by Ibe Ware Desu, LC
Time to renovate
the Ryukyu Kingdom palace
of King Shō Hashi.
Shuri Castle burned again,
one more time in a long line.
by Ibe Ware Desu, LC
On this rainy day,
you, too, must be lonely, cat,
curling by my head.
Ibe Ware Desu, LC is a poet fond of Japan. On the morning of October 31st, 2019, in Japan, Shuri Castle burned. King Shō Hashi (1372-1439) was the first king of the Ryukyu Kingdom. October 29, was National Cat Day in the US.
by Eber L. Aucsidew
And now it seems that Summer’s over, resting on its bed;
the sunset vivid orange, shining b-right above his head,
He tries to lift himself up to the lovely hanging fruit,
but Autumn fiercely shoves him down and bottoms out his boot.
Though Autumn is so cool, he still contains a vibrant warmth;
but still he doesn’t have the beauty of hot Summer’s form.
O, Summer will be back again, but not for quite some time;
and Autumn too will have to deal with harsh hoar frost and rime.
O, Summer hangs on to the edge, so soon is Halloween,
but even Time must change in time, its fallow following.
Eber L. Aucsidew is a poet of the seasons. Halloween comes from the Celtic druid calendar, the first historical mention of it—Samhain—in the 1st century BC in France. Samhain, Lord of the Dead is yearly locked in a six-month battle with Bael, the Sun god.
by Bud “Weasel” Rice
Some tardigrades protect their DNA with their Dsup,
a protein that supplies them with a layer that is tough.
They can survive the lethal cosmic rays of outer space;
their Dsup rounds nucleosomes and keeps them safe in place.
Their histones, like small fluffy clouds of cotton candy, wrap
to keep hydroxyl radicals from turning them to scrap.
When tardigrades dry out, they draw in legs and head, like balls;
these tiny tuns, like little buns, dot lanscapes of the small;
but tardigrades, though microscopic, can withstand a dose
of radiation that would turn a moose or man to toast.
Bud “Weasel” Rice is a poet of animals.
On Spider Webs
Sbider Wee Ulac
The silken threads of spider webs don’t rot that easily,
because bacteria can’t get their nitrogen, you see;
and nitrogen’s a nutrient the microbes need for growth;
and good decomposition needs bacteria, we know.
Perhaps the spider’s silken threads contain a coated fat,
or complex protein on the web that blocks the microbe act.
Some spiders thrive in microorganized environments,
including underground web weavers like tarantulas.
So disentangled webs among the roses flapping free
continue functioning long after they’re flipped snappily.
Sbider Wee Ulac is a poet of the Arthropods.
by Si Ulec Badewer
In Xanadu, did distant relative of Kubla Khan
step to the threshold of the age that he had stumbled on.
He crossed the vast Kazakhistan, outcast Mongolian,
and looked about that stage so strange—that steppe—in golden dawn.
He tried to make sense of his time, to reach the distant sky,
to ride across that gorgeous emptiness beyond his eye.
He dreamed of Russia, Asia too, from China to Europe,
his only hope a hunger for the vast plains to erupt.
He cried out in a language that would modify the World,
and it poured out through all the souls in which it had been hurled.
Si Ulec Badewer is a poet of Mongolia. He is said to be related to Kubla Khan. Xanadu (Shangdu), in inner Mongolia, was Kubla Khan’s summer capital.
Safe from the Storm
by Sri Wele Cebuda
He got into the lotus pose upon the trim, taut couch.
He stretched his legs out, bit his lip, but nary said an ouch..
And though he wasn’t smiling, he felt good, he was content,
because of all around him, where he sat so firm, but bent.
He was far from the forlorn migrants, beaten, raped and squeezed
for all the money traffickers could get from them—such fees.
Above him were the long, white shutters, closed, yet new and clean;
nearby there was a makeshift shelf, Ikea-like and neat.
His hands were on his thighs, as he gazed toward the ceiling sky,
that spread above him large and grand, the focus of his eyes.
That Panoramic View
by Sri Wele Cebuda
He got into the lotus pose upon a wooden deck.
The view before him was breathtaking and magnificent.
High cliffs, green trees, the wide, white, open sky—the depths of scene.
He stretched his thighs, out to each side, and muscles in between.
Beyond the shiny, red mahogany, the hill went down;
the vale revealed all kinds of lovely shrubs upon the ground.
His arms and hands dropped to his waist; he opened his mind’s eye
upon the universal power surges in the sky.
Though he had been in this position many times before,
he felt aspects of life rise up…off of the floor—and soar.
Th’ Unmoving Dance
by Sri Wele Cebuda
He got into the lotus pose to be connected to
the electricity of goodness, truth and rectitude.
He let his mind go wandering among the white-blue shrouds.
He felt as if he were at ease, at peace among the clouds.
He had a contemplative look upon his countenance.
His legs stretched out from side to side to do a mountain dance.
Although just slightly moving, he felt newly energized,
excited he was here again upon these mountain sides.
He felt like as a hopak dancer, stretching out his feet,
his hands and arms beneath his head, kicked back, his thighs unleashed.
Sri Wele Cebuda is a poet of meditation.
Abu Bakr al-Baghdadi is Dead
by Ed “Bear” C. U. Lewis
“Abu Bakr al-Baghdadi, austere religious scholar…”
—Washington Post headline
“The assertion that Baghdadi died as a coward was…contradicted by the
fact that…he blew himself up.”
—Max Boot, Washington Post
The US helicopters flew down low and very fast,
into the night with special forces for the Idlib task.
Twin-rotor CH-47s left Al-Asad Base.
In hours they had seen him running in his bunkered place.
He took his children with him, and his suicidal vest;
and blew it up before the dogs got to him in their quest.
It was a mess, troops had to dig through all of the debris,
then tested Al-Baghdadi’s DNA forensic’lly.
It was a match. The murderer of thousands met his fate—
the cruel leader of the hateful Daesh Caliphate.
Ed “Bear” C. U. Lewis is a poet of special ops.
Remembering the Genocide of the Assyrians
by Crise de Abu Wel
Th’ Assyrians continue to be persecuted by
those with intent for genocide—brown rocks, black trees, white sky.
They are attacked and slaughtered, barely standing—tattered, raped.
What hope have they to be a people? Is there no escape?
They totter on the brink, and lean, dark-eyed into the wind.
Who will be there to catch them when they drop into the end?
not Persian, Turk, Iraqi, Kurd—not even Syrian!
Who will be there to love their gorgeous culture buried in…
the sands of time? to see their peerless wonders crushed beneath
the latest hateful state—Daesh—that Death has just bequeathed.
Crise de Abu Wel is a poet of West Asia, particularly of its many persucuted peoples, like the Assyrians.
by Israel W. Ebecud
“And I head a man’s voice between the banks of Ulai,
and it called, ‘Gabriel, make this man understand the vision.'”
—Daniel 8:16 ESV
The blinds were beige. The walls were blue. He sat beside the desk.
Before him was the monitor. Behind him was the test.
He hoped to pass with flying colours. O, it was not damp.
His head was at the height of the bright light of the white lamp.
He typed away. The words rebelled, but he was right on cue.
He turned them in to sentences and lines that he could view.
But would he be effective, o? He sat back in his seat.
He tried to ascertain the meaning of his work complete.
A messenger had come to him. Could this be Gabriel?
He turned his head, but could not see, there blinded by the El.
Israel W. Ebecud is a poet of the Hebrew prophets.
The Night Lights of Yerevan, Armenia
by Darius Belewec
The night lights of the city were star-like and magical,,
as if he were there gazing at a gorgeoug pageant show.
The beauty of that urban scene was like as in a dream,
a fluttering, a scattering, a glittering supreme.
Hoe many could not fall in love in such a lovely set.
Indeed it would not be that easy for one to forget.
O, he was swept away and carried on the wings of love,
so peaceful and content, like a a dove perched up above.
O, Yerevan, Armenia, there in the Caucasus,
this scene, a million living souls, on which he focuses.
Darius Belewec is a poet of Armenia. Yerevan is a city of about 1,000,000. This week the US House of Representatives (405-11) recognized the mass killings of Armenians a century ago in Turkey (the Ottoman Empire) as genocide. Lawmakers likewise backed legislation calling on President Trump to impose sanctions on Turkey for its offensive against the Kurds in northern Syria.
Maria Butina Released
by Alecsei Burdeew
Maria Butina, a Russian gun-rights activist
was just released from prison Friday, and the fact is this:
she had served fifteen months in jail; she was unregistered;
a Russian agent has to notify the US Feds.
Red-haired, gun toting Butina has left the USA,
long after she had tried to get in to the NRA.
Was she a spotter or a rotter or an innocent?
Was she whom Robert Mueller’s team went after with intent?
She said she had not infiltrated any group or club,
she felt humiliated, and that Russians don’t give up.
Alecsei Burdeew is a poet of Russia.
The Fundamental Theorem of Algebra
by Euclidrew Base
The fundamental theorem that one finds in algebra—
a polynomial degree k has k complex roots—
allows us to discover intersections twixt two curves,
if we remain consistent, salvaging our o’erwrought nerves,
and, counting them according to their multiplicity,
to view the very curves themselves evolved projectively.
The sim-pl-est such curve is the complex projective line,
that which we all are living on and turning on through time,
appearing like a sphere—o, others can be more complex—
like those nonrational curves that leave holes that can perplex.
Euclidrew Base is a poet of mathematics. The first complete proof of the fundamental theorem of algebra was by German mathematician Carl Friedrich Gauss (1777-1855) in 1799. A rigourous proof was first published in 1806 by Frenchman Jean-Robert Argand (1768-1822).
by Uwe Carl Diebes
“As I reached through the chest, beneath the skin, to cut out tongue and
palate with a knife, I bumped the purple aster. It slid in…the brain, and
we sewed up that vase of life.”
—Buc Dewie Laser
Fast have you emptied contents so content—
syringes filled with sweetest greeting’s scent.
Your spirit, as a fragrance, vanishes,
like lilac blooms the morning banishes.
Your blossoms swell, o, God, so blue and cool.
Novalis warned me of your cruel gru’l.
How secretly your evil weave is spun;
so free, I feel uplifted to the sun.
Is it myself bound to an earthly orb,
whose splendors in my veins suffuse, and bore;
but take my love off to a bear-strong grave,
and leave sweet nothings that I have…to save.
Berlin at Night
by Uwe Carl Diebes
Like as a bee-wolf rising from a murky swamp,
Berlin at night is sounds and sights, a buzzing growl,
a swirl of folks and traffic, on streets, ramps and romp,
cars, boats and trains, in neon lights, a rowdy howl.
Like an Expressionistic pic, in yellow, red,
and white, against the black nocturnal background’s bow’l,
Glasarchitektur rising taut high overhead,
it goes sheer Bartleby, Die Brücke on a spree.
Likewise, below cafes and lamp-lit walks, undead,
the shadows all around, blue, brown, and gray, dark green,
der Kaiser von Utopia, it moves through storms of pomp,
the essence of a dream, this present century.
Uwe Carl Diebes is a poet of Germany. Buc Dewie Laser is a poet of surgery. Berlin is a city of approximately 3,700,000. He barely even noticed this year’s flu shot; it was so quick and easy he had to ask the nurse if it was done.
by Luis Cardewebe
At dusk, the Caribbean Sea goes to th’ horizon’s plies
of lavender cloud-streams in fire-golden-orange skies.
Like as a treasure chest of jewels, set in the aqua sheen,
crepuscular and glittering, clear Cartagena seems.
Desde el Cerro de la Popa, Stern Hill, one sees rise
skyscrapered brilliant silver bars in shimmering surprise.
Like closing eyes, two black ships sit amidst the tiny boats.
Asleep in dreamy incandescent time, the city floats,
like as a gorgeous painting through reality’s designs;
its gleaming, brimming sweeps and rims of elegance aligns.
Luis Cardewebe is a poet of Colombia.
The Investigative Journalist
by Brice U. Lawseed
Involved, o, in investigative journalism, he
would study subjects very closely assiduously.
O, he would try to penetrate the topic close at hand
and over his material soon get the upper hand.
He tried to understand each situation as it came,
attempting hard to keep it open, and not to inflame.
He longed to get important facts, but do so rapidly,
to focus on significant details he could see,
to make his point, o git the gist, and then move on from there.
Investigative journalists must be bare, spare and square.
Brice U. Lawseed is a poet fond of Washington DC.
by Caud Sewer Bile
“Power tends to corrupt, and absolute power corrupts absolutely.”
“Americans talk, talk, talk corruption; the Chinese hide, hide, hide it.”
The Swamp is huge in subterfuge; it lingers in the blight.
Along its edges one can find a line of green and white.
If one dare enter its dark chasm one may be sucked in,
and lose oneself within its depths. O, how the head will pin.
You squint your eye to see if it is really all that bad.
To gaze just on its surface is enough to make one mad.
It is so raw, you gaze in awe down at its sucking hole.
You grab at anything you can so you won’t lose your soul.
So lovely and so powerful, why must it be so flawed?
It takes one’s breath away. There is no doubt one’s overawed.
Caud Sewer Bile is a poet of Washington DC, the Swamp. John Dalberg-Acton (1834-1902) was an English writer and politician.
Paul Oratofsky in Black and White
by Red Was Iceblue
—Jose Garcia Villa
“Blow space to time)”
—E. E. Cummings
In Brooklyn born, in January 1943,
he got a Bachelor of Math and Physics from BC.
He worked as a programmer time to time to time to time
at New York City Transit, Honeywell—Was it sublime?
at Bunker-Ramo Corporation in Connecticut,
and as a writer in Chefchauen’s blue-lit etiquette.
He worked at Rockefeller University as well,
and as photographer in Maine, in Camden for a spell.
Back with computers in New York, next with Columbia,
at Pandick Press, job after job, like as a tumbling weed.
Then Digital Equipment Corporation specialist,
at Browne & Company he was a senior analyst.
Consultant at Stochastic Models, then eventually,
at Drexel Burnham Lambert he was technical VP.
From 1992, he focused on photography,
Paul Oratofsky, a quick black and white biography
In a Dana St. Mary
by Red Was Iceblue
Miró was lOOking in the mirror glazing at the glass,
where a Klee pigeon landed on a Basquiat in gas,
the arteries and veins aswirl in a human head,
the lines elliptical, in purple, black and blue, and red,
the central retinal array in an ophthalmic twirl
of aqua, brown, green, yellow, wound up in its twining whirled,
an ear, a brain, a mouth, insane, a glowering of shock,
the bright ideas traveling, unraveling a clock,
between the boundary of madness and true sanity,
collapsing in a factory of flushed humanity.
Red Was Iceblue is a poet of Modernist, Postmodernist and New Millennial art. Paul Oratofsky is a contemporary photographer, Dana St. Mary is a contemporary artist.
by Rudi E. Welec, “Abs”
Squats obviously build leg muscles, but that’s not all
they do. Including working hamstrings, quadriceps and calves,
they also trigger the release of human growth hormone,
as well as adequate desirable testosterone.
Squats also help with waste removal and to burn more food;
to lose the fat around the waist—that exercise is good.
They tone the backside and the abs, promote mobility;
maintaining balance, they too are preventing injury.
Squats also aid in executing life activities.
In short, squats make one more athletic, glad to be at ease.
Rudi E. Welec, “Abs” is a poet of physical exercise.
That Swimming Dude
Cu Ebide Aswerl
He plopped into the swimming pool, aquamarine and cool.
He did the flutter kick, as though a dolphin in a school.
He leaned back in the water, floating on its liquid lea,
he saw a butterfly go cross its surface snappily.
He saw a tow’l along its edge, pink, yellow, orange, blue;
its vibrant colours shimmering; his lips begn to drool.
He felt like as a frog nearby a bobbing lily pad;
and though he had no smile upon his face, still he was glad.
The sky above him seemed so friendly. O, he wondered why.
He was content, that swimming gent; a frog who got a fly.
Cu Ebide Aswerl is a poet of leisure.