by “Lice Brews” Ueda
I cry out utō
but hear no yasukata
in the sands of time.
“Lice Brews” Ueda is a poet of Japan. A seabird, the utō [petrel], hides its young in the sand. To find its young it cries out “utō” to which the young reply “yasukata.”
Top Secret Jin Geng Number One Rocket
by Lu “Reed ABCs” Wei
The rocket weighs 3,700 kilograms,
its measure, 8.7 meters long in full expanse.
The prototype, the Jia Geng, a hypersonic jet,
appears to be a weapon that the Chinese want to get.
Surprisingly it looks almost like those Americans
have been attempting to invent. More Chinese copycats?
It’s hard to say what’s going on in Chinese media;
when pics of Jia Geng appear, is this expedient?
The missile’s like a giant metal shark prepared to strike;
but can its scramjets suck air in @ Mach 15 in flight?
Lu “Reed ABCs” Wei is a poet of China.
An Earthquake Hit the Philippines
by Cebu Awis Deser
An earthquake hit the Philippines and shook its buildings so
that water from a rooftop pool dropped rapidly below.
A video shows water falling from highrise Anchor Suites
in the Binodo district, plunging down on to the streets.
Train services were halted, roads and sidewalks clogged with those
who fled from work as quickly as they could in throbbing flows.
In Porac, northwest of Manila, more than a dozen died;
there, a large supermarket crashed, so many terrified.
Located as it is, on the Pacific Ring of Fire,
the Philippines is prone to Vulcan’s cataclysmic ire.
Cebu Awis Deser is a poet fond of the Philippines.
The Myitsone Dam in Kachin State
by U Ber Lesc Dawei
In northern Myanmar, thousands took their protest to the street
against the Chinese-backed, huge dam some would like to complete.
The demonstrators say the project for the Belt-and-Road
will ruin the environment, and wreck the fish abode.
The Irrawaddy basin’s home to many kinds of fish,
more than 100 species nowhere else found on the Earth;
but still the Chinese want to satisfy their growing thirst;
6,000 megawatts would bring Myanmar more energy.
The dam will flood an area the size of Singapore.
Gee, this is only just a start. Some wish for more, more, more.
U Ber Lesc Dawei is a poet of Myanmar, formerly Burma.
The Terrorist Attacks in Sri Lanka, Easter, 2019
by Esala “Cu” D’ Abrew
O, curse Zahran Hashim and, yes, Abu Mohammad too,
for evil at the Shangri-la and Batticalao,
just two, of all those vicious men, who hit Sri Lanka’s calm.
O, Lord, the people cry aloud; they long for love and balm.
Jihadist, suicidal, evil tools o’ th’ hateful Beast
came on a happy, festive day to crush sweet joy and peace.
Such cowards know no mercy. What a tragic Easter Day,
attacking parents and their children where they’ve come to pray.
Sri Lanka, o, such angst has come to you, such hate and pain;
these murderers of hundreds left Earth this eternal stain.
Esala “Cu” D’ Abrew is a poet of Sri Lanka. At times, it seems, peace is so elusive.
by Ileac Burweeds
Trillium ovatum hovers below
the cluster of maple trees at the edge
of our property. Yearly they do grow
at the time of Palm Sunday and Easter,
their flowers, turning from brilliant white to
pink hues above the whorl of three broad leaves.
It seems as if nature itself is true
to what the follower of Christ believes,
that God exists, is in three persons,
and Jesus was crucified on the cross,
where he was weighted with all our burdens,
the sins of the World, that horrible dross,
but rose again, like Vergil’s Ilium,
to face Rome’s reign, the little trillium.
Ileac Burweeds is a poet of botany.
by Sir Beca Ewulde
The SNNPR tourism bureau noted that
their park is filled with many mammals, like the croc and cat.
There’s lions, leopards, lesser kudos in the grassland shrub,
as well as black and white columbos, warthogs in the bush.
As well there is the common bushback under azure skies;
but last week there were twenty-eight less hippopotami.
It was the worst, according to Kumera Wakjira,
wildlife disaster ever seen in Ethiopia—
huge bodies floating on the river, bloated to the max,
the deaths thought to be due to toxic algae or anthrax.
Sir Beca Ewulde is a poet of Ethiopia and the Horn of Africa. SNNPR stands for Southern Nations, Nationalities, and Peoples Region in southwest Ethiopia. The adult hippo weighs about 7,000 pounds and hippos are responsible for about 3,000 human deaths per year.
by Alecsei Durbew
You waited, weighted, for something—Earth’s turned thermostat—
while Moscow glittered like the Snow Queen’s Palace, cold
as ice. Though Sasha’s uncle got a twelve-room flat,
he got shot pissing in his golden toilet bowl,
et cetera…You were just children playing in
debris, believing you came from another World.
So much was spiraling in a decaying spin,
Mount Everest into the Mariyana Trench,
imploding pyramids, inVenting math, Pushkin…
when you were but nine, ten, eleven, twelve—such stench—
you huddled round antennas, getting facts and fat,
and starved, while Earth fell back again into your bench.
Alecsei Durbew is a poet fond of Russia.
New Ukraine Leader
by Radice Lebewsu
Volodymyr Zelenskiy, 41, of the Ukraine
has won his nation’s presidential vote with quite a gain.
73% shows that the people wanted change,
electing a comedian is oddly weird and strange.
What chance, however, does he have with quandaries galore,
corruption, economic problems, and the eastern war.
It seems to show the voters thought the country’s state a joke
beneath the heavy-handed rule of Poroshenko’s yoke.
The Servant of the People said, “I’ll never let you down,”
and “Everything is possible…” upon his happy ground.
Radice Lebewsu is a poet of Ukraine and Russia, from where his closest great-grandfather came.
Canadian Ed Berlie Waucs
by Wes Caribu Deel
I saw him leaping from striated rocks
in thick, brown boots and gray, red-lined wool socks,
his skin the colour of a child’s chalks.
A pox upon those unprepared for shocks.
He was not ready yet for tranquil walks,
a taciturn man when it came to talks,
eschewing heard-mentality or flocks,
or any over-cumbersome, cursed smocks.
His style was utility in frocks;
all frills he found as toxic as toothed crocs,
He leapt amid the taiga brush and phlox,
that thick-set man who seemed a great bull ox.
It was as if he had escaped a box,
in movements as erratic as a cock’s,
his running tow’rd the sunset’s golden docks,
amidst the caribou, the wolf, and fox,
below the flight of eagles, geese and hawks.
He had the energy of hyped-up jocks.
The wind blew back his amber-coloured locks.
His moxie sped ahead of speedy clocks.
He looked like he’d experienced life’s knocks,
but that did not keep him from busting blocks.
Wes Caribu Deel is a poet fond of Canada. The above poem is an iambic-pentametre qasida.
by Red Was Iceblue
Kick back in shoes, in socks and pants, in sloping, lounging chair,
and breathe it in, with some chagrin, polluted dust and air.
Observe the brown daguerreotype, torn from some distant page,
the verticals and horizontals, blinds and persiflage.
A palm tree top is at the center of an empti-nest,
a world in black and white and brown without the Internet.
The left foot rests upon the right knee, near a window bar;
the vision in that plastered prison doesn’t go that far.
A memory of just how bad it was, and still can be,
has filtered through the silver hue of vast eternity.
Red Was Iceblue is a poet of Modern, Postmodern, and New Millennial art.
by Esca Webuilder
“Google is not interested in a free press.”
—Bic Uwel, “Erased”
Has Google been colluding with the Chinese Communists,
obstructing justice with a passion of entitlement?
Has Google been collabourating with the likes of Xi,
a reckless disregard for truth and facts and history?
First off, there is the “Misrepresentation Policy”
maintained by Google’s “Trust & Safety Team” studiously.
Then next, there’s Google’s grandiose “Good Neighbour Policy”,
which does its many “mind” manipulations manually.
And then, there’s also Google’s “XPA Black List” defaults,
which does its very best to “Mini-Mize” research results.
Ill on the Silvan Pathway
by Esca Webuilder
Deplatformed overnight. Nobody sees us, very white.
Discreetly, very quietly. Like ghosts we’re out of sight.
We do not count. Our toes, our noses take hold on the loam.
We do not matter. We acquire the air. We have no home.
We have been stopped. We’ve been betrayed by Internet Gi-Ants,
who won’t make room for other plants of view—defiant rats.
They heave their needles. They insist that they get the last word.
We are the faceless. Their soft fists insist we can’t be heard.
They hammer us. They ram us into corners, pave us in.
Who sees the eyeless, hears the voiceless? We don’t have a chin.
We live in crannies, writhe through holes, and diet on dead mulch.
We’re the untouchables. We live in shadows. We aren’t much.
Esca Webuilder is a poet of the Internet.
by Bilee Wad Curse
He wore black baseball cap on backwards, visor sticking out,
as if, for some dumb reason, it was something he could tout.
The dude looked mean, the kind of guy one would not want to meet.
He seemed to have a vicious streak, a load of cruelty.
Another dude just passing by seemed unconcerned, and free.
He was not looking for a bout of pain and misery.
But when he slightly turned his head, he saw the dude attack,
who hit him hard, again, again. He slugged him in his back.
The fallen dude in white cap got off of his buttocks…Damn!
but by then that hard man had fled and taken what he had.
Bilee Wad Curse is a poet of crime.
Upon a Passing Barge
by Sub Cie Leeward
The glare outside was blinding white, the windows wide and large;
the waters slapped, and slapped again, against a passing barge;
which jounced about as it proceeded down the straight canal,
and hit the rolling waves beneath the sunlit, blue banal.
The spittle spray upon the rocks, like kissing, hit the shore,
the awesome ride was perfect on its stable cargo floor.
O, yes, they were the very best-trained transportation pros
delivering the highest quality of focused tows.
How dutiful the execution of their services,
heave-ho, heave-ho, the focused men, to heat impervious.
Sub Cie Leeward is a poet of the nautical and sailing world.