by “Clear Dew” Ibuse

Just learning to walk,
th’ awkward toddler doesn’t want
to wear brand new shoes.

“Clear Dew” Ibuse is a haiku poet.


At Ninety-Five
          by “Wired Clues” Abe
          “Most..try to see flowers blooming…but I desire to see them at their end.”
              —Kôi Nagata

At ninety-five, he lost his house—the Kobe earthquake hit.
He had gone to the toilet, it was solid, made of brick.
Although the house collapsed, he was preserved—a miracle.
Yet he was stuck within that refuge for a period.
He tried attracting someone who could help him leave his hole,
by banging the washbasin with a yuzamashi bowl.
He thought it was quite fun: kankara kan! kankara kan!
Nammyohorengekko. It sounded like a Buddhist chant.
He finally was rescued by delivery-boy ears,
a lad who had been at the sake shop, next door, who hears!

“Wired Clues” Abe is a poet of modern haiku. Kôi Nagata (1900-1997) was a PostModernist Japanese poet. Kobe, Japan, is a city of around 1,500,000.


A Momentary Stall
          by Sri Wele Cebuda

He got into the lotus pose. The couch was poofy, black.
He bent his knees, he spread his legs, he stretched his spine and back.
He felt like as he was at peace; his arms hung at his sides.
O, he could fe-el inner strength and somewhat satisfied.
He sat beside those lofty, high, agreeable grey walls;
from fierce eternity’s fast pace, a momentary stall.
Although he did not fe-el love within the cosmic flux,
perhaps in this abyss, his seating could be suite deluxe.
He concentrated on his situation in that spot,
anticipating anything that could be good…or not.


Beside His Coffee Cup
          by Sri Wele Cebuda

He got into the lotus pose—again—to limber up;
He bent his knees and spread his legs; but it was cumbersome.
Although still clothed, in socks and shoes a cap upon his head,
he strove for form and raised his spine above his shoulder spread.
He felt he needed to be stretching for the coming game,
positioning his lower back so as to numb his angst.
His hands and arms were at his sides, his feet and legs astride;
but there was no ecstatic joy in his strong yoga ride.
He concentrated on each move within the cosmic flux,
and focused on his lotus bond, beside his coffee cup.

Sri Wele Cebuda is a poet of concentrated meditation. One of his favourite pics of coffee cups is that of Modernist Austrian-American director Edgar Georg Ulmer (1904-1972) in his track of the opening scene of a monstrous coffee cup in Detour; but the Ulmer flick he most liked was Beyond the Space Barrier, a thematically rich film that takes place mostly in 2024, though the movie starts and ends in 1960.


Ash Wednesday: February 22, 2023
          by Crise de Abu Wel

Because he hoped, he hoped to turn, and hoped to turn again,
desiring that man’s scope, and this man’s gift, and that man’s gain.
He’d strive to reach such things, an agèd eagle stretching wings.
Why mourn the vanished power of the hour of the kings?

He hoped to know the glory of the moment he was in.
He hoped to know one transitory, veritable win.
He drank where trees were flowering and springs were flowing forth,
therefore he would rejoice that things were as they were perforce.

He prayed to God for mercy, and that he would not forget
these matters that weighed heavily upon him with regret.
He longed to fly, to not sit by, until he came to death,
that came to all, both great and small, when there was no more breath.

White leopards did not crouch beneath the oaks or juniper,
but there he saw, beside the grinning Moon, was Jupiter,
and, in conjunction, Venus in the warm air of the night,
seen by the eyes within the skull. It was an awesome sight.

These bones shall live, because of life, and a good lady’s love,
blessed by the Virgin up above and Neptune’s calming shove.
Aeneas proffered up his deeds to those still living on
beyond the far horizon and Time’s grand oblivion.

The wind won’t listen to the magic rose of memory,
where sweetest love has long ago been worth remembering;
and though these bones will not be singing blessings of this sand,
he was glad he’d be scattered in this quiet desert land.

Crise de Abu Wel is a poet of the Good Father. Modernist American-British poet T. S. Eliot (1888-1965) is in the background.


The Russian Recruits
          by Rus Ciel Badeew

They stood, all in a line, one reading letters in
a row, another being weighed upon a scale,
occasionally an unemployed veteran,
one’s knee was tapped, one coughed out at a finger nail;
one got a shot, a hypodermic needle’s prick.
This was a healthy lot; not one managed to fail.
The doc signed off on all, pro forma, nice and quick.
They moved along from station x on to the next
without a big todo, the operation slick;
and everything was done according to the text.
The whole thing couldn’t have gone any better than
if it had been a magic show perfectly hexed.


The New Recruit
          by Rus Ciel Badeew

He fell into line fast. But that was no surprise.
He was a modern soldier, a recent recruit.
He joined the army under cloud-lit-yellow skies
that went on for forever, verging on the brute.
He wisely followed orders, making for less hell;
but he would have to go through hell—that point was moot.
It wasn’t long before he ended up a shell.
That was step one. He followed orders to a tee,
as anyone who met him at that time could tell.
He left behind all former streams of ecstasy,
and settled in for autumn night dreams of reprise,
and lofty, lonely flights the soldier begs to see.

Rus Ciel Badeew is a poet of Russia.


One Transitory, Veritable Win
          by Radice Lebewsu

He felt his muscles tightening, as he traipsed through the brush,
his abs, his back, his shoulders, and his legs. He would not rush.
The enemy was all around. He had to take his time.
When he’d confront them, yes, o, yes, he’d need both mind and might.
He kept on walking in that darkness turning into dawn.
And though he couldn’t see that far, continued going on.
The enemy would lie in wait on the approaching road,
until the helicopter lifted off; so on he strode.
He wondered if he should be able to take out that guard.
He knew that it would not be easy. No, it would be hard.
Still he stepped forth—o, damn those thorns—they penetrate the skin.
And so with strength to go the length, he shot—and got one win.

Radice Lebewsu is a poet of Ukraine. After one year, the Russian attack on Ukraine has yielded some 15,000,000 or more refugees, about 100,000 Russian soldiers killed or injured, about the same number of Ukrainians, and around 40,000 civilians killed, according to US General Milley.


Beside the Ogee Arch
          by Acwiles Berude

Ah, it was there in azure air by the Aegean Sea,
I saw him—wise Odysseus—beside the ogee arch.
Was he in Troy, like as a boy, who chasing after boars,
has paused to rest, o, trebly blessed, from his demanding course?
He placed his left foot on the stone block where he caught his breath.
beside a statue and pink flowers at that plaza’s breadth.
He breathed them in—those freshest scents—yes, he was satisfied,
o, pausing at that ogee cap. He took it all in stride.
Some day he could get back to Ithaca, but it was far,
He put his wandering on hold. He held peace in his arms.
Here was no farm. No, here was war, though not where he now stood.
He wished eternity would give him time, to pause. O, good.


Zarathustra Speaks
          by Acwiles Berude

In the great hall, he found himself amongst the trenchermen.
Athena cleverly disguised him as a beggarman.
The suitors there were feasting on hogs, cattle, goats and sheep,
as he began his rounds of asking for handouts to eat.
Most of the suitors gave a scrap of meat or crust of bread,
but arrogant Antinous heaved a stool at his back.
Odysseus did not attack; he kept his calm, his head;
but wished before the brute could meet his bride he’d meet his death.
And that he would, when later all the suitors came to grief.
He’d be the first to get an arrow to his neck, Siegfried.

Acwiles Berude is a poet of Ancient Greece.


While Then
          by Euclidrew Base
          “Yesterday it rained in Tennessee. I heard it also rained in Tallahassee.”
              —Lee Hazlewood, “Sugar Town”

He chose a number, any number, plenty he could choose.
If it was even, why then he divided it by two.
If it was odd, why then he tripled it and added one.
While then repeating the above, he just kept on and on;
until, it seemed, he always reached the loop of four-two-one;
and so he lay down on the grass, and laughed, laughed at the Sun.

Euclidrew Base is a poet of mathematics. The Modernist German mathematician Lothar Collatz (1910-1990) put forth “the above” unproven conjecture in 1937. Lee Hazlewood (1929-2007) was a PostModernist country song writer.


At the Prize Fight: After Umberto Romano
          by Red Was Iceblue

The crowds at a prize fight, the hot, harsh, glaring lights,
the heavy, blue smoke, yells, jeers, the tense restlessness
of thousands, of all types, kinds, statuses and heights—
there one’s stirred, moved, aroused by th’ hot sensuousness,
surge of it all, two brutal forces in combat,
in a square ring, the power and the savageness,
the violence, two bodies, at times human, at
times animal, prancing, pacing, chin down, chin up,
each calculating, waiting for one moment, that
one moment for one vicious, terrifying punch,
to knock out th’ other guy, the end result of mights,
one gloved and shirtless body landing with a crunch.

Red Was Iceblue is a poet of Modernist, PostModernist, and NewMillennial painting. In the 1937 mural by American Modernist painter Umberto Romano (1906-1982), “Mr. Pynchon and the Settling of Springfield” that could not be a smartphone that the native holds up close; but it sure looks like it.


The Train of Thought of Jason Wright
          by Cadwel E. Bruise

He weekly rides the train of thought, the writer Jason Wright,
whose observations aren’t evasions, vague, or out of sight;
but heavy do they weigh…sometimes…amazingly dismay,
and frequently they seem so right, they take one’s breath away.


          for Adrian S. Gratwick
          by W. S. “Eel” Bericuda
          “Numquam poetor nisi potager.”
              —Ennius, “Sat. 64”

Sardines are oily, small fish, mainly feeding on plankton,
a feature of the Nordic diet in their canned contains.
They are one of the best omega-3 foods off the shore,
encasing phosphatidylserine, calcium and more.
With phosphorus and vitamin D, they’re good for bone health.
They also have selenium and vitamin B12.
They could be beneficial for depression and for angst,
improving overall disorders, mental moods and strength.
Their slow release of glucose in the bloodstream’s flow, o, yes,
reverses insulin resistance, oxidative stress.
However, though they lack the toxins, large fish haul about,
and they are low in mercury, they are not good for gout.

W. S. “Eel” Bericuda is a poet upon fish. Ennius (239 BC – 169 BC) was an Early Roman Republic poet, who, in addition to his epic “Annales” composed plays and a book of poems “Saturae”, in which he “mixed the useful with the sweet”. Adrian S. Gratwick is a contemporary professor of classics at St. Andrews.


The Top Ten Polluters of Plastic in the Sea in Metric Tons
          by Esca Webuilder

1.          Philippines          356,000
2.          India          126,000
3.          Malaysia          73,000
4.          China          70,000
5.          Indonesia          56,000
6.          Myanmar          40,000
7.          Brazil          37,000
8.          Vietnam          28,000
9.          Bangladesh          24,000
10.          Thailand          22,000

Esca Webuilder is a composer of data from the Internet, et cetera.


A Morning Shower
          by Eber L. Aucsidew
          “The Albatross fell off, and sank/ Like lead into the sea.”
              —Samuel Coleridge, “The Rime of the Ancient Mariner”

He loved to take a shower underneath the spouting head,
warm water raining on his pate, but not on his parade.
Instead he was content with steamy, see-through shower stall.
O, cleanliness was next to godliness and tiled walls.
He loved the body wash, as well as baby-safe shampoo,
to watch the soap go down the drain in freshets—such a view.
He wished he had a hand-spray, though it look like as a snake.
O, yes, he blessed the carpenters and plumbers in his wake.
Then all the dross, and albatross drop down—o, see them plop.
It was so good to rub and scrub, as bubble spheres went POP.

Eber L. Aucsidew is a poet of H2O. Samuel Coleridge (1772-1834) was a British Romantic poet.


Out Am-bl-ing
          by Rudi E. Welec, “Abs”

The sky was white with clouds. Surrounding trees were high and green.
He went out for a morning walk to see what he could see.
He was no bear who climbed a mountain, though he climbed some hills;
but that alone he felt was filled with fairly pleasant thrills.

Upon the sidewalks he enjoyed each step along the way,
but he’d stop too and smell the aromatic rose display.
His legs kept moving as he pressed on, his arms at his sides.
He made the circuit that he wanted; he was satisfied.

He saw the cracks, the auburn grass, some guys were passing by.
His tensions eased as he observed some grackles on a wire.
So many things out in his neighbourhood were happening;
endorphins rose as he continued on his am-bl-ing.


The Race Was On
          by Rudi E. Welec, “Abs”

The race was on. The competition was severe and stiff.
He had to run as hard as he could run with open fist.
He strove for breaths; for he was panting, sweating, gasping, hot.
Could he hold on for that much longer, rushing, dashing, ha?
He hardly felt his light gray tee shirt wrapped around his chest,
It was his heart he heard, his whizzing feet at each full step.
His legs flew through the air, as he grasped for a longer stride.
He felt like he was on a choppy, jerking, jarring ride.
But he would not give up. He kept on going through the night.
The distant buildings gleaming underneath the starry light.

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