Armistice 2023
          by War di Belecuse

Th’ 11th of November, 1918—th’ Armistice—
that ended W-o-r-l-d War I, signed near Compiègne in France,
had stopped that War, and yet new wars broke out, as time went on,
another W-o-r-l-d War, much larger, came with a new dawn.
And now we see and hear of later wars across the Globe—
insight to blind, sound to unsound, and hope to terror—blown.

War in Ukraine continues, as the Russians bomb the land,
and “from the river to the sea” repeatedly is fanned.
In Central Africa, from Congo north to Libya,
and east from Chad through the Sudan to Ethiopia.
The turbid ebb and flow of human misery flows forth;
one hears it here out in the West, the East, the South, and North.

War di Belecuse is a poet of conflict. Compiègne is a city in northern France of about 40,000. L6 draws from Modernist American poet E. E. Cummings (1894-1962), who had been an ambulance driver in World War I; L11 draws from Victorian British poet Matthew Arnold (1822-1888).


          by “Clear Dew” Ibuse

A calm squirrel sits
under th’ elderberry tree,
feasting on acorns.


          by “Clear Dew” Ibuse

Beneath the immense
oriental pear, three cats
stare at passersbys.

“Clear Dew” Ibuse is a haikuist following Basho, Buson, Issa, and Shiki.


          by “Wired Clues” Abe

He heard the train moan
upon his neighbourhood walk.
The tot was surprised.

“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).


There at the APEC summnit, homeless persons were not seen,
where Communist Chinese flags lined the San Francisco streets.


He Had a Rendezvous with Life
          by Bud “Weasel” Rice

The dinosaurs were far into the future of life’s thirst,
when layered stone stromatolites first burst onto the Earth.
Those matted rock formations, o, the oldest life-forms known,
their microscopic, synthesizing organisms shown,
that used the Sun’s warm light to build up lots of oxygen,
in shallow saline waters, making domal mounds back then.
And so, he had a rendezvous with life, here in this place,
on this great Ball, this turning Globe, found orbiting in space;
and he would have to navigate with the stromatolites—
as well as the eukaryotes, including lithophytes.


          by Bud “Weasel” Rice

The images of life flash by unclear, unclean,
uncut, like credits in a movie’s startling start,
exploding on the screen, unfolding as they’re seen,
then quickly vanishing. Life is a kind of art.
Existence is surprising, never how one thinks
it’s going to be; hence, it takes a lot of heart.
No sooner are you used to its rise when it sinks;
nor later going up when you were sure it sank.
So crazy is the ride, some turn to drugs or drinks;
there are so many ways to end up in the tank
that’s roaring over desert sands, caught in between
the hands of time outstretching, pitiless and blank.

Bud “Weasel” Rice is a poet of eukaryotes.


At a Train Station in the Night
          by Bruc “Diesel” Awe

He barely was alive. He was in awe at all he saw.
There was too much to see. He felt the fall of nausea.
Was he in Germany, or England? He had been in both.
For a train station in the night is an imbroglio seen.

The train conductor took the tickets from the passengers.
The engineer began the movement—cars, cheers, bars and jeers.
The whole was so much to account for—How could it be done?
and forth the evening’s darkness had to fly far from the Sun.

One had to go on through the terrors and adventures shown,
distorted images would leave one queasy, in some zone,
where continuity was broken everywhere one looked.
To where was he now going to? To where had he been booked?

Bruc “Diesel” Awe is a poet of trains. “Diesel” was a character in “The Railway Series” by British PostModernist writer Reverend Wilbert Awdry (1911-1997) and his son Christopher Awdry.


The Washington Post could not lead with the gigantic crowds,
that numbered in the hundred-thousands; it was too damn loud;
the story buried in the Metro Section, there were Jews;
attacking antisemitism’s kept out of the news.


At the BNW Museum
          by Red Was Iceblue

There at the BNW Museum set in D,
it had displays of an amazing lot of potpourri:
The retro petrol wall itself was filled with signs and shapes,
with stars and flags, trains, cars and tags, like each state’s license plates.
There were trucks, planes and bikes, as well as varied oils,
directions, north, west, south, and east, in dec’rative trefoils.
There was a mix—Route 66—and gasolines arrayed,
like Mobilgas, Gulf, Texaco, Sinclair and Esso grade.
And with the octagon stop sign, faded to pale red,
there were the turns, the yields, and a traffic light ahead.

Red Was Iceblue is a poet of art.


          by Dr. Weslie Ubeca

Amoxicillin is an antimicrobial med,
an active substance that combats bacterial ailments,
like skin and middle ear infections, and pneumonia,
as well as UTI, strep throat, and dental maladies.
It is a member of the beta-lactam family,
like penicillin, but it is not like an amylase.

Dr. Weslie Ubeca is a poet of medicine; but is not a doctor of medicine.


The Bug
          by Earwic Beedles
          “When I am pinned and wiggling on the wall…”
              —T. S. Eliot, “The Lovesong of J. Alfred Prufrock”

He felt like some up-turned insect, a pin stuck in to him,
some squirming, writhing, wriggling thing, somebody’s specimen;
his legs and arms all twisting, twitching, wriggling about,
but going nowhere whatsoe’er, though sturdy, strong and stout;
not making any headway fast or getting to some point.
His time was out of (every single ligament or) joint.
He first tried cheer, and then came fear; but nothing seemed to work.
No matter what he did he still remained a sprawling jerk.
He tucked his gut in tight and sucked his situation up.
Though without hope, he still would cope, a hardened quirky sump.

Earwic Beeduls is a poet of insects.


He Felt Primordial
          by Uwere Basic Eld

He felt primordial, while shaving in the morning light.
He whisked the razor o’er his day-old beard. His abs felt tight.
He bent his knees, like a Neanderthal of long ago,
his cheeks puffed out and hairy, on the fair Eurasian slopes.
Yet he was just another Homo sapiens at task,
performing needed kneading after power shower bath.
By moving up and down and all around his jutting chin,
he trimmed the whiskers that were sitting on his stretched out skin.
He felt quite primitive with his biome bacteria,
yet still, at home with tiny, mighty mitochondria.
He even felt much older than the dinosaurs of Eld;
though that perhaps pretentious, was exactly how he felt.

Uwere Basic Eld is a poet of Archaic eras.


Let Me Not to the Marriage of Two Souls
          by Wilude Scabere

Let me not to the marriage of two souls,
a man and woman tied eternally,
as time around them rages in its throes,
do aught but gaze in awe most earnestly
upon their physical commitment; for,
they’ve linked themselves together for all time,
and left childhood behind for something more,
allegiance to the hour, and not the mind.
O, that is harder than most anything
in life, devotion to a husband or
a wife; because so many things do fling
impediments ‘gainst that embattled door.
All marriage has within its arsenal
are gentleness and love to fight time’s squalls.

Wilude Scabere is a poet who admires the work of William Shakespeare.


How Can?
          by Erisbawdle Cue

How can one e’er describe such beauty, as that which one finds
before one on a silver platter’s intricate designs?
How can one understand a beauty that is so hard and tough?
What kind of World is it, friend, where it can be enough?
How can one grasp the essence of a beauty so unmoved?
How can one ever think that in such emptiness is love?
How can a beauty that’s so large, still be so crimped and small?
How can a beauty unmajestical rise up so tall?
How can a beauty alter all the course of kind and be
so cruel and so wonderful, restrained and yet so free?

Erisbawdle Cue is a poet of philosophy.


The Leaves of Autumn
          by Ileac Burweeds

They have begun to fall again—the leaves of autumn—down
onto lawns, drive-ways, and the streets, red, orange,, yellow, brown.
The cold is coming, so the trees have to reduce themselves
to their tough parts—trunks, branches, bark—and so must go the leaves.
Deciduous trees are susceptible, and they can freeze;
as days grow shorter, such trees have to give up all their greens.
In fall and early winter there is much less chlorophyll,
and trigger mechanisms are prepared accordingly.
Abscission layers over time prevent the nutrients,
like carbohydrates, which can’t get to tips beyond the stems.
And so they drop to earth, from Shumard oaks to cedar elms,
while overwhelming rakers with their overweening smells.

Ileac Burweeds is a poet of plants.