by Ibe Ware Desu, LC

Above dark rooftops
and black high-rising oak trees,
sunrise bursts white-gold.


          by “Wired Clues” Abe

The distant whistle
of the passing train blew out
in the city night.

“Wired Clues” Abe is a poet uniting haiku and technology.


          by Ibe Ware Desu, LC

Watering the grass
with the arching hose’s jet,
a rainbow appears.


          by Ibe Ware Desu, LC

Down the street they fly,
brown and orange fallen leaves,
blown like butterflies.

Ibe Ware Desu, LC is a haikuist of beautiful settings. He admires the colourful haiku of Yosa Buson (1716-1784).


Leaves Shining
          by Ileac Burweeds

Red, orange, auburn, amber, brown and green,
leaves shining with a jigsaw puzzle’s sheen
do brighten up and interrupt the autumn scene.


A Sunny Autumn Day
          by Ileac Burweeds

O, God, how wonderful is this the World.
To be alive to it is heavenly:
the lovely fields, the hay bales that are hurled
and placed so neatly and so evenly.
The sunny autumn day smells fresh of grass.
The singing birds will soon be winging off.
A nearby great hawk takes another pass.
The day is perfect bliss—a piss, a scoff,
a kiss upon a cheek. The azure sky
keeps thoughts away from astral planes and stars.
A brisk, warm wind unfurls, is passing by.
One hears the distant gears of driven cars.
What is the meaning of the random squirt—
some water for a flower in the dirt?

Ileac Burweeds is a poet of nature, as in the above triplet and sonnet.


A Fedex Driver
          by Bruc “Diesel” Awe

A Fedex driver stopped; he was about to pass my yard.
He asked if Ryobi could cut the grass, or was it hard?
What was it like to mow with an electric battery?
I was surprised he’d stopped to ask me what I thought, you see.
I’ve never seen a FedEx guy pause on his working routes.
I told him that the mower was okay, if not much clout.
He said he wasn’t looking forward to the holidays;
the pace would pick up; he’d be busy; no rest come what may.
I empathized with him, but there was little I could do;
and then he took off down the street and vanished from my view.

Bruc “Diesel” Awe is a poet of transportation. Although my carbon footprint can’t compete with those of Jeff Bezos, Bill Gates, Sergey Brin, Larry Page, or Mark Zuckerberg, still I could try if I had their millions, or rather, billions. Does anyone remember when the John D. Roosevelt used to hand out dimes to poor children in a staged attempt to salvage his image, much in the same way that Bill and Melinda Gates give funds out of one of their money piles. Why did you take so much money from people in the first place?


Antarctic Ice Cliffs
          by Lars U. Ice Bedew
          “Water, water evrywhere, Nor any drop to drink.”
              —Samuel Coleridge, “Rime of the Ancient Mariner”

The ice sheet of Antarctica is close to twice the size
of the US, almost as large as Russia’s where it lies.
Its land bound’ry is buttressed by huge floating, icy shelves,
extending hundreds of kilometers o’er frigid hells.
When they collapse, then they expose tall cliff and lofty ledge,
ice towering along Antarctica’s enormous edge.
So many scientists assumed cliffs ninety meters high
would rapidly collapse and make the Earth sea level rise,
enough to flood the Boston metroplex, et cetera;
but that has been revised by MIT’s own scientists.
Researchers Clerc, Minchew, and Boston College Behn have said
that that would happen was an overestimated guess.

Lars U. Ice Bedew is a poet of cold climes.


Firefox 70
          by Esca Webuilder

Mozilla is a free and open source web browser that
has launched a new updated version of its powered plat.
Released October 22nd—Firefox 70—
has privacy protection, Lockwise, new security,
inactive CSS rule indicators in DevTools,
and DOM mutation breakpoints—worlds away from Boole’s—
JS numeric separators, CSS text props,
two-value display syntax in this realm of apps and ops;
and navigation history is now asynchronous,
and many other things found under miscellaneous.
“A bountiful release for all,” at least that’s what they say,
with the ability to track the trackers in the way.

Esca Webuilder is a poet of the Internet. The majority of the powerful computer systems that run the Internet use free software, like Linus and Apache. Firefox is an extention of tht ideal.


The B-Word
          by Caud Sewer Bile

The Beacon Hill bill wants to ban the b-word once for all.
Directed at another person it’s intolerable.
The penalties include $150 fine
for that abhorr’d offense when it occurs for the first time.
$200 or six months in prison—no defense.
And after that what punishment for subsequent offense?
Reported in the Boston Herald, Harvey Silverglate,
says it’s unconstitutional, and just a total waste;
but those who want to see it pass, including Mr. Tapped,
say, “It is time for those who use the word to be bitch-slapped.”


Delectable Twittering
          Caud Sewer Bile

He looks just like a wide-eyed chipmunk gawking with blank face,
endowed with colourized bouffant of black and silver gray.
Pierre Delecto, joining in the anti-Trump crusade,
his twitter glittering with the occasional tie-rade.
Like fellow lone voice Comey, towering above the fray,
he put his being on display all for the USA.
Pierre Delecto is a lurker; he is out to play.
What is his name, the big redhead from Boston, by the way?
He is a fan of him and Boston’s Brady Bunch, okay.
His real name is Mitt Romney; he has lots he’d like to say.

Caud Sewer Bile is a poet of the nasty and the Swamp. Mr. Tapped is a member of the Fake News Media. Mitt Romney is a fan of Conan O’Brien and Tom Brady, inter alia. James Comey is a physically tall individual.


          by Badri Suwecele

She stood beside the rolling road of light gray in the light,
its edges and its stretches painted evenly and white.
She stood before bright yellow-green, lush foliage in that scene,
which in the distance went to pale blue and darker green.

She wore a red and black and white dress on her body’s form,
as well a lovely smile that was thoughtful, large and warm,
her glasses on her head, clear, shiny earrings in her ear,
her hair, long, black and flowing, overfell her shoulders—there.

She was a writer, reader, passionate and positive,
a doctor academic’lly, a woman glad to live.
Ah, look, a lovely countenance touched by divinity;
the meaning of her name in Sanskrit, grace and dignity.

Badri Suwecele is a poet of India, The definitions used in the above dodeca are from Collins Hindi Dictionary.


The Lotus Pose
          by Sri Wele Cebuda

He got into the lotus pose on soft beige cushions, yeh;
o, he was in a compact room, not in the ocean air.
But still he was excited, thrilled, to meditate upon
the realms of Exta Sea, the beauties of the breath-filled yawn.
The carpet there below his feet was a soft, fuzzy brown;
the curtain there behind his back was gray and dark and drawn.
He tried to balance on that pad, precariously poised;
his torso rising from his hips, he longed for deep-felt joys.
O, he was very serious, as he paused, looking down
upon the place where he was at, and from which upward bound.


A Moon Landing
          by Sri Wele Cebuda

He sat up in the lotus pose. He was a bit surprised.
He was a bit uncomf’r’table to feel his torso rise.
He longed to hold onto his World as it whirled around;
but he was only just one person. To where was he bound?
He felt like as a rocket ship, o, landing on the Moon,
alighting on some crater, but still in a darkened room.
The drapes, the cushion, all were dark. Was he in outer space?
At moments, like these, he wished he could see another face.
He placed his hands upon his thighs, he put his shoulders back.
His head dropped slightly forward, then he rose up off that…c-r-a-c-k/

Sri Wele Cebuda is a poet of meditation and active mental explorations. Beau Lecsi Werd explains, “the exta in Ancient Rome were the entrails from which the haruspex drew his auguries; but here, the neologism suggests some pleasurable fluid domain”. On November 8, 2008, the Moon Impact Probe of Chandrayaan I struck the south pole of the Moon, making India the fourth nation to place its flag upon the Moon, after the USA, Russia, and China.


In Sochi, 22 October 2019
          by Cid Wa’eeb El Sur

In Sochi, Erdoğan and Putin said that they agree
to broker the removal of the Kurdish YPG,
another eighteen miles from the Turkish borderline,
150 hours to get out and leave in time.
This will give Turkish troops a chance to ruin Kurdish camps,
a thing that Erdoğan has wanted; at that bit, he champs.
176,000 Kurds have been displaced.
How many more must leave their homes abruptly and disgraced?
Although they said Assad agreed to this fresh deal’s brief;
today while touring Idlib, he called Erdoğan a thief.

Cid Wa’eeb El Sur is a poet of West Asia. Sochi, Russia’s largest resort city, has a population of approximately 340,000. Past Turkey and the Black Sea, it is directly north of northeast Syria.


The Nobel Peace Prize
          by Luwi Recs Abede

The Nobel Peace Prize was awarded to Abiy Ahmed,
Prime Minister of Ethiopia, the country’s head.
The major reason is because he opened dialog
with Eritrea with which they have been in war’s harsh slog.
He has unlocked the torture chambers in his country too,
and gave the media more freedoms. All this he did do.
If all is not as good as it could be, there are still wins;
air traffic has begun again between their capitals;
but when “Medemer” reconciliation had occurred,
Uganda and Sudan came—Eritrea not a word.

Luwi Recs Abede is a poet of Ethiopia. “Medemer” in Amharic, one of the major languages of Ethiopia, denotes “addition”, connotes “synergy”. As the leader of an ethnically diverse nation, it is perhaps Abiy Ahmed’s longing for a kind of “unity”. The major languages of Ethiopia, in very rough estimates of speakers, are 1) Oromo, 24,000,000, 2) Amharic, 21,000,000, 3) Somali, 4,000,000, 4) Tigrinya, 4,000,000, 5) Sidamo, 3,000,000, 6) Wollayta, 1,000,000, 7) Gurage, 1,000,000, and 8) Afar, 1,000,000. English is the most common foreign language. Amharic is the official working language, which many speak as a second language. There are over seventy languages in Ethiopia.


The Writer
          by “Scribe” El Wade

Although his desk was up against the solid blue-gray wall,
he stood up at it, glad to be there, so good overall.
There was a golden study lamp with pictures on a shelf.
O, one could see, he was himself, yeh, an artistic elf.
The pen is there to take him where he’d really like to go.
His muse is fine and powerful; he’s ready to outflow.
His thoughts are large; he wants to charge into uncharted realms.
O, let the spirit overtake him. O, it overwhelms.
Perhaps he will produce a work of art. O, sweet control.
O, give it all he’s got—he’s got to—to achieve his goal.
Perhaps he’ll find a kindred mind who travels with him there.
O, see him breathing steadily, invisible, the air.

“Scribe” El Wade is a poet of writing. He loves the hieroglyphs of Ancient Egypt.


Hermes’ Laconic Message
          by Ercules Edibwa

I saw young Hermes fleeting o’er the deep and bright blue sea.
He placed his right hand on the head of dark eternity.
He stood poised at a shore’s long edge to give his message to
Poseidon rising in the green light from the brilliant blue.
His words were few when they came through his godly moving lips.
Nearby, one could not see at sea the massive, passing ships.
He whispered something barely audible to human ears;
content, Poseidon heard it, for such words a great god hears.
But when he tried to stop that youthful god, it could not be;
for he was off and flitting o’er the deep and bright blue sea.

Ercules Edibwa is a poet of Ancient Greece. In Lakonikos, near Sparta, its citizens cultivated the skill of saying a lot in very few words.


Epic Form
          by Aedile Cwerbus

In Ancient Rome, there was a striving after epic form,
beneath blue skies, by grassy fields, sunlit, tall, and warm.
And in the Silver Age, the epic drew its devotees;
some citizens were so inspired by its lovely breeze.
The first and foremost, Statius, wrote his long Thebiad;
and for his work, great fame accrued, o, for all that he did.
Another author, Flaccus, wrote his Argonautica,
but it was not so well received, because it was not done.
A final figure of the era, poet Silius,
completed his work on the Roman Bellum Punicum.
These three showed Roman poetry still strove for greatness, but,
though strong and stalwart, Vergil still remained the ultimate.

Aedile Cwerbus is a poet of Ancient Rome. Vergil (70 BC – 19 BC) was the poet of the Aeneid. These three, Statius (c. 45 – c. 96), Flaccus (d. c. 90), and Silius (c. 28 – c. 103), were first century contemporaries.


Peter Handke
by Waldeci Erebus
          “The Nobel Prize should be abolished, It’s a circus.”
              —Peter Handke
          “The money—it was too good.”
              —the Spanish Ambassador in “American Dreamer”

The World, the so-called World, knows everything of Serbia.
The World, the so-called World knows Slobodan Milošević.
The World, the so-called World knows the truth, and that is why,
the World, the so-called World is missing here. It is not nigh.
I do not know the truth. I see. I listen and I feel.
And I remember things. That’s why I’m here, why this is real.
I’m close to Yugoslavia. My mother was Slovene.
I’m close to Serbia and Slobodan Milošević.
The World, the so-called World, knows everything that Peter thought.
The World, the so-called World, knows everything that Handke wrought.

Waldeci Erebus is a poet of Middle Europe. Austrian writer Peter Handke won the Nobel Prize for Literature in 2019. Waldeci Erebus, like Peter Handke, was an admirer of the works of William Faulkner (1897-1962). Slobodan Milošević (1941-2006) was a leader of Serbia who was tried for genocide and war crimes, though not found guilty, dying in prison.


The Aria of Mozart’s Magic Flute Queen of Night
          by Ewald E. Eisbruc

The aria of Mozart’s Magic Flute Queen
of Night is beautiful; but horrifying too.
She sings of hell, revenge, death and despair. The fiend,
then launches into bloodcurdling, bird-call abuse.
But hear, hear, hear. The music is so beautiful
it carries one away with its high-flying view
of th’ human voice. How can a shrieking be that full—
a mother’s curse and filled with so much loveliness?
It seems unreal, unfathomable, crude but cool,
a powerful arpeggio of vile vengeance,
as if all bonds of nature had been broken free
forever and were left in utter emptiness.

Ewald E. Eisbruc is a critic of German music. I remember a stormy autumn on a University campus, when I asked a woman coming out of the Music Building, who she thought was the greatest composer of all time. Mozarft rose from her lips—immediately.


Stillwell’s Post
          by Euclidrew Base

John Stillwell states that he believes that Post was saying this:
Before Gödel math logic’s goal has been set to dispell
all mathematics into but one set of axioms,
not caring if Peano’s meant a thing—ah, maximums.
But then Gödel showed that this was not so. Consistency
was not recov’rable, as it was contradictory.
And contradict’ry sentences can’t hold within such climbs,
that is, the structure of the Naturals with plus and times.
Thus, it is the ability to see the meaning of
Peano’s axioms as such, transcending formal proof.

Euclidrew Base is a poet of logic and math. Italian Giuseppe Peano (1858-1932), Polish-American Emil Leon Post (1897-1954), and Austrian Kurt Gödel (1906-1978) were among the many important figures in the search for the axiomatization of mathematics. Australian John Stillwell is a contemporary mathematician.


The Farm Help
          by Des Wercebauli

It was one of those bulky wooden barns where he was at,
reclining on some sturdy, poofy, gray and silver mat.
It was the time for him to take a break, to rest from work.
He breathed the air in long and hard, there turned out in a curve.
He lay there in light-blue blue-jeans beneath the wooden beams,
a dark brown wooden ladder rose above his closed-eye dream.
The building overhead secure, upright and sturdy too;
it rose above his shoulder blades; it had a godly view.
O, he was thankful for this break from baling bales of hay;
he felt as if great Ponos had smiled on his work today.


Time To Go To Work
          by Des Wercebauli

Wallpaper, with black, intricate and circular designs,
rose up behind the bed, where the alarm had rung its chimes.
O, it was time to get up off his duff and go to work;
he didn’t want to shirk his job or be a lazy jerk.
Beneath the clear, green bottles and the headboard, he moved to
the bed’s edge, lifting up his legs. O, he had work to do.
He grabbed his shin, he felt a twinge, he held the throb at bay.
He rose his head in utter awe; it was another day.
He got his butt up off the bed, great Ponos guiding him.
He rose up high, that rested guy, to join the realms of men.

Des Wercebauli is a poet of labour. He has been accused of being a workahaulic. In Greek mythology, Ponos is the god of hard work.


Watching TV Football
          by Rudi E. Welec, “Abs”

Four gents were on a sofa watching TV football sports;
they changed the channels many times, pursuing knowing scores.
One guy was quite excited, he loved being in that place.
You could see rapt expressions overcome his high-held face.
A second guy was much more thoughtful, analyzing scores;
he held the long remote within his right hand firmly formed.
A third guy pondered deeply on the actions that he saw;
his hands were holding what appeared to be a pizza box.
The last guy turned away to get a treat he could enjoy,
while looking o’er his shoulder at the games they watched. O, boy.
They shared their six-pack bottles. O, those four were quite absorbed,
but one time when all eyelids closed, it seemed as if they snored.

Rudi E. Welec, “Abs” is a poet of sports, including couch-potato sports. The AP top five college football teams this week are 1) Alabama, 2) LSU, 3) Ohio State, 4) Clemson, and 5) Oklahoma.


Two Hunters
          by Bud “Weasel” Rice

Two hunters had gone to the woods, their guns were readied, cocked.
Through bush and grass, through brush and trees, so stealthily they stalked.
They were attuned to all around them in that forest scene;
for they were hunting wild creatures in that lovely green.

The two paused for a moment, overviewing everything,
and listened to the sounds around so very carefully.
One dude stood up upon a log and turned his head about.
The other dude looked forward, standing squarely on the ground.

He saw a wild animal. He was prepared to shoot.
But then the other hunter grabbed his arm, which said, “Don’t do ‘t!”
And so they stopped their hunting and proceeded to return
back to the realms of men, and left the forest and the fern.

But “Weasel” Rice is a poet of wildlife.