In Purple Night
          by Wic E. Ruse Blade

In purple night, the bats were out; they flew amidst tree limbs.
A black cat cried beside white spider webs. The light was dim.
An orange pumpkin carved to make a toothy, joyful grin.
It soon would be the coming of a spooky Halloween.
Beneath the stars, in eerienees, the choc’late cookies stacked;
a man pulled open a round cannister, a cheerful act.
An infant in his crib was laughing to himself alone;
the human mind is an enigma in a shell of bone.
The man, like as a dragon with his treasures strewn around,
held to his cookies closely, like a boy to toys…a-bound.

Wic E. Ruse Blade is a poet of clandestine humour. Dunkies are chocolate and cream cookies concocted only briefly by a company.


          by “Clear Dew” Ibuse

The long shadows fall,
from three souls walking along:
ghosts in the sunny dawn.


          by “Wired Clues” Abe

A dinosaur romped,
squeaking through the neighbourhood.
It was Halloween.

“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).


The Sun Was Glaring
          by Ra Bué Weel Disc

The Sun was glaring, glowing, gleaming, glowering, in fact,
not fiction, but actually, in a brash and brazen act;
but hardly any different than billion-years before,
just that there were no clouds protecting eyes from its harsh core.
He drove into its line of sight, as safely as he could,
along the long and winding road within the neighbourhood;
but it was not an easy route: its blinding glittering,
bared flares before one’s eyes, flames shimmering and glistening.
It was a cataract of overwheming blazing light,
like as bright-white, illuminating. blasting dynamite.

Ra Bué Weel Disc is a poet of the Sun.


The One Who Got Away
          by Walibee Scrude

Beneath the waratahs and wattles, and tall coolibah,
there was a bunyip lurking in the oxbow billabong.
The moon was at the full that week. It chased the bloodshot sun,
that scattered golden rays about as it had always done.
A bather came to swim a bit; he felt the water’s kiss.
When he jumped in, its tingle tickled his skin with its hiss.
He swam about; his legs were free; his arms and hands were too.
There in the night he felt so good. He thought that this would do.
But lo, behold! behind him there, a big, bad, brawny beast
had come up to him in that swamp to bite him in the east.
What could he do? He had no hope that he could get away.
It looked like he was stuck within, and that he’d have to stay.
He splashed about, as if he were a crazy man set free,
or one who was within the thrall of epileptic seize.
The bunyip grabbed him in its paws, proceeding to attack.
The bather tried to get away, but it was on his back.
He shook, he shivered, shaking, quaking, quivering and rocked.
He wondered would he reach the bank before he was defrocked.
He kept his cool, he tightened up, he held on for dear life.
He wondered would he make it through the bunyip’s strength and strife.
He went along, relaxing, calm, so when the bunyip moved,
he slid away along its length; it was a perfect groove.
So he escaped, and he survived, the bunyip’s mighty grip,
the only one…perhaps…because he’d had him on the hip.
By following along with it, and waiting for a break,
there came a moment he could flee and his sweet exit make.
Beneath the waratahs and wattles, and tall coolibah,
one dude escaped the bunyip in the oxbow billabong.

Walibee Scrude is a poet of Australia. John Streeter Manifold (1915-1985) was a PostModernist Australian poet.


Rejuvenated Morning Meditation
          by Sri Wele Cebuda

He slowly woke up from his slumber, eyes remaining closed.
He was as comfortable as he could be, staying dozed…
and yet awake. He took one long deep breath and let it seep
throughout his body, then another, calmly leaving sleep.
His mind was wandering. He was in tune with inner self.
In one fell swoop, he floated softly on his cushioned shelf.
He would have loved to just remain, relaxing and at peace.
He didn’t want the feelings that he felt to flee, to cease.
But he was glad to get up; it was time to go to work::
rejuvenated morning meditation had occurred.

Sri Wele Cebuda is a poet of meditation.


Auras of Autumn
          by Walice du Beers

He stood up at the window. Rain was pouring down outside.
The panoramic vista was so beautiful and wide.
The wind was blowing. O, he was glad that he was inside.
He took a sip of coffee from his cup, and then he sighed.
He loved that view, though it was just a site he’d seen before:
the sidewalks, lamp posts, streets and more beyond his closed-shut door;
he loved trim lawns and brick abodes up past which he took tours;
he loved all of the gorgeous scenery and its contours.
And now the rain was watering and cleaning all its ways.
It was a sight that never managed somehow to amaze.

Walice du Beers is a poet of atmospheric moments.


The Day Was Blustery
          by Eber L. Aucsidew

The day was blustery and cold; the rain fell to the earth.
It did its best depressing both the merriment and mirth.
Yet still, inside, one could be glad to be both warm and dry.
Let the gray sky unleash its winds and rattle trees awry.
But here inside, at least for now, one could be well content,
protected from the elements of the environment.

Eber L. Aucsidew is a poet of rain.


At War
          by War di Belecuse

One always is at war; it doesn’t matter who you are.
Someone has come to fight you, even when you’re in a car.
One must be strong; one needs some courage just to face each day.
It’s hard to know the forces that against you are arrayed.
What’s wanted is endurance, courage, keeping one’s guard up,
to face those foes who mean to do one harm when one’s hard put.

War di Belecuse is a poet of war.


She didn’t wear a hijab on the Tehran Metro train.
Armita Gerevand is dead. She won’t do that again.


Who Was It?
          by Uca Weredebils

It managed to disrupt th’ electrical grid in Tehran,
though only for a couple hours in parts of Iran.
The electricity was cut in other villages as well.
The message said, “Don’t play with fire.” Or they would get hell.

Uca Weredebils is a poet of hacking.


Mingled With the Muck
          by Israel W. Ebecud

He was an old man in dry skin. He had no wineskin bag.
How could he pour the new wine in for those who lag and gab?
He was not at the hot gate. Rain was cold and fresh and hard.
The wars continued on, and on. The days were drab and dark.

Although flies got into the house, they happily were zapped,
by thé electrified grid, suddenly entrapped, and rapt.
His head was dull, among the windy spaces of the day.
There was not an estaminet where he could sit and pray.

There were no signs of wonder. Christ the Tiger had not come.
The Kingdom was not populated by the fervent young.
The mobs were screaming in the streets; and some of them had guns.
It was not shocking that new blood was mingled with the muck.

Israel W. Ebecud is a poet of Israel.


It has returned again. We didn’t think the mob would choose
to voice such vile hatred once again: “Death to the Jews”.
New Nazis have come to the fore in nations once again.
How did it happen antisemitism grew, like then?


He Felt
          by Acwiles Berude

He felt like he was falling down into a gray abyss,
his legs above his abs, his ass above his folded fist.
He felt like he was far too pink against a world of brown.
He felt like he had dropped so low he lost his sense of down.
Yet on he went despite the storm that raged around his life.
He felt his thighs and calves go wide, forced open by the strife.
He felt malevolence and vile violence—that male.
He felt he was a masted sail in a gusty gale.
He longed to hold on to his mast and make it past his tryst
with Scylla and Charybdis, facing brutal, rugged Dis.

Acwiles Berude is a poet of Ancient Greece. Homer was the author of the epic “Odyssey”. In Roman religion, Dis was god of the infernal regions.


The Scops
          by Eric Albu, “Swede”

The scops shaped stories while they strummed their harps with alliteration and flats and sharps,
coining kennings, kenning coinings, like kings gathering gold, shining imaginings.

Eric Albu, “Swede” is a poet of Scandanavia. The above and the following words are prosems.


The Missing Tale
          by Wilude Scabere

What is the missing tale old Shakespeare used to conjure up his tempest and his play? By what strange magic are we yet abused by what he had—hath fashioned in his way? His fishy Caliban yet haunts our world, and spritely Ariel set free is still a wild and spiralling spirit form unfurled,
remembered for his fine and subtle will. Prospero leaves off all his powers gained; while Italy remains, he vanishes; although he rarely was, or is disdained. How strange ‘t is what life holds and banishes. So, at least for a spell, there was this place, where once upon a dawn, he doffed some grace.

Wilude Scabere is a poet of Shakespearean creativity.


Antifungal Strategies
          by Dr. Weslie Ubeca

He tried to make his body less appealing to fungi,
that group that thrives upon organic matter—hoo, bonzai.
By lowering his carbohydrates, he would be less sweet;
and then they would be less inclined to pause, perchance to eat.

And also he would try to get outside, where it was bright,
to get out of the dark and let his realm be filled with light.
This way he’d chase the onychomycosis from his toe,
and tinea pedis, from his foot; for it was time to go.

He knew it was important that he wore his sandals in
the locker room of the pool area where he would swim.
Though there were lots of products he could use to keep him clean,
he simply kept his nails aired, carefully trimmed and neat.

Dr. Weslie Ubeca is a poet of healing, not a medical doctor.


In the long year, from the spring training through this season’s games,
the Texas Rangers came to be the baseball World champs.


On Staid Carousel
          by Rudi E. Welec, “Abs”

He stepped up to the black elliptical, with its heart-tracks.
It was time for his exerci-zing on the training max.
He started stepping, left and right, o, up and down, as well.
His heart was beating slightly harder on staid carousel.
Yes, one could see him moving there, his feet up off the ground;
He cycled through his regimen, while yet not going round.
He kept on going for as long as he was able to;
his heart was pumping faster; he was striving to make do.
His high intensity workout continued on a pace
upon his large and textured pedalled stationary race.
Then, finally, he broke it off, so as to catch his breath,
releasing hand-grips, lessening his stress, relax, and rest.

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