by E “Blue Screw” Dai

The withered grasses
surround the house he lives in.
His life burns hotter.


          by E “Blue Screw” Dai

Like a child splashing
around in shallow water,
he wrote braZenly.


          by E “Blue Screw” Dai

A winter crow steps,
as the scene steps with him, forth.
All ‘s ever moving.

E “Blue Screw” Dai writes in a surrealist mode, inter alia. Nagata Kôi (1900-1997) was a Japanese PostModernist haikuist.


          by “Clear Dew” Ibuse

I can rest content,
after killing a spider,
in the cold of night.


          by “Clear Dew” Ibuse

He swam in darkness,
among the octopuses,
keeping eyeballs clear.


          by “Clear Dew” Ibuse

Drinking morning tea,
the morning is so peaceful,
dormant grass in dew.

“Clear Dew” Ibuse is a haiku poet in English. Matsuo Bashō (1644-1694) was a noted Japanese poet and proset. Kobayashi Issa (1763-1828) was a noted haiku writer, whose pen name Issa means a cup of tea. Suzuki Murio (1919-2004) was a Japanese PostModernist haikuist.


          by “Wired Clues” Abe

A fluorescent squid’s
fluids accumulated;
his Tôtal output.

“Wired Clues” Abe is a haikuist combining traditional poetry with technology. Koneko Tôta (1919-2018) was a Japanese PostModernist haikuist.


A smelter of PT Gunbuster Nickel Industry
endured a riot at its company’s facilities.

Central Sulawesi Province, in northern Sulawesi, Indonesia, has a population of around 3,000,000.


The President of Vietnam, Nguyen Xuan Phuc,
“resigned” when Nguyen Phu Trong forced him from his muck.


In Adho Mukha Svanasana
          by Sri Wele Cebuda

He got in adho mukha svanasana on the bed.
His back was going up but he still kept a lowered head.
That friend of man, he tried to sleep near fenced-in, downward Dog.
He opened up his inner eye. He longed to dig for Gold.
But like a sheep, he tried to keep that predatory wolf,
that foe of man, far hence, o, yes, from his full bags of wool.
Upon his feet were woolen socks, for it was winter now.
He meditated on pure power. Would he enter Wow?
There in between those lines of green, beyond his socks of gray,
he strode into eternity, his muscles swept away.

Sri Wele Cebuda is a poet of yoga.


She was one of the few who stayed, exMPs, in her land;
but Mursal Nabizada is dead in Afghanistan.


In the Ukrainian Bomb Shelter
          by Radice Lebewsu

He wore a dirty tanktop at the shelter’s bottom slab.
How could he sleep upon that concrete floor. How could he nap.
He felt like as a homeless person living on the streets,
filled with despair in muggy air. No part of it was sweet.
And yet he had to hold on hard. He had no other choice.
He was one of so many millions, without hope or voice.
He lay along the bricks with garbage bags and other slag.
O, he was only thankful for the lack of wood and glass.
Around him were so many shadows. Yes, it was so dim.
As he lay in that hellhole, there was little light on him.


Beneath This Full Red Moon
          by Radice Lebewsu

He was dressed in his camo cap, his dogtags hung below.
He had begun to dig a fox hole, where he’d likely go.
The Russian strikes were coming fast and furiously thrown.
He had to get out of their way, to save his flesh and bone.
But they kept coming—massive missiles—whistling tunes of death.
He held onto his ground and trenchant dugout—God, o, breath!
When would he see the good of peace? When would he find his way
out of this raging horror, riding country, night and day?
He wished this “special military op” was over soon,
for it had taken, o, so much, beneath this blood-red Moon.

Radice Lebewsu is a poet of Ukraine.


The Day Before a Death
          by E. Ludwic Barese

High in the mountains—there you feel alive;
but it’s so cold and dangerous. In just
a trice, an avalanche can fall. In five,
your world can be destroyed—and all is missed!
Must there be ein Herr coming down the slope,
his hair disheveled, people shoving here.
Get Saint Bernards and lots of shovels fast,
or else I am afraid there’ll be no hope.
The skiers fly down from the sky. So near
the danger is. Watch out! Escape has passed,
and now you are entangled up in fate.
The recognition has been made. There is
no time to get away. You can’t be late
for your last day on Earth. Time will tear us
from the things we love, the terrace in moonlight,
the ones we love, the times we’re having fun,
and leisure sports, oh, even when we vie.
Something’s rotten here too! Honor bright!
in Switzerland. The snow falls on everyone.
it comes on down in buckets from the sky.
But what if we do not find them in time?
before their air is gone and they’re no more?
The fabric of our lives is like a line
unwinding even on the wintry floor.

E. Ludwic Barese is a poet of Germania. Switzerland is a nation of the Alps of around 8,700,000.


Denis Diderot by painter Jean-Honoré Fragonard
          by Beau Ecs Wilder

It hangs within the Louvre, and has a glow
that animates its subject with its art,
the fine portrait of Denis Diderot
by painter Jean-Honoré Fragonard.
The man looks off in one direction, while
he holds, perhaps, some pages from the book,
the Encyclopédie. He has a smile
embedded in a strange absorbing look.
The paint seems Modernistic, but, in fact,
is PreRomantic, trailing Rococo;
its Chardinesque background does not detract
from Rembrandt-colored Denis Diderot
against the table under flowing clothes
that bring the Age of Reason to a close.

Beau Ecs Wilder is a poet of French painting. Jean-Honoré Fragonard (1732-1806) was a French Rococo painter of delicate, exuberant hedonism. Jean Siméon Chardin (1699-1779) was a noted French painter of still lifes and simple lives. Rembrandt (1606-1669) was a Dutch Golden Age painter.


At the Quaint, White Abode
          by Walice du Beers

He longed for peace and quiet, but it seemed to be far off,
as he sat by the lovely roses, red blooms to the roof.
It seemed there was somebody ever closing in on him.
It was as if he had come to a never-ending gym.
O, up and down and all around, each curve and curse occurred.
At times he wished he were aloof, a high and flying bird.
But he was on the ground, here where lush grasses flourished, ho.
He wished that he were in that white abode, and not below.
Rude to the end—why have such friends? He wished he were alone.
But he put up with far too much beside that line of stone.


A Test Even Page
          by Walice de Beers

He stood outside his vehicle beside a wooden fence,
side mirror showing concrete street, sidewalk and wooded dense.
In open-collared jacket parted hair and camera,
he took a picture of his car. Was it a chimera?

He saw a giant tree that towered over a vague face,
the aging lines behind the glasses of the safety glace.
He saw the driving wheel in the circle of his view;
the wind-shield not within the photo’s feint reflected hue.

But then he saw there was another in that looking glass,
who wondered at the river’s saltiness there passing FAST;
it was racer running past, his he-els in the air,
like as a narrow arrow flying skyward, firm and fair.

Walice du Beers is a poet of surreal tendencies.


Near the beginning of the NewMillennium, it lit—
rickrolling—April Fool’s Day, Two-Thousand-and-Eight, was it?
involving links, misleading readers to Rick Astley’s vid
of “Never Gonna Give You Up”: more than a billion hits.


There Up
          by Air Weelbed Suc

Ah, there up in the air, within the windy slap, and space,
he flew his plane above the crowds, in nature’s firm embrace.
He felt so free, high in that sky, deterministic’lly,
the views so beautiful and charged, fantastic, mystic’lly.
The jets were bigger, louder, higher, floating through the clouds,
like as a knife through butter, over soaring hawks, and fowl.
He was between a hard place and the rocky floor below.
He could not hear cows bellow on the grassy, wide plateau.
He only knew that where he was, he was quite glad to be,
locked in the throes of friends and foes and whiled eternity.

Air Weelbed Suc is a poet of flight.


Break Fast
          by Des Wercebauli

He loved to have some plant-based sausage links a-long with eggs.
He guessed it was the best meal he could have to give to guests.
He stretched his legs to get up off the chair where he was sat.
Invigourating fresh air made him love where he was at.

He stood up to prepare his food. He thought it would be good.
O, he would cook it up the very best he could, and should.
He stetched his shoulders. He was ready for a coffee cup.
With low-carb, half-and-half diluting it, he drank it up.

He broke his intermittent fast; he had a job to do.
He had to go to work, and join the bus-tl-ing commute.
He stretched his head and tightened abs, as he drove to his site,
congested traffic, concrete bridges, a low-level flight.

Des Wercebauli is a poet of work.


To Meet the Test
          by Rudi E. Welec, “Abs”

Abductions and adductions, he was in an open groove;
extensions, flexions, and rotations, so his shoulders moved.
He did his early morning stretches on the out-stretched mat.
his delts and traps, his pecs and lats, o, yes, there where he sat.
He flexed his biceps and his triceps, tightening his abs.
He felt his muscles spread in breadth, both front and back en masse.
But was he up to exercising? This was yet unclear.
He wasn’t sure he could endure intensity so sheer.
He did his best to meet the test that he now had to face.
Within that room, before him looming, like a steeplechase.


The Hiker
          by Rudi E. Welec, “Abs”

He had hiked up those hilly slopes of green and brownish shrubs,
and he looked down upon that ground, that lovely vista’s nubs.
He paused there in his well-worn, rugged black and leather boots,
and gazed off to the right, adoring it from where he stood.
O, he loved hiking up to such spots, finding solitude;
it made him feel wonderful; it made him feel good.
He cherished precious moments on such precipices, yes.
It was for him intoxicating, and sheer happiness.
O, if he could get to such heights, no matter where or when,
he do his best to reach such blessedness time and again.

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


Near Red Rock
          by Sid Cee Uberawl

He saw the lovely, pale azure sky with white-swept clouds.
He got into the auto, o, he didn’t have much doubt.
Around him were the dusty desert dunes of scrub and brush.
Though it was barren, he still felt a sense that this was lush.
The Sun beat down, but he did not care one iota that
he felt so hot, he felt so caught, like as a desert rat.
O, arid Arizona, past the highway and the rock.
Here he could pause to take it in—the world of the hawk.
But could he start the car again, and get back on the road,
and head for Texas—the next stop? He had so far to go.

Sid Cee Uberawl is a poet of Arizona. T. S. Eliot (1888-1965) was a British-American Modernist poet.


A Waffle Cone at Ghiradelli Square
          by Cal Wes Ubideer

He still remembers when he was at Ghiradelli Square,
in San Francisco, California, in the open air.
That summer day, above the bay, was hot; he was so warm;
so he stepped in, with sheepish grin, and he explored its store.
He got vanilla ice-cream scoops inside a waffle cone,
that towered like a mini Salesforce in its small zone.
And he enjoyed that melting sugar-blast—o, savouring
its flavour…his enthusiasm was unwavering.
Yet that one cone, he probably would not have since recalled,
but for some woman passing by, and saying: “O, my God!”


Departing San Francisco
          by Cal Wes Ubideer

Near half of San Franciscans plan on moving out some day.
There are a lot of reasons that they want to get away:
the homeless crisis, cost of living, human birds of prey,
high taxes, and the quality of life in disarray.

Cal Wes Ubideer is a poet of California. The Salesforce building is the tallest building in San Francisco. San Francisco has a population of around 800,000.


A Hall of Mirrors
          by Cu Ebide Aswerl

It was a hall of mirrors, ah, at an amusement park
to which he had come to. O, it was drab and it was dark.
The walls were gray and pale green, outlined in frames of black;
but he was stuck within that ruck, rectangular that track.

He had his smartphone helping him get through its passageways;
yet he did not know where he was exactly in that maze.
He tried to take a picture, though there was not that much light,
reflections were distorted, bathed in shades of bastnaesite.

It was a carnival attraction, curves and lines suffused;
to say the least, he was disoriented and confused;
and yet he went on fearlessly, to seek the absolute,
though it was hard to tell what was illusion, what was truth.

Cu Ebide Aswerl is a poet of leisure.