by “Clear Dew” Ibuse

The toddler laughs at
soap bubbles up in the air,
on the new-mown lawn.


          by “Clear Dew” Ibuse

The cat, stuck outside,
in its patio fortress,
faces a long night.

“Clear Dew” Ibuse is a NewMillennial haikuist.


          by “Wired Clues” Abe

The toddler inspects
brightly coloured dinosaurs
in his plastic jar.

“Wired Clues” Abe is a poet of tradical haiku.


A t-rex skeleton, from three dig sites and casts composed,
for 5.55 million Swiss francs, was, at auction, sold.
As old as sixty-seven million years, this bone-arch spread ‘s
3.9 meters high, 11.6 meters long.

The name of this fossile, 293 Trinity, describes its bone count and its dig sites.


New Nusantara
          Budi Eas Celewi

Polluted, prone to eathquakes, there beside the Java Sea,
Jakarta is conjested and is sinking rapidly.
That’s why the capital will be reborn in Borneo,
new Nusantara, in the outer archipelago.

Budi Eas Celewi is a poet of Indonesia. Jakarta is a city of around 11,000,000.


A Landing on the Desert
          by Eswer El Cubadi

When it comes time to jump, you have to jump.
Like little clouds, they billow out—the chutes—
and fall down to the ground below. Men bump
upon the dusty earth—in soldier’s boots.
Then quickly are they buried—the white shrouds—
in night’s cool light, the faintest blue—dark black.
We gather fast together, check our rounds.
Not ever are we going to come back.
There cannot be mistakes. Before the day
appears we must accomplish one big shove.
We travel in the shadows. It’s our way.
Where desert hills roll on along above,
we go; but they do never move. They stay.
We pick it up. We are at the end of…

Eswer El Cubadi is a poet of North Africa.


Zephaniah: 1:14-18
          by Israel W. Ebecud

The great day of the Lord is near.
It’s near and hastening nigh.
And that day’s sound is so bitter,
the mighty man will cry.

A day of wrath will be that day,
of anguish and distress,
of devastation clad in gray,
of ruin, gloom, darkness,

of trumpet blast, of battle ride
against the settlements,
the cities that are fortified,
and lofty battlements.

He shall bring on despair to men;
they shall walk like the blind,
because they’ve sinned against God, when
they should have sought his Mind.

Their blood shall be poured out like dust;
their flesh shall be dung mire.
Not silver bright, nor golden crust,
shall save them from His ire.

In fire’s burning jealous wrath,
all earth shall be consumed.
A sudden end awaits that path,
and all will be entombed.

Israel W. Ebecud is a poet of Judah. Zephaiah (fl. 7th century BC) was a Judean prophet during the reign of King Josiah.


The SAF and RSF, within Khartoum, Sudan,
are fighting for control with deadly force and fearsome plan.
As many die, the millions lack both food and water stores.
This is another one of Earth’s too many deadly wars.

Khartoum, Sudan, has a metro are of around 5,000,000.


Missive to Achilles
          by Acwiles Berude
          “The Cretan said that Cretans always lie…in idleness.”
              —Seer Ablicadew

Achilles, at the starting line, you can
not ever catch the tortoise up ahead,
nor reach some Dardan with your arrow’s point.
Although you are part god, you are a man,
you had to run the race at your foot’s joint.
Fame is no good for you when you are dead,
you told Odysseus, a Hades shade.
What brand new paradoxes do you hear
from Cretan liars or that Zeno’s made
to win our hearts now that the goal is near?
In Aesop’s tale, the tortoise beat the hare.
There was no limit placed upon its pace.
Life’s circumstances altered the outcome.
Though victory is real, it is not fair.
It matters who you are, where you are from,
and how well you do when you run the race.
I think you must have done it well, for me
to hear of you millennia beyond;
for, in your wake, the waves of history
have travelled to this distant stranded strand.

Acwiles Berude is a poet of Archaic Greece. Aesop (c. 620 BC – c. 564 BC) was a noted Greek fabulist, Zeno (c. 495 BC – c. 430 BC), a noted PreSocratic philosopher. Paul (c. 5 – c. 65) was a Christian apostle and Titus (fl. 1st century) was the first bishop of Crete.


The Burial of Count Orgaz
          by Raúl de Cwesibe

The Burial of Count Orgaz, painted
by El Greco, is an extraordinary painting:
the dark, staid world below; and th’ illuminated,
the spiritually moving, and the saintly
above, which rises and hies up to the flying
forms of Jesus, Mary, John, others, and angels.
The sweep and curve of heaven lies o’er the dying,
high and mighty, swirling with God’s evangels.
But downward cast your eyes upon the funeral.
The realism of that somber, sober crew
amazes even me in this jaded era
with its exactitude, iconic, sure and good.
El Greco touched true depths of life and returned to
record their breathtaking verisimilatude.

Raúl de Cwesibe is a poet of El Siglo de Oro. El Greco (1531-1604) was a Spanish Mannerist painter of el Siglo de Oro. Count Orgaz, a 14th century aristocrat, according to legend, was buried by the heavenly persons Saint Stephen and Saint Augustine, the miracle taking place in 1323.


Inside the Ministry of Truth
          Eric Ble Awesud

Within the walls of cubicles, three orifices stood:
right of the speakwrite was a small pneumatic message tube;
at left, a larger one for news, where latest print was placed;
and in the sidewall was a wire-grated slit for waste.
Throughout the building, slits were in each room and corridor,
o, tens of thousands of these mem’ry holes behind each door.
And documents due for destruction were dropped in these holes;
each scrap of paper found fed to these automatic moles,
wherein all would be whirled away on warm air-currents to
enormous furnaces inside the Ministry of Truth.

Eric Awesud Ble is a poet fond of proset Eric Arthur Blair (1903-1950).


In New York City, two men were arrested for their lease—
to crush dissent—a station for the Chinese State Police.


A Panoply of Kites
          by Cardiwel Ebuse

One day he took a gentleman with disabilities,
off to a bank in a town centre, hardly ill at ease.
But when they got into the bank, the gentleman released
his minder’s hand and rushed to grab a pile of leaflets—Whee!
The gentleman threw them into the air—confetti-like—
enjoying, as they flew about, a panoply of kites.
But then to make the matters worse, his joggers, falling down,
exposed his underwear, his minder rushing to the ground.
As luck would have it, they were served there, then at lightning speed,
despite a cruel comment and the bank staff’s stifled glee.

Cardiwel Ebuse is a poet of English pictures, including this brief on contemporary health care worker John, and his client.


Off Ohio
          by Lubec Easderwi
          “To deny beauty in the midst of loss would be to deny nature its
          gifts and lessons.”
              —Shanna Wheelock

Near Troy, Jones got word in Schenectady;
he was to go to New York City now
and rage against its wickedness today.
Instead, he fled westward and left his town.

Yes, Jones proceeded straight to Buffalo
and boarded there a barge bound for Detroit.
But on Lake Erie winds began to blow,
and his mean ship was heading for the void.

The mariners, in fear of life and limb,
began to toss equipment overboard,
while Jones was fast asleep. Naught bothered him.
Each sailor prayed out to his god and lord.

The captain then saw Jones asleep and warm,
and said, “What do you mean, you sleeping dog.
Call on your god to help us through this storm
that we will not all perish in this fog.”

The mariners then said, “Our lots are cast!
Why has this evil thing occurred to us?
If we don’t quell its source, we will not last.
Oh, this has made our lives so tenuous.”

Then Jones arose, came to where they did stand.
“I am a Hebrew, and I fear the Lord,
the God who made the sky, the sea, and land,
and I have fled His rightousness and Word.”

“What shall we do to make it through?” they asked.
“The waves and waters are tempestuous.”
“Just throw me off,” Jones answered them, when tasked,
“and this you’d better do soon, lest you bust.”

Yet this the mariners would never do;
for they thought Jones in dire extremity.
So they rowed on, would not believe him true,
though waves grew more severe on Lake Erie.

But then some crazed, mad sailor threw Jones off,
and suddenly the storm ceased raging wild.
“Almighty Lord, don’t lay his blood on us,”
the sailors cried, still glad that all was mild.

Perhaps in some great fish’s belly, Jones
was taken in; for three full days they searched
and searched for him, but no one found his bones.
It was as though he vanished from the Earth.

Lubec Easderwi is a poet of the East. Lubec, the most easterly village in the USA, has approximately 1200 citizens. According to contemporary artist Shanna Wheelock, the tides are the mainɇ source of Lubec’s pull, among the highest in the World. Jones was an unknow prophet of the NewMillennium.


Pink Gaura Is Superb
          by Brac Lei Uweeds

Wand flower, whirling butterfly, bee blossom—it’s the same,
pink gaura is superb no matter what the common name.
Upon this lane, they flourish in their airy textured forms,
and dance above on long taproots in easy breeze or storm.

They thrive here in the open, underneath the Sun’s hard beat;
in sandy, loamy, well-drained soil, they tolerate the heat.
They disregard the drought and rabbits, they like hummingbirds;
and butterflies, as well stop by, without the weight of words.

Though they appear so weak and lean, a thin-stemmed climbing chain,
they have a rugged nature that can face each climate change;
and they are hardy, hard to get rid of; they can rebound;
and reproduce from bits of rhizome left within the ground.

Brac Lei Uweeds is a poet fond of wild flowers.


No Colloquy on BlackRock
          by Brad Lee Suciew
          “…a black rock, standing high at the full tide…”
              —John Gould Fletcher

There will be no backtalk, here where the rook sits in the rain.
One does expect no miracle, or accidental gain.
G-mafia, hard Moloch’s progeny, plows over souls,
who failing, flailing, cry out to the water’s waves and rolls.

BlackRock commands ten-trillion dollars, somewhere there about,
BlackRock’s the World’s largest asset manager right now.
Aladdin is its juggernaut used, in the industry,
by companies, like Apple, Microsoft, and Alpha Bee.

It manages the massive pension fund, too, of Japan;
its people in and out of the huge US power-span.
It helps the US Federal Reserve in han-dl-ing
its purchasing of assets for someone’s emergency?

It also han-dled assets of Bear Stearns and AIG,
back in the finance crisis of this present century.
It ‘s been investigated recently by state AGs,
for getting in on ESG investment agencies.

And recently one hears, beyond the main-stream-media,
the spin of BlackRock narratives upon the greedier.
Investors cannot get their money Back—R-E-I-T.
Is this because of its corrupt accounting practicing?

Bad Lee Suciew is a poet of business. John Gould Fletcher (1886-1950) was a Modernist American poet.