Through Streaming Clouds
          by Ra Bué Weel Disc

Through streaming clouds, gray gauzy shrouds, the Sun moves in the East,
above both bird and beast it rises, nuclear, released.
The daze of the day’s genesis, is bare, not mystical,
the field spare, the vision airy, drab, statistical.
Repeatedly the scholar seeks celestial rendezvouz;
he views the panoramas, each that passes and renews.
He has come to the end of worlds, whirling through spacetime,
wherein this clime, the active Sun again begins its climb,
as it has done successively, and he in sync with it,
imagining…with power he could somehow link with it.

Ra Bué Weel Disc is a poet of the Sun. According to Beau Lecsi Werd, the neologism “rendezvouz” is a plural of rendezvous. L5 leans on Wallace Stevens (1879-1955), an American Modernist poet.


          by “Clear Dew” Ibuse

He came and he saw
there at the end of the Realm
four Black Angus cows.


          by “Clear Dew” Ibuse

A red-tailed hawk sat
atop a fence, seeking fat,
rabbit, raw, or rat.

“Clear Dew” Ibuse is a NewMillennial haikuist.


New Chinese Cars
          by Aw “Curbside” Lee

What are some reasons why new Chinese cars aren’t US bound?
Is it because their structures are not durable and sound?
Is it because their paint is of a lower quality?
Is it because designs are poor with less technology?
Is it because they do not meet US safe standards yet,
and are not strong enough when they are in an accident?
Is it their highway driving’s poor out where the car is king?
Is it because they aren’t well-known, and there’s less marketing?
Is it because their problems start within a year or two?
Is it because they smell inside, which cannot be reduced?
Is it because they are programmed and could cause data risks,
and which their government can get, used by sly communists.

Aw “Curbside” Lee is a poet of Chinese construction.


Due to the harsh attack upon Ukraine, the Finnish have
joined NATO, leaving their Finlandization in the grave.


Tertullian Wrote
          by Crise de Abu Wel

“Stand forth, o, soul,” Tertullian wrote, “I appeal to thee,
not wise as with a wisdom formed from library or school,
or nourished in the portico, or the academy,
nor with the cultured polish, but as simple, plain and rude,
such as thou art to those who have thee only, pure, profound,
such as thou art in cross-road, high-way, or the dock-yard found.”

Crise de Abu Wel is a poet of the Good Father. Tertullian (c. 155 – c. 220) was a Latin and Greek writer of the Graeco-Roman period, and the first known to use the word “trinity.”


Tweet 3/2/2014
          by Radice Lebewsu

Into the jaw
of Crimea,
back from
the mouth
of hell
in Ukraine’s south,
the Russians come,
whom they know
so well.
When will they go?

Radice Lebewsu is a poet of Ukraine.


A Creek
          by Albwec Residue

In early spring, at its first bridge, it’s but a tric-kl-ing,
near the beginning, Cooper Creek, starts its meandering.
One sees the varied plants along its sides, as on it rides
down furrowed areas that it has carved out over time.

It moves past house-developments, these neoneighbourhoods
of NewMillennial construction, labouring of goods.
One see the hawks fly over rooftops, cir-cl-ing around,
in search of prey that will sustain them when it can be found.

It moves along the giant meadow catchment overflow,
beneath the water tower’s spidery legs, low and slow.
One see barn swallows, cobalt blue and tawny tan below,
soar o’er the vast green belt and concrete ways down which days go.


A River
          by Albwec Residue
          “Τα πάντα του σώματος είναι ένα ποτάμι…”
              —μάρκος Αυρήλιος

The body is like as a river, ever flowing on,
until it comes to its own end, occurring just beyond;
but while its going, owing knowing to its origins,
it keeps on, thankfully, incorrigibly foraging.

As Caroline Anne Bowles pointed out, each part of it
is like a part of life, the water, in the heart of it.
At times at play, impetuous, or just like mortal prime,
it presses onward, never rounded, to eternal time.

Al Bwec Residue is a poet of water, with about 50% of water in his body, using the Watson Formula of PostModern medical health theorists Patricia E. Watson, Ian D. Watson, and Richard D. Batt. Marcus Aurelius (121-180) was a stoic philosopher, writer and emperor during the Graeco-Roman period in Greek and Latin literatures. Caroline Anne Bowles (1786-1854) was a Romantic British poet, later married to Robert Southey (1774-1843).


A BogaTA Sunrise
          by Luis Cardewebe
          “The morning comes to consciousness…
          To early coffee stands.”
              —T. S. Eliot, “Preludes”

A BogaTA Sunrise, the clouds lit yellow, red and blue,
and at his side, a coffee cup, a medium soft brew.
No floral odours, crisp aromas, hang about him there,
amidst the buildings in this bourban, urban atmosphere.
Here is no tangy note, nor any airy caramel;
pehaps a waft of gasoline is all that he can smell.
This calm is deep, and slightly crisp, no breeze discernable.
He is quite sure he won’t come back; life’s nonreturnable.
He breathes in city ventilation, takes in one more breath,
and sips the medium roast liquid, sifted past his teeth.

Luis Cardewebe is a poet fond of Colombia. The city of Bogatá, Colombia, has a population of around 8,000,000.


Nearing Tennosity
          by Sirc de Wee Balu

Not very much depends upon
the lowly paper clip,
a piece of slender steel that bends
into a triple flip,

and keeps slim papers close to heart,
with wiry body taut,
dear to Phineas Barnum’s art
and Bailey’s Ringling wrought.

Around—the lithe contortionist
takes his blithe loop-the-loop,
and makes his landing fortunate—
he drops, but doesn’t droop—

and holds—his head and hands up high,
his rounded shoulders locked,
a silver, shiny gem, this guy
whose enemy is blocked.

Sirc de Wee Balu is a poet of the circus.


Does he sing of himself, songs sounding his barbaric Yelp?
Are volunteers in thousands also signing up to help?
The scud of day holds back for him. It flings his likeness aft.
Is he as true as any in these shadow’d wilds of graft?
Did he get an eight-million-dollar-plus donation bump?
The former President has been indicted—Donald Trump.


The Travelling Salesman Problem
          by Euclidrew Base

It was optimization in graph theory, in which nodes,
the cities, are connected by directed routes and roads,
the edges indicating distances between the sites,
but all without the actuality of traffic lights.
What is the path that visits each spot once, and never twice,
and then returns to the beginning, distance minimized?

The only general solution algorithm shows
the shortest path grows exponentially with size and flows.
This is a type of the NP-complete predicament
for which no known efficient recipe is imminent.
And still it can’t be solved, the travelling salesman approved,
who wandered all about and was told off, and thus reproved.

Euclidrew Base is a poet of mathematrics.


RasaBan Fandelier
          by Caud Sewer Bile

Thank God, for Google censoring Right Side Broadcasting Net;
for that would let some viewers get another point of Nyet.

Caud Sewer Bile is a poet of the Swamp. Google is a member of the G-Mafia.


Bob Lee had been a former CTO, e-commerce Square,
from where he started Cash App, later joining MobileCoin.
Today the crypto tech exec was murdered in SF.
Apparently with no surprise he has been stabbed to death.


The Tax Preparer
          by Brad Lee Suciew
          “April is the most taxing month.”
              —Cawb Delius Ree

The tax preparer takes the papers in his hands and scans them one by one for information that
he needs. He roams the loaded forms and data lands to find the gratifying numbers there. His world is flat. He furrows into facts and figures with his penetrating mind, and types the necessary ones on his computer keyboard, monitoring them with fingers manicured, precision overdone. His hair is combed on end, groomed in the latest style. He sports a casual look in his attire and shoes. He is extremely serious. He does not smile. He plows through pages that he doesn’t want to lose. He searches long and hard for all he thinks he should, and at the end of all his work, says, “This is good.”

Brad Lee Suciew is a poet of business. He remembers going to H&R Block for his mother’s taxes when dementia hit, before she died. H&R Block was founded by PostModernist American entrepreneurs Henry Bloch (1922-2019) and Richard Bloch (1926-2004) in 1955. This work, not in the manner of Mallarmé (1842-1898) or Valéry (1871-1945), is an example of prosetry.


A cUrsory cRime
          by Cwe Reusable Id

O, Jack and Jill went up the hill to get a bit of cash,
but down they fell to steal more to add in to their stash.

Cwe Reusable Id id a poet of cursory crimes.


Proceeding Down the Highway
          by Bruc “Diesel” Awe

He saw the shiny, rising, silver, slip-sleeved monopole,
as the positioning crane slowly dropped it in its hole.
It towered up so high, secure in durability,
and advertised for its sustained reliability,
as it’s designed to meet criteria so that it clears
American Society of Civic Engineers.

With uniform dimensions, it is not like timber poles;
it has great strength, and is without wood’s twists, knots, splits or bows.
Designed to carry wireless and microwave comm-vines,
he thought of Rome’s tall walls that Vergil mentioned in his lines,
proceeding down the highway, sixty-miles-per-hour speed,
as he moved on to other thoughts, and next things he might need.

Bruc “Diesel” Awe is a poet of highway travel.


The Leaves Have Reappeared
          by Blue Cedar Siew

Across the city suddenly the leaves have reappeared
on cedar, sugarberry, oak, pecan and cottonwood,
on locust, ash, mesquite, box elder, and loblolly pine,
the trees are budding and renewed, as Easter’s neared, divined.
The force that through the green fuse blasts the roots and drives this growth
attends as well, a-swell upon the rows of rose and thorn.
See there beneath the tall brick wall that rises thirty feet,
up to the pitch of roof and ceiling heights from hilly reef.
But this is not the House of Usher at the mere side, no,
that dank and deep, dark tarn that swallows’ shadows from below.

Blue Cedar Siew is a poet of trees. Edgar Poe (1809-1849) was an American Romantic poet, and Dylan Thomas (1914-1953) was a Modernist British poet.


A Walk
          by Rudi E. Welec, “Abs”

Each day, a walk around the block yields many floral weeds,
of many colours sitting on the stems and leaves of green,
like daisies, yellow chickweed, purple thistles, blue-eyed grass,
pink evening primrose, orange paintbrush, dandelion sass;
and here and there one sees a bright bluebonnet, spring bouquet,
just growing randomly along the street and urban lane.
It makes a stroll about the neighbourhood pleasureable,
invigourating, gratifying, and enjoyable.
A walk increases oxygen, and helps one’s mental health;
it strengthens heart and clears one’s head and boosts one’s sense of wealth.


The Fun of Baseball
          by Rudi E. Welec, “Abs”

He missed the fun of baseball. It passed through his life so fast.
He didn’t understand its meaning or its cast and strife.
Each practice and each game gave the impression it would last
unbearably long, but it didn’t, it was gone for good.

And later on, he wished he could, go back to those long days
of bats, mitts, uniforms, and dandy hot-dog, drink displays;
though not the sunrays burning up his skin. That hurt like hell.
How could he tell what then he felt, recalling not that well?

At the road sign he stopped, and saw teams playing on the field.
He waited for the other cars to pass. He had to yield.
And then he took a right onto the farm-to-market road.
He had to move along to face another episode.

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


          by Carb Deliseuwe

The bubbles form atop the coffee with MCT oil;
they form and pop, medium-chain triglycerides aboil.
Throughout the body it is easily absorbed and used,
an instant source of energy, or into ketones fused.
Perhaps it can help manage epilepsy, lactate levs,
Alzheimer’s and autistic spectrums in its varied revs.

It could be antifungal and antimicrobial,
as in reducing fungus that is nosocomial,
abridging yeast growth or diminishing bacteria,
reducing heart disease risk factors, ah, arteria;
and maybe it can manage the blood-sugar levels sump,
though it may have some drawbacks, like a liver-fat build up.

According to Beau Lecsi Werd, the word “ketone” was coined by German Romantic chemist Leopold Gmelin (1788-1853), and “lev” is a trunc.


An Easter Interlude
          by B. S. Eliud Acrewe


Time present and time past are not the same, though they may seem
so in some eyes. Will they be in the future—as a dream—
as has the future been within these passing present times?.
Who dares disturb the moment with his agonies, his crimes,
his angst, his rhymes, his schemes, his lines? Who dares disturb these years
with fears, with tears. All disappears upon this fallen Sphere,
if not immediately, Hitomaro, then it may
tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow go away.
And time, if unredeemable, as it has been, must be
an echo in the poechore of possibility.

The roses open in the garden by the plastic bench;
buds harden, then they flower, and the petals drop. O, Mensch!
A droning plane, the moaning train, the highway traffic stir,
an orchestra of birds: these sounds occur and then disburse.
Green leaves unfurl in spring’s fresh world, in the vibrant air;
but yesterday, today, we are are not going anywhere.
It’s our response to the unseen coronavirus blues
that whirl round our lives, like azure sky’s refracted hues.
Humanity cannot bear very much reality;
for this, and for so much, we long for ideality.


The lightning, thunder, rain, and trilling wire in the blood:
the bright and white new sidewalks partly covered by the mud,
the wide and empty paved street with no cars or people on ‘t,
the grand e-lec-tric-sub-sta-tion, an isolated haunt,
its huge electric towers, rising upward, gray and high,
like as the graves of giants, silver crosses in the sky,
declaring desolation on the taxes of the time,
the thrilling danger of the passersby to the sublime.
One hears the tweeting tenants of the houses and the trees;
the people and the birds are tapping out their varied screes.

It is so still, it’s like the setting of a sci-fi scene,
dystopian, apocalyptic, filled with static cling.
The hands of time have stopped, so too the walking of the feet;
one only sees occasionally someone on the street.
This is the point. One sees the concrete ship of state encased
within the power grid, the turning world’s fate there faced.
I cannot say how long this place, placed in the memory,
will stay, endure eternity—perhaps a century—
not long in the wide scheme of things—perhaps a moment’s tick—
an instant in the infinite, a minute minute’s kick.


Here in the daylight walking all alone in Easter’s Sun.
The desolation goes for miles; there isn’t anyone.
One climbs the rise and turns the corner on to Trinity.
There, seeming far away, it is the Gardens one can see.
To get there one must go down Calvary. One has no choice.
The blazing Sun shines overhead, the soil’s thick and moist.
The streets are brilliant, blinding white, fresh pavement, smooth and flat.
Such emptiness, and vacancy. This is where one is at.
The wind is cold and bitter, plastic flags are flittering.
The World is twittering away…its time…is glittering.

Descending lower, there beyond the Be-All and the bend,
one comes…to…find the Gardens gated, one can still descend.
The stories grow beyond the skies of Hammurabi’s eyes,
the concrete engineering for the flooding’s raging rise.
Beyond the plague of Locust, one can see the Highway fills
with eighteen-wheelers, trucks and vans, and fast au-to-mo-biles.
Their movements mesmerizing as they go their metaled ways;
they speed along at sixty down the Highway of Amaze.
One turns around, poised at the future…in the present…past.
One longs for immortality…until the very last.


We leave behind the Gardens, quite alert, not soporous,
aware some thing’s not right, no entry there was offered us.
We leave the Crimson Circle, as we head back to the House.
No mockingbird is singing here; we cannot hear a sound.
We leave old Abram to his miracles and then ascend.
We leave the Be-All and the End-All, turn around the bend.
No bell is ringing, rich deep tones accentuating day.
Verbena of the Prairie, purple Moradillas sway.
We touch the Spring bouquet, not clutch or cling, we cannot stay.
We only stray a moment from the Way—then go away.


The Word inscribes the World, here upon this open stage,
so vast and grand, this Promised Land, that stretches through the Age.
Though silent, it describes reality within the mind.
It is the miracle humanity can seek and find.
The form, the pattern, the idea in the Universe,
allowing us to grasp the Be-All and th’ Eternal Curse.
In the beginning was no knowledge of the End or Start.
We only walked and walked due to the pumping of the heart.
Before the end there was no time we did not know we were;
that is the burden of existence, as we know the Word.

We move along, unmoved, unloved, desiring only change.
forever for awhile attempting ever greater range.
But to what purpose, caught within the limits of our lives,
what is the reason anything we formulate survives?
We breathe it in, the bitter wind, again, again, again,
the azure heavens, argon, oxygen and nitrogen,
and all the other elements that make our atmosphere.
The timeless essence of Eternity is also here.
It stretches far before and after us. How could it end?
And so we have come here to note a thing or two, and then…

B. S. Eliud Acrewe is a NewMillennial poet and literary critic. Kakinomoto Hitomaro (c. 654 – c. 708) was a Japanese poet of the Asuka period. Hammurabi (c. 1810 BC – c. 1750 BC) was a king of the Old Babylonian Empire.