A Quick Quip
          by “Wired Clues” Abe

Time’s precious, life is busy, and attention spans don’t last.
You have to make your statement, and you have to make it fast.


          by “Wired Clues” Abe

A lone crow cawing
upon the telephone pole
is joined by a crow.


          by “Wired Clues” Abe

Past my gazing eyes,
a giant dragonfly zips
through the summer heat;
high, in blue, in a straight line,
a tiny silver jet zooms.

“Wired Clues” Abe is a poet using Japanese forms crudely. His focus is on living with modern technologies.


Climbing Kyoto Tower
          by Ibe Ware Desu, LC

He stood up at the bottom of a long gray flight of steps.
One wondered if he would be able to make such a trip.
He lifted up his shoulders and he tensed his light-tan arms.
He turned his head off to the right. He did not seem alarmed.
And so he started climbing up that windowless staircase,
and only just paused every now and then to catch his breath.
There at the bottom seemed like some forgotten storage rooms
but as he traveled, port-hole windows opened up the gloom.
285 steps there in all to get up to
the observation deck of Kyoto Tower’s spreading view.

Ibe Ware Desu, LC is a poet of Japan. Kyoto Tower is 131 meters high. The iconic landmark is the tallest structure in Kyoto.


The Meditator
          by Sri Wele Cebuda

I saw a thoughtful man out on a patio of sorts.
He stood so deep in concentration, he was firm perforce.
He stood in brilliant sunlight in a concrete alcove’s nook.
I was impressed at such a focused, earnest, steady look.
Perhaps he zeroed in upon a patch of grass below,
his right hand on his hip, his left hand maybe near his goal.
It looked like he was seeking something in that patch of grass.
But just what could it be? I did not know. I couldn’t ask.
Still, on he searched where he was perched beside that open wide;
the nearby chaise-longue lounge chair was the colour of the sky.
A nearby guy was searching too. Could he be reading text?
No lovely clover over there on the cement—What next?
But, o, the thoughful man kept up his probing, hearfelt hunt
for something that I could not see or tell, though in sun lit.


From the Cahiers of the Travellothoner
          by Sri Wele Cebuda

They took the path up to Tungnath, that Shiva temple’s height,
a thousand-year-old rock construction was their hearts’ delight.
Through forests óf oak, rhododendron, maple and the like,
for four long days they trekked along and made their upward hike,
……………………………………………………..they moved up to the sky.

From Haridwar to Sari village, they passed great Ganga’s start;
Alakanandra meets the Bhaghirath, once both apart.
From Sari, then, the trail rises steeper all the time;
they reached a hawa ghar and found a dhaba on their climb,
……………………………………………………..enroute to the sublime.

There’s a watch tower near the lake to orient oneself.
One hears rare Himalayan birds at Deoriatal.
But washing is a headache and the toilet’s portable;
and it goes down to 0, freezing when the evening falls;
……………………………………………………..the wind is cold and raw.

Onto Rohini Bughyal, there is but a single stream;
Chaukhambra Peak and Kedar Dome appear between the trees.
There is a clearing, exiting the forests, and one meets
Chandrashila, Moon Rock, 4,000 meters. What a peak.
……………………………………………………..One hardly dares to speak.

Yet on they went, at times through snow, both fresh and frozen kind;
the frozen was more dangerous, although it gleamed and shined.
Along the way, they came across small shrines with yellow flags;
one uses them to make sure one is following their tags,
……………………………………………………..among these lofty crags.

Woodpeckers and flycatchers can be spotted on the way.
Kedarnath Sanctuary has old trees that greet the day.
Below the Kala Parvat peak, is Lake Bisuri Tal;
Pandavas hid their weapons there; the glacial lake so small;
………………………………………………………it’s barely there at all.

They kept on moving forward; next to Chopta and its camp.
They crossed the stream and filled their bottles, happy to revamp.
They passed a set of shepherd, summer homes made out of stone.
The locals with their livestock meant that they were not alone,
………………………………………………………not really on their own.

From Chopta to Tungnath they went to Chandrashila Mount.
The sunrise was spectacular, away from train or town.
In winter, one needs crampons, micro-spikes and an ice-axe;
the trail can be buried in cold snowy, frosty packs,
………………………………………………………amongst those steep switchbacks.

Up at the top one can observe Garwhal and Kumaon,
Chaukhambra too, and Nanda Devi, scenic mountains shown.
Once back in Chopta, in their jeeps, they drover to Haridwar;
the journey took ten hours long; that is, the trip by car;
………………………………………………………o, they had gone so far.

And they had seen so very much, they will not soon forget,
here at the place Lord Rama meditated for his rest,
defeating demon-king Ravana with his many heads,
like snowy Himavat, the father from whom Ganga bred,
……………………………………………………….as sage Valmiki said.

Sri Wele Cebuda is a poet of India. He is reminded by a quote from T. S. Eliot’s “The Wasteland”, “the black clouds/ Gathered far distant over Himavant.”


Der Schnee
          by Uwe Carl Diebes

Der Schnee ist weiss. —
not enough, though true.
Der Schnee is kald. —
better and true, though not enough.

But the snow is white and cold,
and it did snow today,
and the sun did shine yesterday,
and the sun is shining today,
but there is a blanket of clouds between
the sun and
the snow —
so what?
The problem is
that for me this is not enough.
I need satisfaction, or
I won’t be satisfied—
I want to be satisfied—
No, never.
I will never be totally satisfied—
I can’t say the same thing twice—
Der Schnee ist weiss.
and it’s cold, icy,
Enough is enough.
Don’t make a mountain out of an ava

Uwe Carl Diebes is a poet of Germany. He is reminded of another snippet from T. S. Eliot’s “The Wasteland”, “In the mountains, there you feel free.”


          by Euclidrew Base

He was a Greek who lived in Syracuse in Sicily,
defender of the island from the might of Italy.
Known for his strength in math and physics, Archimedes was
a power and a force in mental realms and manual loves.

Nine extant texts include work on the cylinder and sphere;
a third in which he found pi’s limits from a circle’s peer;
a fourth on conoids, fifth on spirals, two more books on planes.
where both the lever’s laws and centered gravity explained;

an eighth, on the parabola, showed he was coming close
to integration from a geometrical approach;
a ninth, “Sand Reckoner” suggested th’ Universe was vast,
into which we, as living, breathing Earthlings had been cast.

Euclidrew Base is a poet of mathematics and mathematicians. Archimedes (c. 287 BC – c. 212 BC) was one of the most creative of mathematicians in history.


          by Aedile Cwerbus

When Cratinus, Eubolis, Aristophanes, and more,
wrote ancient comedies, if they perceived a thief or whore,
a cut-throat or adulterer, they branded them as such;
Free speech back then was very free, whereas now not so much.
Lucilius relied upon these poets for his fire,
according to the Roman Horace in his own satire.
Continuing, he says, Lucilius just copied them,
by only changing feet and meters, though still opulent.
He had great perspicacity; he was a man of wit;
but in his compositions he could be inelegant.

If not as crude, abusive, and as harsh as Cratinus,
at times, he spewed out many lines without a lot of fuss.
As he flowed muddily along, like Tiber in the spring,
he didn’t care to change results of his Menandering.
Though Horace makes not much of much of loose Lucilius,
it seems that he himself was challenged by crisp Crispinus.
Let’s name a place, a time, a space, with judges and a host.
Let’s see, who on their tablets, timed, can truly write the most.
But Horace didn’t take the little bet; he was too meek,
for Horace speaking briefly, seldom, was perhaps too weak!

Still Horace wondered if the bettor imitated air,
Egyptian Crispinus, in Nile’s delta’s dredged, dregged lair.
But Fannius is happy as he has sent manuscripts
to Palatine Apollo, when nobody yet reads his,
for Horace doesn’t relish speaking out in public, nor
is there much appetite when countless souls deserve censure.
Besides, the love-mad, covetous, and avaricious too,
despise the poets and their verses. Cursèd be that crew.
‘He has hay on his horn,’ they cry, ‘avoid him at great length.
For sooth, if he can raise a laugh, he will not spare a friend’.

Aedile Cwerbus is a poet of ancient Rome. Some of the language of the above poem comes from an American translation of 1863, that by Charles Lewis Smart. Lucilius (c. 180 BC – c. 102 BC) was an early Roman satirist. Horace (65 BC – 8 BC) was a noted Roman satirist. Cratinus, Eubolis, Aristophanes, and Menander were Greek comic dramatists. Crispinus and Fannius were contemporaries of Horace.


Modus Ponens (P ˄ (P → Q) → Q)
          by Erisbawdle Cue
          “My dear, Degas, poems are not made out of ideas, they are made out of
              —Stéphane Mallarmé

Mallarmé wrote poetry.
If Mallarmé wrote poetry, then he wrote words.
Therefore, Mallarmé wrote words.

Erisbawdle Cue is a poet of philosophy and logic. Though he often loves the wisdom of Plato and Aristotle, and considers them among the very greatest of philosophers, there are times he finds he disagrees with Plato’s dramas and Aristotle’s lecture notes. Stéphane Mallarmé (1842-1898) was a French poet and critic.


Man’s Inhumanity
          by War di Belecuse

Each day we have examples of man’s inhumanity.
The news across the Globe is filled with this iniquity.
This week I saw a man protesting what he thought was wrong,
but spit upon another man, and shoved him fiercely down.
And if that wasn’t bad enough, he treated him like dirt;
he grabbed his clothes and tore at them; he ripped his nice black shirt.
But no one at the scene cared what this tattoed bully did.
In fact, he was cheered on by others in that neighbourhood.
He pounded him; he beat him up; nobody gave a damn.
Too frequently we see man’s inhumanity to man.


The Man Upon the Battlefield
          by War di Belecuse

The battlefield was hot and heavy in his line of sight.
He was a man in army vest, who dove beneath its blight.
The war was raging, fights engaging, flight was in his mind;
but he dare not arise up or he’d get hit from behind.
He kept down low, avoiding shells discharged about the strife.
There was no doubt that he was in the battle of his life.
He dared to stick his head up from the manhole he was in,
a manhell he was fighting through that he could never win.
And so, he faced his enemy with patient fortitude.
If he could just get through these struggles, he would call it good.

War di Belecuse is a poet of conflict. This week in Portland, Oregon, journalist Andy Ngo was brutalized by Rose City Antifa.


The Acrobat
          by Circ de Wee Balu

I saw the acrobat performing tricks up in the air.
At times, it seemed as if he were here, there and everywhere.
I saw him climbing up the pole, so high above the ground,
and then he swept up to a platform, never looking down.
I saw him swinging back and forth, and then quite bent in half,
I gasped to see dex-ter-i-ty fly off the charted graph.
I saw him turn around in space. He landed on his knees.
He strained to reach the pendulum of his fast-barred trapeze.
And finally, I saw him free, there balanced by his hand.
He stretched his right arm’s elbow up; and then I saw him land.

Sirc de Wee Balu is a poet of the circus.


The Man in the Bed
    nbsp;     by Des Werkebauli

He felt that it was time to git, and leave behind his bed;
but he was so content to be there, happy in his head.
At first he tried to lift his legs up high and to the side;
but they fell back onto the mattress where he would abide.
Then next he thought he should turn over, which is what he did;
but he could only get upon his knees until he slid.
He felt as if some greater force was holding him down there;
but he had to get off to work, he shouldn’t stay and stare.
So finally, he sat up tall, his hand firm and secure.
He got his butt up off the bed and shot up in the air.

Des Werkebauli is a poet of workers and their labours.


The Man in the Car
     nbsp;    by Wes Lee “R. D.” Bucai

He paused a moment to relax behind the driving wheel.
He’d pulled off of the road and parked…in his au-to-mo-bile.
He turned aside to gaze upon the scenic hills he saw.
He’d love to run upon those slopes, but he stayed in his car.

His collared shirt was neat and crisp; it was the colour black.
He nestled in the driver’s seat; his head was down and back.
He left the visor up, the rear-view mirror turned up too.
No passenger was seated in the front; he had a view.

He gazed upon a lamb with off-white, soft, light-golden hair
upon its four appendages; it too had paused to stare,
there at that man within his car at thé edge of the road,
and then high-tailed it on that grass, such loveliness unrolled.

He wanted so to go along and gambol with that lamb,
but he would only stare and stall—that neatly-collared man.
And so he sat there for some time, his head there motionless,
and blessed the hole that he was in, if not for happiness.

Wes Lee “R. D.” Bucai is a poet of pastoral and woodland settings.