by Air Weelbed Suc

He woke up from his sleep and tumbled into conciousness.
He was disoriented, as he took his first, few steps.
He slowly walked, so as he wouldn’t stumble through the day.,
and steadied himself on the furniture along the way.
Loosed from his dream of strife that strafed like black-flak nightmare
meandering about, he wandered, like a drunkard. Yikes.
Was this benign paroxysmal position vertigo,
vestibular neuritis, or some inner eary flow?
He did not know, but knew he had to keep on going forth,
his course and heading, track and bearing, focused—90 North.

Air Weelbed Suc is a poet of flight. Randall Jarrell (1914-1965) was a PostModern American poet and literary critic.


          by “Lice Brews” Ueda

a tiny, silver moth lights
upon an old arm.

“Lice Brews” Ueda is a haiku poet of nature’s smallest creatures.


          by “Wired Clues” Abe

Along the paved drive,
the Indian Paint Brush thrives,
creating pictures.

“Wired Clues” Abe is a poet combining tradition Japanese haiku standards with Modernist and PostModernist techniques, following on the work of writers, such as Nakamura Kusatao (1901-1983), Kaneko Tôta (1919-2018), Nagata Kôi (1900-1997), Nakamura Sonoko (1911-2001), and Akao Tôshi (1925-1981).


The March Goes On
          by War di Belecuse

Although that war is gone, the march goes on.
Another one has come to take its place.
And so it goes. New foes do come upon
old woes, the story of the human race.
Must this be so? Can peace not ever stay?
Is it original to sin? Is it
impossible to win? From day to day,
new victories appear to make it stick.
But then it breaks the halt. On goes the march:
step after step, arm swing after arm swing,
down paved road, over bridge and under arch,
all part of a continual army.
New battles start as soon as old ones end;
heads see, hands reach, hearts beat, and legs extend;
taut shoulders rock, elbows unlock, knees bend.

War di Belecuse is a poet of conflict. This week the Chinese Communist Party ordered warships and jets around Taiwan.


Variation on a Theme of Archilochus
          by Ercules Edibwa

I met him on the battlefield so far from anyone.
I could not help but feel fear. This would not be so fun.
I placed my back against a solid place safe and secure.
I had to have my back protected if I would endure.
He came at me with shield and lance, with fire in his eye.
He was both vile and violent, that fierce, determined guy.
I set my stance. My legs were firm. I would not yield an inch.
I could not help but feel the hand of fate begin to pinch.
I held my shield steadily before his coming lance;
however, he knocked it about. I only had my stance.
But I could not escape, backed in the corner as I was.
From off life’s stem I fell, fast as a dandelion’s fuzz.

Ercules Edibwa is a poet of Ancient Greece. Archilochus (c. 680 BC – c. 645 BC) was an Archaic poet of Ancient Greece. Lew Icarus Bede wrote “The above dodeca is a first-person, dramatic monologue. The diction is simple and the sentences are brief. In L2, “feel” counts as a trochee, as does “fire” in L5, “vile” in L6, “yield” in L7, and “shield” in L9. In L10, “he” is accented, even as its shifts in and out prosaic’lly. L12 is reminiscent of Percy Bysshe Shelley (1792-1822) in “Ode to the West Wind, IV”, even while it utilizes the ploy used by Edgar Lee Masters (1868-1950) in his “Spoon River Anthology”—id est, the speaking of the dead. Though there is purposeful alliteration throughout, it is the voiced fricative “v” and the unvoiced fricative “f” that are particularly significant. Rhymes run throughout the poem, not only at the ends of lines; for example, “battlefield,” “yield,” and shield,” etc.”


Michael Hamburger
          by Eucier W. Sebald

This missive did not reach him soon enough.
I see from Wikipedia he’s dead—
Michael Hamburger. That’s too bad. Life’s rough.
But he knew that. Still, something must be said.
I owe him something—just a word or two—
not for his poetry, nor, speaking properly,
for his translations. No, what he is due
is thanks for his reason and energy.
He introduced me to new trails of thought
of which I was completely unaware.
I could explore new landscapes I had not
seen, and see them as though I had been there.
But for his lifeline I might have foundered
in such deeps. Instead I only floundered.

Eucier W. Sebald is a poet fond of Germany, not related to the German literary critic W. G. Sebald. Michael Hamburger (1924-2007) was a PostModernist critic of German literature.


One Stone
          by Euclidrew Base
          “…just mind-boggling”
              —Marjorie Senechal

Th’ imaginative tinkerer, print technician David Smith,
discovered a new polykite, a nonrepeating tile.
It is a thirteen-sided hat, the first einstein of note,
confirmed by others in the field, not a myth nor stone.
His next aperiodic monotile, too, a hit,
a thir-teen-si-ded turtle rep-ti-le in-con-stant blit.

Euclidrew Base is a poet of mathematics. David Smith is a contemporary British hobbyist and tiler.


Post Jorge Borges Boast
          by Wibele Escudar

I am not sure that I exist in actuality.
I am all of the writers I have read and dream to be.
I am all of the people I have met in my brief life,
and at the same time I am none of them, for I am strife.
I am all of the people I have loved or find obscene.
I am all of the cities I have visited or seen.
I am all of the visions that have come to me at night,
and also all the images I see in morning light.
In short, I’m part of everything, as everybody is;
but I’m not sure, in actuality, if I exist.

Wibele Escudar is a poet of Argentina. Jorge Borges (1899-1986) was a PostModern Argentinian poet and proset.


O, Gee: a February Download
          by Caud Sewer Bile

They’re up in arms—the White House, Pentagon, and DOJ
about top-secret documents relating to Ukraine…

from Minecraft Discord to a Filipine celebrity,
and then to 4chan, Telegram, and next to Twitter…ing.

Caud Sewer Bile is a poet of downloading info.


In Richmond, Indiana, at a re-cy-cl-ing plant,
the toxic fire put thousands in a panic, max evac.


Ferde Grofé
          by Ewald E. Eisbruc

Born in New York City in 1892, Ferde Grofé left home at fourteen years of age. His baritone father’s death was prior to this, while musical Leipzig studies set the stage. Around 1920, after a dozen jobs, he played jazz piano and began to arrange all types of music for Paul Whiteman’s orchestra, including Gershwin’s Rhapsody in Blue. From these, he wrote a number of rich, original works, that caught United States landscapes in fantasies and sumptuous suites, American through and through, which he left—this land—on entering his eighties.

Ewald E. Eisbruc is a poet of music. Ferde Grofé (1892-1972) was a Modernist American composer, known for his orchestrations and his Grand Canyon Suite. The above and the following piece are prosettes.


The Tacoma Narrow Bridge
          by Alec Subre Wide

Tacoma Narrows Bridge, which opened in July of 1940, was the most slender suspension bridge constructed yet, back then. Oh, a mere eight feet was the plate girder that supported the deck. It had a span of 2800 feet, but not much cross bracing. Immediately it became Galloping Gertie, quite quickly began to sway back and forth at the wind’s slightest touch, this sleek bridge designed by Leon Moisseiff. It didn’t last long; for vibrating twists from a swift gust ripped it apart, and down it went into the Puget Sound. It split and crashed into the water with a swound.

Alec Subre Wide is a poet of bridges. Tacoma, Washington is a city of around 200,000. The above two poems are examples of prosetry. Leon Moisseiff (1872-1943) was a Modernist American suspension bridge engineer.


The Shopping Cart Manager
          by Brad Lee Suciew

He feels as if he’s on a stage, there on the parking lot,
as he goes on about his task, collecting shopping carts.
He travels the one-hundred-fifty-thousand square-foot space,
connecting wi-re-swi-vel, whe-els to his interface.
His long, lugged chain winds serpentine before the marketplace,
extrapolating tra-ils, lest he undercompensate.
He keeps on guiding his train through corrals and past the trees,
flush accents, hedges, hollies, elms and oaks, with expertise,
and sees the distant interstate, the orange, golden Sun,
that glares into his very soul, as it does everyone.

Brad Lee Suciew is a poet of business.


The Cedar Elm
          by W. “Blue Cedar” Ise

Adaptable to a wide range of soils, which include
limestone and heavy clay, as well as salty, wet, subdued.
Extremely tolerant to drought, pollution and poor dirt;
it’s strong and shock resistant, oft found close to junipers.
Though it grow tall, its leaves are small, rough and sandpapery;
in fall it’s filled with samara, like ravioli, green.
This tough shade tree is great for summers, and for autumns too,
when it spreads golden yellow up into sky-azure-blue.
It can be used with hardwood elms for caskets and bee frames,
for manufactured barrels, furniture, fence posts, and crates.

W. “Blue Cedar” Ise is a poet of the trees.


He Saw the Sun
          by Ra Bué Weel Disc
          “No fireworks are as amazing as is one sun rise,
          though no one should directly watch its show as it unwinds.”
              —Éclair Dub W. See

He saw the Sun rise in the East, as he was driving forth.
The sky was gray on the horizon; he was looking north.
It was a slender line of pink that stretched out far and wide.
like as an Easter bonnet’s tie, an Easter-egg hued dye.

He kept the pedal pressed to keep the auto rolling down
the highway at one-hundred-plus kilometers per hour.
He saw the water tower in the distant vista’s lay,
the tallest object standing in the dominance of grey.

He had not been in Roswell. UFOs he did not squelch.
He would not drive to Greenville. He’d arrive at somewhere else.
He would not be there motoring when day turned down to night.
He would not know how the Sun set; he took an off-ramp right.

Ra Bué Weel Disc is a poet of the Sun.