by “Clear Dew” Ibuse

The cat is alert
to a gecko on the wall,
long after it’s gone.

“Clear Dew” Ibuse is a poet fond of Japanese haiku.


          by “Wired Clues” Abe

The jet roars over,
above the cir-cl-ing hawk
and the gawkers below.

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


Xu Zhimo
          by Li “Webcrease” Du

He flew into the clouds, like a Shelley, Xu Zhimo, a rarefied bird of love, a Byron or a wind-borne Rossetti, seeking for that beautiful world above and that lovely woman below. He chased
the crecent moon across America, Europe, and China, feeling but distaste for science, religion, and politics. Tagore’s East Asian guide and Liang Qichao’s brilliant, but wayward, student often clashed with the mundane world of man, running out of time and life itself, when his plane crashed in the fog near Mount Tai, Shandong Province, and he died at the age of thirty-four.

Li “Webcrease” Du is a poet of China. Xu Zhimo (1897-1931) was a Modernist Chinese poet.


Ilya Ehrenburg
          by Alecsei Durbew

I lived obscurely and uncertainly,
like nearly everybody else has done,
and I can recollect a certain tree
with large green leaves aquiver in the sun—
an inky giant in the blue above.
Was Ilya Ehrenberg a coward, vain?
I do not know. Perhaps he was in love.
I still remember a shower, a rain.
But I have heard that during World War II
no Russian soldier rolled a cigarette
from any newspaper that had {Is this true?}
an article by Ehrenberg. And yet,
I wonder, maybe superstitiously,
if this fact will be lost in history.

Alecsei Durbew is a poet of Russian literature. Ilya Ehrenburg (1891-1967) was a noted Russian proset and poet.


Sistine Madonna by Rafaello Sanzio
          by Buceli da Werse

Above eight feet in height, and over six feet wide, the oil done on canvas, Sistine Madonna, was
by Rafaello Sanzio, beatified in paint in 1513. It hangs in Dresden. As if she were alive there, Mary stands on clouds and cradles Baby Jesus in her arms. She wears a dress of red; a swath of brown cloth flares around circularly atop a blue surrounding robe that sweeps about her body as it cascades down. Saint Barbara looks off, and positively glows, while Sextus looks like Julius, hat at his side, faint faces at his back, and cherub blobs below.

The Sistine Madonna and the Child, in awe at the height, very nearly shocked, dynamic, upright, powerful, wild, an unearthly feeling opened, unlocked, unveiled with uncanny precision,
extraordinary passions harboring revelation, apocalypse, vision, standing o’er Saints Sixtus and Barbara, and two small touchingly comic putti that accentuate the distance between the two, o, the overwhelming beauty—austere, blue, red, blood-dread, curtained in greeen, on a cloud of white faces, and the more subdued intermediary color.

Buceli da Werse is a poet of Italian painting. Rafaello Sanzio (1483-1520) was a noted High Renaissance Italian painter and architect. The two above prosems are on the same painting.


Endre Ady
          by Buda Ecsel Ewir

Born in the remote village Érmindszent
in the Austro-Hungarian Empire,
Endre Ady left off a law student
for journalistic and poetic fire,
settling in Debrecen, which depressed him,
so he moved off then to Nagyvárad,
now Oradea, Romania. Whim
brought him Leda, Adél Brüll, a (married lady) comrade.
When she left, there were sanatarium
treatment and more affairs before marriage
and retirement to Transylvania.
But even here he was not at peace, sage,
and died in Budapest in 1919
after recently becoming Chairman
of the Vörösmarty Academy.

Buda Ecsel Ewir is a poet of Hungary. Endre Ady (1877-1919) was a Modernist Hungarian poet.


A London Lounge
          for Wilude Scabeer

Beyond, across the river, shine the city lights.
The Tower Bridge reveals its long familiar form;
but here, inside the windowed room and glowing bright,
reclines a man. It is the quiet aft the storm.
He doesn’t move. He has been shot. Is he dead? tired?
Against the shiny dark brown couch, his body, dorm,
lies on th’ upholstered-button sofa, soft flesh mired,
from pillow curve to pillow curve, a lanky length.
The open room has been electrically wired.
Can he go on? one wonders. Does he have the strength?
Upon his elbows, can he lift that heavy night,
his neatly-cut and black-haired head from off that angst?

Stretched out upon a leather sofa, head to toe,
face leaning on one pillow near one poofy arm,
his feet upon a pillow at the other—so.
He wore few clothes, because it must have been quite warm.
Although he was alert, he hardly moved at all,
as if a statue posed, adapted to that form.
His long, lean curving form implied that he was tall.
The only thing he did was close and open eyes.
It did not look like he was having fun, a ball.
The world that he lived in was without surprise.
He looked quite elegant and puissant in that glow.
I wondered what sleuth Sherlock Holmes would glean, surmise.

His dark brown eyes were open wide beneath arched brows.
Below his nose a faint mustache went round thick lips.
He lay so still, one wondered, if he would arouse,
that lean, long, lanky shape with rising slopes and dips.
He looked so serious, intent upon one thing
unseen, one worried for his health, not back, but hips,
or legs, beneath the lamp light’s gold glow, languishing.
What was he wishing for? He lay so languidly,
it seemed, he’d no in-tension moving, altering,
upon his elbows, his right knee bent sanguinely.
He wasn’t drinking, didn’t seem to be a souse,
but still he was relaxed despite his angling.

Cruise Wel Abed is a poet of England in the manner of “Oblamov.”


To Dawn
          by I Warble Seduce

The years have fled, and time so swiftly flees,
since that brief hour when you and I first met;
but how we loved I still remember yet;
so purely did you live and love and please.
You were a wonder then and still are now,
a form of beauty and of loveliness;
your spirit shines with light and blessedness;
you are a bright and cheerful soul. And how!
When you’re around you do not understand
how happy is my heart and soul and mind.
You make me glad that you are near; yes, and
when I see your infectious joy, I’m blind
to everything else, which seems drab and bland;
and my cold soul is warmed by what I find.

I Warble Seduce is a poet of love.


To Be Outside
          by Ubs Reece Idwal

A cool and fresh, late August evening breeze
blows past my head, as I sit on a chair.
I am at peace, and enjoying my ease.
I breathe in deep the slightly cooling air.
The distant vehicles swish past me here.
A dog is barking; a front door is closed;
and there are many other things I hear,
doves coo, a squirrel chirps, a saw’s buzz goes.
It is so nice to be outside, away
from school and hospital, the rules, the ground,
able to hear voices go through the day,
but not knowing what they say, just their sound.
The oriental lillies send out smells;
so rich and pleasant they present themselves
that I am glad to be alive and well.

Ubs Reece Idwal is a poet of the Northwest.


          by Bruc “Diesel” Awe

The scene is in a painting’s frame. The detail is meticulous, by draftsman Václav Zapadlík. One sees a man in cap and goggles who sails by in open, antique motorcar. His pal is with him, holding on. The rubber tires churn up dust. He’s at the big, round wheel driving rapidly, focused. His pal has got to trust him, since he must, to beat the train that’s roaring down the track—so close. The engineer is motioning—get by or bust. Behind, beside a sign, stand men in sporty clothes—bicycle, scattered trees, telephone lines, pale sky. Will 16 win? or 25? Which one of those?

Bruc “Diesel” Awe is a poet of historical automobiles. Václav Zapadlík (1943-2018) was a PostModernist Czech illustrator.


The Sacrificial Lamb
          by Brice U. Lawseed

Who was the sacrificial lamb? Lee Harvey Oswald was.
Who set him up to take the hit? US Intelligence.
Who did the killing, and were willing, to destory a man?
The Mafia and FBI were members of the plan.
Who did not try to find what happened? People in the press.
Who worked to cover-up the crimes? The pols and the police.
Who worked to find the truth? Run-of-the-mill Americans,
eye-witnesses who would not bend to haughty arrogance.
Who still believes that he is innocent despite the lies?
His mother did, at least unto the last, until she dies;
and many more of us who do not buy the fake reports,
about a man not given a fair trial in the courts.

Brice U. Lawseed is a poet of law. Lee Harvey Oswald (1939-1963) was an American who was deprived of justice even half a century after his death.


The Steady Flow
          by Bruc “Diesel” Awe

He parked his car at thé edge of the plaza in the shade,
a welcome spot to rest, as it was one hot summer day.
he saw the steady flow of traffic on the interstate.
He stayed to wait a little while, while waiting by the way.

He gazed upon Westgate, the wide, elm-lined, divided street,
and giant flag that flapped and rippled in the strong, brisk breeze.
He heard the roar of vehicles speed past him where he was;
dry branching leaves were clapping in an animated buzz.

All was in motion, all around him, even where he’d paused,
including two pink-tailed finches in a zig-zag zod.
They pressed on through relentlessly; they had somewhere to go,
through twitching twigs they twisted past in zipping, steady flow.


Brain Fog Slowly Lifted
          by Bruc “Diesel” Awe

He didn’t need lube services or axle/wheels aligned.
He didn’t need truck maintenance. His vehicle was fine.
He turned in to a Travel Center of America,
and got a cup of coffee—buttery-rum-caramel.
He thought it was delicious, satisfying, sweet, and warm,
a tasty, toffee smell with subtle, added hints of charm.

His brain fog slowly lifted in the blinding, glaring Sun:
Was it caffeine inhibiting the binding in his brain
of neuro-chemical transmitters, like adenosine
and its compeer, confederate benzodiazepine?
Was there increased alertness? energy within the pate?
Could that dense individual now better concentrate?

Bruc “Diesel” Awe is a poet of transport.


          by Dewar Elec Buise

He saw his drink contained, among so many other things,
EDTA, and that sent him down varied ponderings,
since ethylenediaminetetra’cetic acid is
used in so many other ways besides a bit of fizz,
like “scrubbing” hydrogen-sulfide from varied gassy streams,
in medicine, chelation therapy, in dentistry,
in paper and textiles, laundry water softeners,
evaluating kidneys, and used by photographers,
in cleaners and shampoos, as well as lenses and eyedrops,
removing “crud” from nuclear reactive fuel rods.
That was enough for him to pour that fresh drink down the drain,
He didn’t think he’d need EDTA to reach his brain.

Dewar Elec Buise is a poet of chemistry. Modernist Austrian chemist Ferdinand Münz (1888-1969) synthesized EDTA in 1935.


          “That fearful sound of ‘fire’ and ‘fire,’
          Let no man know is my desire.”
              —Anne Bradstreet (1612-1672)


From arcs of sparks, as from a welder’s torch, the people fled;
and flying flames, that came and went, left many people dead.
More than one-hundred people now are missing or have died;
More than two-thousand buildings have been damaged or destroyed;
More than twelve-thousand people have lost homes and livelihoods,
as fire flew throughout Lahaina’s varied neighbourhoods.


The Server
          by Des Wercebauli

The server steps into the room so gingerly.
He dare not flaunt or saunter here. He’s like a ghost,
attending on his master’s guests. He’s miserly
with sound. He fills each glass before they make a toast.
He stands upright, anticipating, in the wings,
in neat, tight, dark blue short-sleeved shirt. His walk’s a coast.
He must move smoothly, smart, no matter what he brings.
And he gets no acknowledgement, except for taunts
perhaps, or the occasional pat fingerings.
His life is satisfying other people’s wants,
not his. When all are done, with quiet energy,
he clears and cleans their mess, then waits. This is his haunt.

Des Wercebauli is a poet of work.