was very stable, staying snug and sound.

The loads applied were transformed in to tension cross those “wires”,
in difficulty, there was “give”, the kind such forms inspire.
He loved that gorgeous architecture that could withstand the slap
of weather, whether long and hard, o, but would not collapse.
It was so beautiful against the gray skies, and the trough,
its mighty power holding on through traffic, rugged, tough.

Alec Subre Wide is a poet of bridges.


The Rooks…Come Back
          by Rus Ciel Badeew

The rooks have come back to Kostroma’s Monastary trees
in which they made their nests and rested in the icy breeze.
Beneath the blue, white, cloud-filled skies, they made their twiggy
beyond the sunlit crosses on the stately onion domes.
The scene, austere and bare, with gold and silver shining chintz,
so beautiful and rugged, ugliness removed in glints,
a setting of birch trees and shrubs, emptíed of winter’s leaves,
and rooftops dropping downward to the marshy river’s eaves.
And though his artworks suffered in the last years of his life,
impoverished, in rags and drunk, and overwhelmed by strife,
and wandering…between windbreaks…far from uplifting loft,
one still can look back at his rooks—Alexei Savrasov.

Rus Ciel Badeew is a poet of Russian skies. Kostroma is a city of around 265,000. Alexei Savrasov (1830-1897) was a Russian Realist lyrical landscape painter.


In Ukraine
          by Radice Lebewsu

It’s time for breakfast. It’s another hard and cold, gray day.
Cruise missiles rise and fall to take the cottages away.
When he is kind, the enemy just rapes and pillages;
some villains have already torched and scorched some villages.
Damned strikes are damaging; they pound the power grid again;
and willfully hit buildings—killing and appalling men.
What’s left is anguishing, o, wishing that it all would end,
by lunchtime here, near ash and trash, now smould’ring in the den.
How can one gird oneself? How can one save these desp’rate lives
against TU-160s, -22Ms, -95s?

Radice Lebewsu is a poet of Ukraine.


At Castle Wittgenstein
          by Uwe Carle Diebes
          “Architecture is a gesture.”
              —Ludwig Wittgenstein

Th’ irregular and three-winged castle spans a length about
one-hundred-twenty metres on a hill above the town
Bad Laasphe, in Westphalia, in central Germany,
and since the 1960s known for hydrotherapy.

The castle does not feature a coherent network style,
with some Baroque and Renaissance parts sitting side by side.
Some walls remain from the original 12th century,
as well as 18th century distinct developments.

The princely family moved out by 1951,
becoming then, as it still is, a school for younger ones,
id est, those students who are ten to nineteen years of age,
prestigious, not egregious to a philosophic sage.

Uwe Carl Diebes is a poet fond of Germany. Ludwig Wittgenstein (1889-1951) was an Austrian Modernist philosopher. Bad Laasphe is a town of around 13,000.


nArrowing Vision
          by “Builder” Cee Saw

Surrounded by gray walls, he was beset by cataracts.
There were times when he could not see, and stepped upon the cat.
But other times, his dizziness left him unbalanced, off,
like as he was a blind man moving through a swirling fog.
It was as if his eyes were closed; he could not see the pic
he leaned against, and grasped the corner he could not predict.
O, maledict, and under some outrageous godly curse.
At times he fellt as though his anguish could not be much worse.
It was all he could do to open up his inner eye,
and go through life, though awkwardly, beneath this thinner sky.

“Builder” Cee Saw is a poet of constructed visions. According to Beau Lecsi Werd, “fellt” is a verb feeling one is falling.


Great Madness Sweeps the Land
          by Caud Sewer Bile
          “Far from the madding crowd’s ignoble strife…”
              —Thomas Gray, “Elegy Written in a Country Churchyard”

It seems there are no limits. A great madness sweeps the land,
as greed, credulity, self-righteousness, and fraud expand,
as well as hubris, arrogance, extreme equali-teach,
with confidence in each one’s thoughts, bombastic overreach.

Imaginary sins convict the innocent of guilt;
entitlement, resentment, make the nation’s spirit wilt.
The treasure that remains is squandered on plots of revenge.
The techno-corporot-cy builds a Silicon Rockhenge.

Show trials and witch hunts are now the order of the day.
Those who can’t stomach party loyalty are cast away.
It seems humility and prudence are for losers now,
while mass hysteria is everywhere. The cult grows…loud.

O, millions stumble into this abyss, unwary, brave.
But what is an idea that is worthy, they could save?
Untethered from cause and effect, in time’s receptical,
the millions rumble aimlessly. Who is not sceptical?

Caud Sewer Bile is a poet of the vile. Thomas Gray (1716-1771) was a British Neoclassical poet.


It Is
          by R. Lee Ubicwedas
          “What the dickens is going…on?”
              —Basil Drew Eceu

It is the worst of times, but also best, as Leibniz knew,
an age of foolishness, where bunk continues to acc-rue,
an epoch of mad unbelief and incredulity,
a season of stupidity and crass dubiety,
a winter of despair ensued by hopeful, silly spring,
before which lies mortality, as well as everything…
this present period of good and evil ever found,
enroute to hell, while stuck on Earth, and yet to heaven bound,
is but one realm in this great overwhelming purgative,
confronted on all sides by sweeps of thé superlative.

R. Lee Ubicwedas is a poet of ubiquity. This tennos leans heavily upon Victorian proset Charles Dickens (1812-1870). Gottfried Wilhelm Leibniz (1646-1716) was a German Baroque philosopher, mathematician, and scientist.


As Argentina won the Soccer World Cup this month,
inflation 92.4% before Christmas.


Within a Cardboard House
          by Ibewa del Sucre

He found himself within a cardboard house inside Peru,
the walls were beige and brown, the corners and the arches too,
there in Barranco, Lima’s district, with its surfing beach,
Martín Adán, another man, in waves of time’s long reach.

He sank into eternal and transcendant mysteries,
hermetic and symbolic, blistering his history.
He dealt with poverty and alcohol vivariums,
as well as to the end the varied sanatariums.

A curve sighed. Nothing swelled immediately. His hard math,
a point, a sphere, a void, terrestrial, a cloud of breath.
He saw a lovely rose that rose, by measures of Chopin,
above the cobblestones, not absolute, Martín Adán.


          by Ibewa del Sucre

Those eyes, joined hands, like the madonnas of Da Vinci’s pain…t,
in sunset forests, purple fronds, a sombre renaissance,
a sea flock…shot…a grotto blocked…by angels in the sky,
th’ incarnate God, a child in search of toys…o, hands, and eyes.

Those lips gave forth the heat that is denied the cow and ass,
and in the gloom, those God-Child hairs, shone like fluffed straws of
There was no room available but in a manger’s pyx,
this is the picture coming from Martín Adán, those lips.

Ibewa del Sucre is a poet of Peru. Martín Adán (1908-1985) was a Peruvian Modernist hermetic poet; “Christmas” draws heavily from his “Navidad”. Lima is a city of around 9,700,000, Barranco is one of 43 neighbourhoods of Lima of around 36,000. Frédéric Chopin (1810-1849) was a Romantic Polish pianist and composer. Leonardo da Vinci (1452-1519) was a High Renaissance painter and polymath. L7 draws from Luke 2:7; Luke (c. 10 AD – c. 94 AD) was a 1st century evangelist and physician.


          by Walice du Beers

He came into that dusky atmosphere again, that man,
his cameo upon that earthly stage and barren land.
He’d fallen in a neighbourhood upon a sloping hill.
The thrill came from the emptiness and dimming skylit sill.
It wasn’t angst, just some uneasiness with how things were,
some longing for another realm, another bowing cur.
And though street lights appeared, the darkness overtook one’s sight.
What one was looking for could not be found despite the try.
With all one’s might, one might withal observe a brand new place;
but how could one attain that complicated carapace?

Walice du Beers is a poet of contemporary visions.


In Virginia
          by Ed “Bear” C. U. Lewis

When he was in advanced and basic training, AIT,
he had to wrestle with his fellow cohorts a-bl-y.
His sparring partner was a hard and tough dude from the North;
he was a fervent fighter with much energy put forth.

But he did not give up. He gave as much as he got back.
They fought one afternoon back in the barracks—muscle flak.
Like Socrates and Plato, even Aristotle too,
they worked upon skill lengthening, and strengthening accrue.

They focused on strength training; neither one cussed at his foe;
but shoved and shook, until they took their battle to the fore.
They fought no more, when both of them had reach exhaustion’s shore.
Then they were glad to leave behind that floor, that door, and go.


In Basic Training
          by Ed “Bear” C. U. Lewis

In basic training, he had been required to brush and clean,
o, even in the shared latrine. Was it aquamarine?
The tough drill sergeant made the new recruits work tirelessly
on cleansing, scrubbing, rubbing, and to do so earnestly.

That martinet in camoflage had standards high and sheer.
O, he was so intense, offensive, brutal and severe.
How could one ever reach his lofty sanitation heights?
He asked so much, but in return gave only sneer and slight.

We’d get no leave, and only grief, if he weren’t satisfied.
And so we laboured through the day, and night, to get it right.
I still recall his broad-brimmed hat, his eyes a piercing force,
like as a wild dingo, lean and hardy, vicious, fierce.

Ed “Bear” C. U. Lewis is a poet of military gear and rigs. In the first dodeca, Socrates, Plato, and Aristotle were noted Classical Greek philsophers, who participated in the sport of wrestling.


Motivated American Movers
          by Des Wercebauli

He stood up at the window watching movers emptying
the furniture inside a house into a semi truck.
Load after load of boxes on the dollies came and went,
a great amount of energy and synergy was spent.
The countless items passed, the couches, cabinets and chairs,
amazing how they moved so much, so fast, as if on air.
He gazed upon their workmanship—those four uploading souls—
not tepid, those intrepid, men, no dallying—not those.
They laboured hard and heartily, each one seemed primed and stoked,
and all the while as they toiled, smiled, laughed, and joked.

Des Wercebaui is a poet of labour.


On thé Reclining Chair
          Cu Ebide Aswerl

He had a cup of coffee out on thé reclining chair.
He loved to be so up and free, out in the open air.
Ah, he could meditate upon the beautiful and true,
that gorgeous scene, around him seen, beneath pure azure blue.
He sat up tall beside the two-walled cement patio,
and took another sip of coffee. O, that luscious flow.
Yes, he could drink and drink and drink, nonalcoholic’lly,
and lick that lovely liquid clean, tan swirls with white cream.
No, it was not a dream, it was reality refined,
there in the midst of all eternity, a stretched-out spine.

Cu Ebide Aswerl is a poet of leisure.