by “Lice Brews” Ueda

Outhouse, shit and flies;
hot sun on hard dirt, drab dust:
the baseball field.

“Lice Brews” Ueda is a haiku writer. He remembers in his youth playing baseball games in the summer.


Words from the Twitter World
          by Esca Webuilder

Neil deGrasse Tyson, celebrity scientist, wrote:
“In the past 48hrs, the USA horrifically lost 34 people to mass shootings. On average, across any 48hrs, we also lose 500 to medical errors, 300 to the flu, 250 to suicide, 200 to car accidents, and 40 to homicide via handgun. Often our emotions respond more to spectacle than to data.

So many answered him, including Irene Tien MD:
“In 2018, the fed govt spent $145M on medical errors, $340M on influenza, $147M on suicide, $597M on car accidents, and >$1B on the opioid crisis. From 2004-2015, a measly $22M on gun violence. These are stats, not emotions.

I once heard Mr. Tyson say the thing that worries him most in the Universe is how fast the Universe is expanding, so much so, that in the future, Earthlings will only be able to see the Milky Way.

Esca Webuilder is a poet and prose writer of the Internet. In the USA, the CDC estimates 49,000 deaths due to opioids in 2018. USA Today tracked 271 mass killings (4 or more) from 2006-2017: 1,358 deaths. Note that Mr. Tyson listed numbers of deaths, while Ms. Tien noted amounts of money spent. Emotionally charged words in the two tweets include “horrifically” and “measly”.


Mass Shooters
          by Slade W. U. Bierce

Mass shooters are not all the same, no two of them alike,
but there are sev-ral char-ac-ter-is-tics they share in kind.
They have experienced some childhood trauma in their lives,
abuse, neglect, and/or perhaps parental suicide.
Just prior to this they’ve experienced a crisis in
job status, a relationship, or something deep within.
They also seem to be intrigued by shootings of the past,
such shootings come in clusters, socially contagious gas.
And finally, they find the means to carry out their plans;
for them, revenge requires weapons for their vengeful ends.

Slade W. U. Bierce is a poet of hard realities.These four characteristics come from an LA Times op-ed by Jillian Peterson and James Densely, which studied mass shootings since 1966.


UN Report
          by Dae Wi “Scrub” Lee

The government of North Korea generated funds
to pay for mass-destruction weapons, nuclear-armed tons.
They stole from banks and cryptocurrency exchanges by
sophisticated, widespread, and clandestine cyber crime.
The North Korean UN mission group did not respond
to the UN report submitted last week thereupon.
The article says seventeen, the nation-states they trashed,
and through the realms of cyberspace they laundered stolen cash.
Two billion US dollars was what they got for their ends,
their diabolical blackmailing Earth and peaceful lands.

Dae Wi “Scrub” Lee is a poet of Korea.


          by Aw “Curbside” Lee

It sits right to the north of Hong Kong, massive, grand in scale;
but in the 1970s was rural, poor and pale.
In 1980 it was made an economic zone,
and then the place took off, into the atmosphere full-blown.
Some 13,000,000 people live and work in Shenzhen now,
though some say 20,000,000 closer to the true amount.
Its cityscape, resulting from its rapid growth and rise,
has now become a global, tech-hub of enormous size.
In World stats, it’s now third busiest container port,
competing with the likes of Shanghai and with Singapore.

Aw “Curbside” Lee is a poet of industrial China.


India Sheds Special Status for Kashmir
          by Waseel Budecir

On Monday, India revoked the status of Kashmir;
the special status it possessed will simply disappear.
And in addition Modi’s government will lift the ban
on purchasing of properties; non-residents now can.

The Pakistanis have condemned this action, saying that
it is a violation of the UN charter’s pact.
For nearly thirty years, Kashmir has had an armed revolt,
with myriads of people killed; yet, this is still a jolt.

Kashmiri leaders were arrested; Internet was dropped;
the public movement was restricted; telephones were stopped.
The streets of Srinigar were largely empty at this time;
deployment of security ensured there’d be no crime.

Waseel Budecir is a poet of South Central Asia.


The Lotus Eater
          by Badri Suwecele

He fell into a dreamy state, which he could not escape,
as though he was both fast asleep yet also still awake.
He felt so groggy and so drowsy, he began to droop
into a trance that left him sapped, afloat like sailing sloop.
How could he be both wide awake and still so sleepy too?
What state of consciousness was this that he had come to view?
He felt in equilibrium, not going anywhere;
it was as if his mind itself was turning in to air.
He tried to conjugate this verb of future present past.
He hoped that he would soon wake up, or fall asleep at last.

Badri Suwecele is a poet of meditation.


Iraq-Lebanon Soccer Match
          by Abdul Serecewi

The national Iraqi soccer team beat Lebanon.
It was the first competetive match in a long, long time:
score, one to zero, in Kerbala, but was not sublime
to Shi-ite clerics, who disliked the show before the throng.
The opening had dance and music tastefully displayed,
except for one lone Lebanese who played the violin.
She wore no headscarf on her head, no cloth upon her arms
and then she played an instrument. O, she had gone too far.
Joelle Saade, fully dressed, performed before the crowd,
but it was cleric blow-back that was thunderous and loud.

Abdul Serecewi is a poet of the Southwest Asia.


          by Erisbawdle Cue
          “Thou almost makest me waver in my faith
          To hold opinion with Pythagoras
          That souls of animals infise themselves
          Into the trunks of men.”
              —William Shakespeare, “Merchant of Venice”

Pythagoras may have left us some wisdom that survives,
and yet he claimed to recollect details of former lives.
He claimed he once had been cucumber, growing long and green,
and also that he once had been a slimy, sleek sardine.
If such was true, which hardly seems that possible to me,
then he lucked out/ reincarnation ended happily.
Despite his thought I still enjoy cucumbers sliced and diced,
as well as small sardines in oil, silvery and spiced.
Who knows what mighty intellect I may have eaten up?
Such tasty morsels keeping me alive to dine and sup.

Erisbawdle Cue is a poet of philosophy, particularly ancient Greek philosophy.


In Alicante on Mount Benacantil
          by Edwe Bleca Ruís

In Alicante on Mount Benacantil’s rugged rock,
above the city stands the Castle Santa Bárbara.
From there one sees below the blue Mediterranean,
so bright beneath the white-puffed clouds and brilliant, blazing Sun.
From there one sees the port, the docks that stretch out straight and broad,
the beach of Postiguet, the wavy, palm-lined esplanade,
the ornate Casas Carbonell and Consistorial
the Edificio Gran Sol, rectangular and tall,
the arcing, misty, sparkling fountain in Luceros Square,
and less pretentious, quiet cornered Monjas Santa Faz.


Alicante Trams
          by Edwe Bleca Ruís
          “Kumquat-colored trolleys ding as they trundle/ Passengers…”
              —Sylvia Plath

To use the Alicante Trams you must use a machine,
to swipe a card or buy your tickets; there’s no in between.
To open doors, you have to press the buttons that you see,
as well as for requesting stops; it’s a necessity.

Signs overhead tell the next destination coming up;
and likewise there’s a map that you can check, with all the stops.
Three main lines leave Luceros Square without much urgency,
but there’s a handle you can pull in an emergency.

The trams are white and orange, shiny even underground.
They do not ding, while motoring their grunting, humming sound.
Trams groan when they begin their trips, trains drone along, brakes squeak.
Postmodern transport’s a mechanical cacophony.

They are dependable, they move with regularity.
For moving many they’re a model of efficiency.
They make their way day after day in drizzle or sun’s glow.
They honk, they screech, they trudge along, they carry tons of soul.

Edwe Bleca Ruís is a poet of Spain. Alicante is a city of southeastern Spain.


The Flying French Man
          by Claude I. S Weber

The French inventor Franky Zapata has crossed the sea,
at th’ English Channel, to be more precise, specific’lly,
he did it on jet power, on a suped-up hoverboard,
and zoomed across the Dover Strait—for twenty minutes soared.
He took off from Sangatte, outside Calais, in northwest France,
and stopped half way upon a boat, refueling his back pack.
He made the thirty-five kilometers to Britain’s coast,
Saint Margaret’s Bay shimmering, receiving him afloat.
Some people came to cheer him off, some others saw him land,
a tiny black speck on a flyboard in the sky—yet grand.

Claude I. S. Weber is a poet of France.


Rembrandt’s Samson Putting Forth his Riddle at the Wedding Feast: 1638
          by Cees Walerd Bui

In Rembrandt’s Samson Putting Forth his Riddle at
the Wedding Feast, his bride-to-be, a Philistine,
is seated on a dais, in a gold glow that
lights the surrounding darkness. Timeless, still, she’s seen
face fore; a group of ladies fidget at her right.
Conversing at her left is Samson; he’s speaking,
face turned left, to a group of men, his dress gold-bright:
“Out of the eater came forth meat; out of the strong
came something sweet.” If they can bring th’ answer to light
in seven days, he’ll give them garments; but if not
they will repay in kind. Here is a bold Rembrandt,
the warmer tones of red and yellow coming on.


Thunderstorm Over Dordrecht, by Aelbert Cuyp
          by Cees Walerd Bui

The vast sky stretches high up over buildings and
occasionally trees of moderate height on
the far horizon. Jagged lightning holds command
and crackles forth th’ electrical phenomenon
that travels down sky’s thoroughfare above Dordrecht,
the brilliant gold against the smoky-black cloud-spawn.
Below, three windmills turn. The cows, seen in perspect,
are calm, content; they do not overcompensate,
react immoderately, nor jerk or act berzerk,
to flashing lightning bolts. They simply rest sedate.
There’s no new thing that they will come to understand;
not much will change; there’s nothing they anticipate.


Dutch Still Life
          Cees Walerd Bui

The motel room is quiet now; a radiance
of sunlight filters through diaphanous curtains.
There is a certain beauty in its fading dance
across the beige and tan, soft, warm, wood furniture.
The center piece is a rectangular bed.
An auburn lamp stands at its head. In the corner,
is crumpled in a mass, a pale dun coverlet.
Upon the bright, white sheets, a brown body reclines.
Its head lies on a pillow, arms are extended
out back along the back. A thin silver chain lines
the neck. The head is tilted left, with a stiff stance.
A pistol, black and shiny, has been left behind.

Cees Walerd Bui is a poet of the Netherlands. Bildings [sic] of two Dutch masterpieces are followed by a New Millennial scene. Rembrandt (1606-1669) and Aelbert Cuyp (1620-1691) were both part of Holland’s golden age in painting.


Eudoxus’ Theory of Proportions
          by Euclidrew Base

The magnitudes are said to be in the same ratio,
the first is to the second and the third is to the fourth,
if equimultiples whatever of the first and third
and equimultiples of second to the fourth occur,
and both of them alike exceed, are equal, or are less,
then latter equimultiples have correspondences.
The subtlety and efficacy of Eudoxus’ thought
is marvelous beyond the arithmetic uses sought;
for far from obvious, he too compared both cubes and spheres,
as well as other shapes and incommensurable surds.

Euclidrew Base is a poet of mathematics and mathematicians. Eudoxus (c. 408-390 BC – c. 355-337 BC) was one of the major mathematicians of the ancient world. I read somewhere that he walked seven miles daily for half a year to listen to Plato’s lectures. If true, I would have done that too.


There in Louisiana
          by Cause Bewilder

I, too, have seen there in Louisiana an oak tree,
that stood alone, with moss hung down from branches, dark and green.
In fact, I’ve seen ten-thousand trees, all growing up and tall,
the myriads arising, o, so high and natural.

And I broke off no twig to take back to the Metroplex,
nor did those grand oak groves remind me ever once of sex.
I was not interested in some curiosity,
but just enjoyed trees towering, not some monstrosity.

Though I once lived in the Pacific Northwest, all the same,
Louisiana’s oaks impress me in the heat or rain.
I do not think of friends each time I see those trees again,
but when I see them rising high, anew I’m glad I came.

Cause Bewilder is a poet of the South. This dodeca is an argument with Walt Whitman.


Dealey Plaza
          “Wild” E. S. Bucaree

Not far off from I-35E, Dealey Plaza sits,
the Grassy Knoll, and Texas Book Depository hits.
Between Commerce and Elm, the cross of Main and Houston Streets,
plots out another tragedy that history repeats.
Those days are gone John Kennedy breathed his last breath of air,
and cru’l Lee Harvey Oswald shot his bullets of despair.
One sees the bright white Bryan Pergola across the scene,
along with grassy lawns about, a pale, scruffy green.
But still it lingers in the city as a memory
before skyscrapers rising in the brand new century.

“Wild” E. S. Bucaree is a poet of Texas.


The Mower
          by Caleb Wuri Seed

I saw him mowing past crepe myrtle, just beyond the fence.
He pushed his mower ever forward through grass thick and dense.
He wore a green cap on his head; his shirt was bright and red,
the beard upon his face was scra-ggl-y, but coiffured yet.
O forth and back, o, back and forth, he traveled in his lines,
the swaths he cut were wide and orderly, so straight in kind.
He paused but once to take his cap off of his shiny pate,
and swept his forehead with his arm, the shirt sleeve wiped the sweat.
And then he finished up, the mower off, the engine stopped,
and took off to his next gig’s task; this one was done and dropped.

Caleb Wuri Seed is a poet of gardening and agriculture.


          by Calsu Berde Iwe

On a window sill,
a cat closely observes as
a man mows his lawn.

Calsu Berde Iwe is a haiku writer of cats.


          by Rudi E. Welec, “Abs”

With the fast pace of modern life, each person needs some time
to take a break, relax and rest, connect to the sublime.
Massage is a good way for that; it helps to get relief
from pain, to lower stress, blood pressure and anxiety.
Professional massage can be obtained when at a spa,
or one can hire a therapist to give one a massage.
But there are other ways that cost less money, time and such,
a more affordable and user-friendly “loving touch”,
like the vibrating chair, where one can in one’s privacy
sit back and fall into its arms in utter ecstasy.

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