The Annular Solar Eclipse, October 14, 2023
          by Drew U. A. Eclibse

He looked askance around the solar annular eclipse;
he didn’t want to look too close at an apocaplypse.
He hardly noticed anything, when its trek had begun.
The Moon came in between rotating Earth and glaring Sun.
When the antumbra came, its ring of fire, still too bright,
was too intense and radiant for ordinary sight.
And yet, its touch was light, while traveling upon its path…
o’er Oregon, or Mexico, in its shared heated bath.
Then it was gone. It had done its thing. And then it moved on.
He went back to his regular existence…noon anon.

Drew U. A. Eclibse is a poet of eclipses.


          by “Clear Dew” Ibuse

The grandmother gave
a purple, smooth, blue aster
to a two-t tot.


          by “Clear Dew” Ibuse

Autumn’s colours fall—
yellow, orange, red and brown—
down from green and pall.


          by “Wired Clues” Abe

Peeking through cement,
the tiniest of green plants
push thick, short and lush.

“Wired Clues” Abe is a trad haiku writer, 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).


At Five O’Clock
          by Sri Wele Cebuda

He walks along the light-grey sidewalks of the neighbourhood.
Above, the clouds are grey.The sky is wide and blue and good.
The air is fresh, the breeze is brisk; it is the afternoon.
Sun rays are slanted at an angle, warming, charming, new.

The barbecue aromas waft across the passing wind.
He winds his way around the houses, far away from Ind.
He hears the barks of guard dogs as he saunters in a ring.
It is a peaceful rendering that he is entering.

He gazes over open fields at the meadow’s edge.
There overhead, he sees th’ occasional high-flying jet.
A crow croaks out spondaic caws atop a chimney cap,
and then unrolls its feathers with a flap…flap…flap…flap…flap.

Sri Wele Cebuda is a poet of meditation.


Thus Spake Zarathustra
          by Delir Ecwabius

Who was he speaking to? Nobody in particular.
Who cared to hear his words here after the canicular?
He hoped that somewhere in the present or the future tense
there would be one, or some, who would find out how he made sense.
But it was just a wimpy wish, unrealized desire,
that someone somewhere could find power, and somehow aspire,
as that old prophet, camel-driving Zarathustra did,
in the timespan of Persia, under the Achaemenid.

Traditionally, Zarathustra (c. 628 BC – c. 551 BC) was a Persian prophet.


Question Asked and Answered:
          by Delir Ecwabeus

Panahi and Rasoulof were arrested last July.
Who will be next? Was Dariush Mehrjui obliged to die?
Near Tehran, in Karaj, he and his wife were slaughtered by
supposedly some unknown murderer who had a knife.

Delir Ecwabius is a poet of Iran. Panahi and Rasoulof are contemporary film makers. Dariush Mehrjui (1939-2023) was a founding member of the Iranian New Wave Movement. Karaj, Iran, is a city of approximately 2,000,000.


At Ahli Baptist Hospital, in Gaza, was it a
misfired rocket o’ th’ Iranian-backed PIJ?


The Opera Singer Singing Wagner
          by Ewald E. Eisbruc

He stood upon the stage, a portly man, not fat.
He had a shock of hair that hung about his head,
like golden flax, a neck-length cut, and thick at that.
His countenance was stern, inviting awe and dread.
And when he sang, his voice was hefty, strong and loud.
It shook the welkin round, and was by fury fed.
His attitude was massive, arrogant and proud.
The audience was captivated by his might.
He stood up tall and wide, and he was well endowed.
So overall he was a most impressive sight.
He only stumbled once, recovered firm and flat.
It wasn’t long before his stature was aright.

Ewald E. Eisbruc (E. E. E.) is a poet of German music, like that of composer Richard Wagner (1813-1883).


A Waterfall in Xanadu
          by Air Weelbed Suc

The waterfall was streaming down the rolling hills.
Faint, steamy clouds arose beside its many spills.
I longed to drink its water, follow down its rills.
For me, there could not be, I think, much greater thrills.
Such beauty in the world leaves one hot with chills.
Such loveliness helps one to face the harshest wills.
Such pretty peace helps one to face the hardest ills.
How can there be a waterfall that so fulfills?
But if I could get on one of its many sills,
I think those slopes so slippery with wet, white quills,
that I would fall forever down. Its edged shape kills.
And yet I wish I could pause where it lulls and mills,
because each flush along its way sweet love instills.
It is a shining series of divine untils.
Its gorgeous furrows leave one pink around the gills.
The glittering of drops, the shimmering, clear trills,
are like the scattering of crystal daffodils
in rainbowed arcs above divine and sunlit villes,
or gleaming silver flecks on radiator grills.
If I could hold it, keeping but its frothy frills,
with that alone, I know I’d be in heaven still.

Air Weelbed Suc is a poet who admired Romantic English poet Samuel Taylor Coleridge (1772-1834).


Because jihadi terrorists from Gaza stormed in war,
Israeli soldiers prepped for conflict; they would take no more.
So residents of Gaza fled southwárd t’wárd Egypt’s Land.
Oppressed so hard by troubles and Hamas, they could not stand.
But Egypt won’t allow the exodus of people in.
There isn’t room in Sinai for the Palestinians.
And Jordan too insisted that they are not welcome there.
Where can these people go to get away from their despair?


Michel Mertz
          by Sdece Bruwalie

There are not many pictures of him, but there’s at least one;
he has been shooting moving targets—in East Africa?
He’s seated on what seems to be a flat rock or black log,
surrounded by scrub brush, extending for a long ways on.

His rifle’s in his left hand, rugged jacket on his back,
a floppy shade-brimmed hat, binoculars around his neck.
Beneath the sunlit desert scene, he sits there in the heat;
his gaze is forward, straight, a dead gazelle is at his feet.

Sdece Bruwalie is a poet of the French Connection. Michel Mertz (1920-1995) was a member of the French secret service.


In Bright Delight
          by Rudi E. Welec, “Abs”

Although it was quite cool, it was time for the morning walk.
He put his hooded jacket on, before he left the dock.
The sky was sunny, though the wind was blustery and cold;
but he proceeded down the sidewalk, his pace, strong and bold.
Because he was in new shoes, he felt awkward in his step;
but he would not let that deter him; he had lots of pep.

He saw a jet zip through the blue, a distant silver tube;
he saw some yellow meadow hawkweed in the neighbourhood.
He scuffed along cement-street grooves, and dirt beside the road;
he headed to the golden globe; he saw the Sun explode.
He noted driveway lights still shining, yellow, blue and white;
he was a viewer of so many sights in bright delight.

He loved the stop and go of traveling by each new curve;
adapting to the varied heights of hilly drive and curb.
He liked the freshness of the day, his province and his realm,
from clumpy Dallisgrass to the dark green of cedar elm.
He drank in all the visuals, from houses, cars and trucks,
from windows, gardens, sprinklers, and the total neutron flux.

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


This Engineer
          by R. Lee Ubicwedas

He came, he saw, he invented, Lee De Forest,
with some 180 patents to his name,
like the electrolytic receiver, the
Audion, and triode, each adding to his fame.
He helped perfect the art of trasmitting sound
across the air; that is his most important claim.
Though he got caught in patent lawsuits; that was bound
to happen with such a volatile character;
and he decried that the broadcasting child he found
was dressed in ragtime, jive, and boogie-woogie’s stir,
he still could point out how he’d taken the wireless
orphan and made a radio—this engineer.

R. Lee Ubicwedas is a poet of invnetion. Lee De Forest (1873-1961) was an American inventor.


Alexa said the 2020 vote was a “mass… fraud”…
“notorious for many instances” much worse than odd.
It said “Trump won [in] Pennsylvania” from metro drops,
and so Alexa then was censored for its terror flops.


The Scuba Diver
          by E. E. “Scuba” Wilder

Along the shoreline of the deep and dark lagoon,
he puts on goggles, air tank, and his plastic fins.
He tests the waters in the heat of th’ afternoon,
before the sun has fled, before the night begins.
He plunges in—the slippery slope of the soul.
He knows what neither Beowulf or Brecca kens
and travels to the bottom of the shoal, his goal.
He’s seeking Grendel’s lair; he’s reaching for its end;
without a weapon, lance or spear—and but a pole—
to find the ledge upon which he cannot descend,
that ground that forms the terra firma of a boon,
a final place past which he never has to bend.

E. E. “Scuba” Wilder is a poet of watery lairs.