by “Wired Clues” Abe
The rain is falling;
the electric light is on.
No birds are singing.
by “Wired Clues” Abe
The tops of the clouds,
from a seat on an airplane,
are sunlit, golden.
“Wired Clues” Abe is a poet of technology in Japanes poetic forms.
by W. “Cured Eel” Sabi
The deep water squid
swishes big-eyed through the sea.
I’m eating sushi.
W. “Cured Eel” Sabi is haikuist. Sabi was an important aesthetic term of MidClassical Japanese literature (1100-1241).
by Esca Webuilder
Cert, India’s main cyber regulating agency,
asked users to update WhatsApp after discovery
of a vulnerability on older versions of
the messaging app triggered maybe by a video.
There are no reasons to believe that users’ phones were tapped,
although its software was used to install spyware—What’sThat?
Facebook, which owns WhatsApp, announced a fix some days ago
that should take care of any issue happening they say.
With some 400,000,000 users India is top,
the biggest market in the World; they don’t want it to stop.
Esca Webuilder is a poet of the Internet.
Close to Ram
by Sri Wele Cebuda
He got into the lotus pose upon the large, gray chair,
the off-white curtains hung behind his head and cut-short hair.
His hands down at his thighs, he started forth his mantra OM.
O, he was so content to be there in that tidy home.
He felt that he was close to Ram, when he was in that pose,
transposed, transported, o, so fortunate; his spirit rose.
He felt connected to the Universe, and not alone.
He felt alive and free, no slave to work or anyone.
He spread his legs out to each side; they hit the armchair’s arms.
He was prepared to take a trip. He’d love to go to Mars.
Sri Wele Cebuda is a poet of meditation.
by Delir Ecwabeus
The Revolutionary Guards warned of decisve acts,
if unrest over gas hikes does not cease. These are the facts.
They’re hinting at another harsh security crackdown;
they’ve closed the Internet and sent onliners underground.
Announcing fuel rationing and prices in ascent—
the government has said a rise of 50-some percent,
which sent some people to the streets to shout out forcefully,
“Death to the Palestinians!”, and “Death to Khamenei!”
With over 40 percent of Iran’s folks unemployed,
they’d like the funding of Hamas and Hesbollah destroyed.
Above 100 have been killed in all the rioting,
some from the air! the government is saying righteously.
In an Iranian Prison
by Delir Ecwabeus
The prisoner had been placed in a chair he was clamped to.
The walls were made of massive bricks and sloppy mortar glue.
The cell was black, but for the light from one high window frame.
He wasn’t going anywhere. How long would he remain?
And then his torturer appeared in camo and black boots.
He seemed an ordinary dude, not some big, strong galoot.
He grabbed the shoulder of the uptight prisoner quite tight,
which caused his head to fall back, o, it did not feel right.
He worried what would happen next. He was so vuln’rable.
Could he retain that seated height? O, Lord, what troubles come?
Delir Ecwabeus is a poet of Iran.
The Riots in Iraq
by Cid Wa’eeb El Sur
More than 300 people in Iraq have now been killed,
since the October riots started; they will not be stilled.
Protesters are demanding overthrowing the elites;
and that is why they’ve come in droves out to Iraqi streets.
On Monday, hundreds blocked commodities port Umm Qasr,
near Basra, there supporting Baghdad’s people in Tahrir.
The blockage costs the nation billions, but the people want
corruption stomped, and the Iranians dictating plots.
In southern cities, schools and offices have been closed down,
as well as shops and markets—situation, tense; time, now.
Cid Wa’eeb El Sur is a poet of Iraq.
The Russian MI-35M Helicopter
by Ed “Bear” C. U. Lewis
The Russian MI-35M helicopter is
a multupurpose combat vehicle with GPS.
Designed for ever greater maneuverability;
it’s also loaded up with high-precision weaponry.
Providing air support for ground attacks, hard land assaults.
it can be used for medivac or as a troop transport.
It’s also used by Mali, Mexico and Kazakhstan,
Brazil, Nigeria, Venezuela, and Iraq.
A giant, metal, fearsome bird, when it’s up in the sky.
One would not want to be within its path where it might fly.
Ed “Bear” C. U. Lewis is a poet of military equipment.
by Ira “Dweeb” Scule
“Dem bones, dem bones, dem dry bones.
Now hear the word of the Lord.”
—James Weldon Johnson
In Dallas, Texas, at Perot Museum, one can see
the fossils of some ancient hominid discoveries.
The oldest bones, those of a boy, 2,000,000 years ago—
Australopithicus sediba—is named Karabo.
Another one is Neo, male, 300,000 years,
example of Homo naledi, long arms, small brain, ears.
His was about the time when Homo sapiens emerged,
and here and now some are observing his remains. It’s weird.
This is the first, these specimens have left South Africa,
and will be just for four more months here in America.
Ira “Dweeb” Scule is a poet of knowledge. James Weldon Johnson (1871-1938) was a Modernist American poet involved in the Harlem Renaissance. “Dem Bones”, written and composed by him and his brother, was inspired by Ezekiel 37: 1-14, as is the following tennos.
Ezekiel in a A Valley Full of Bones
by Israel W. Ebecud
The Lord’s hand was upon me, and He brought me to this zone.
He set me in the middle of a valey full of bones.
He led me back and forth among them—they were very dry.
He asked me, “Son of man, can these bones live?” Then I replied:
“O, Lord and Master, You alone know that.” He then told me,
“O prophesy, and say to them, ‘Hear the Lord’s word—and be!'”
I did as I had been commanded. Bones together came!
I looked on tendons, flesh and skin, the breath of mighty men!
They came to life and stood upon their feet—an army group!
I gazed in awe upon them all. The Lord—He is so good.
Israel W. Ebecud is a poet of Hebrew religious texts. Ezekiel (c. 622 BC – c. 570 BC) was a Hebrew writer and prophet. According to Beau Lecsi Werd, the name Ezekiel in Hebrew means “God will strengthen”.
Madagascar Mica Mining
by Asweb Elie Druc
That glassy mica’s heat resistent, insulating too,
means that it is quite valu’ble and very widely used.
It’s used in plastics, paint, cosmetics, and as well in ink,
in electronics and the automotive industry.
From Madagascar most is sent to China where it’s sold
to Panasonic, Fujikura, Prysmian, Van Roll,
and many other companies in China and elsewhere;
for mica’s made of minerals in high demand and fare.
The only trouble is it’s mined in Madagascar by
the children, underpaid, who are as young as age of five.
Asweb Elie Druc is a poet of Madagascar. Madagascar, the fourth largest island in the World, has a population of about 26,000,000. The main language is Malagasy, but French is also an official language.
The English Literary Critic
by B. S. Eliud Acrewe
The English literary critic, who I most admire,
like Daniel, Sidney, Campion, such players of the lyre,
or those like Dryden, Pope and Johnson, Coleridge as well,
or Wordsworth, Keats and Shelley, moving past Miltonic Hell,
or Arnold and the many others closer to our time,
who judge prose writers and the poets, using rhyme, or not,
is T. S. Eliot. Here in the New Millennium,
his criticism still retains its high-worn premium.
Whenever I need learned thought upon an author’s work,
if he has written on that writer, I will oft concur.
In fact, I think his criticism better than his plays,
and poetry, when it no longer manages t’ amaze.
An English Don
by B. S. Eliud Acrewe
“The Son of God became a man,
that men could then become God’s sons,”
so said C. S. Lewis, an Englishman,
one of the 20th century’s dons.
B. S. Eliud Acrewe is a poet of British literature.
Jeremy Sams’ Morning Snow
by Red Was Iceblue
The winter, leafless forest, bathed in a purple glow,
beside a winding stream, is coppery in hue,
in Jeremy Sams’ quiet painting Morning Snow.
What is there not ideal from his point of view?
Above, the white sky filters through the woodland trees,
so thin and narrow rising, wriggling, real and true,
their twiggy branches hovering above the stream,
and covered with a sprinkling of finest snow.
It is so still there doesn’t seem to be a breeze.
The light reflected in the smoothe, but running, flow
of water shows those trunks, white ripples, and sun’s gold,
all crossed by fallen branches of some time ago.
Starry Night by Alex Ruiz
by Red Was Iceblue
He stands in awe outside the sanitarium,
while gazing at the starry night—Vincent Van Gogh—
as if he has his own Observatorium:
large stars, huge moon, transparent clouds, a gorgeous gawk.
This Ruiz got in seven hours in Photoshop
by using matte paint techniques—a magical,
fantastic spectacle, a wizard paused in Oz
in fields of golden flowers, by towering trees,
before a village, gray and slightly lit, at top
a spire, pointing up, so lovely in the breeze-
less frieze of thrilling hills and skies, a requiem
to one who seized th’ intensities such seeing sees.
Red Was Ice Blue is a poet of Modern, PostModern, and NewMillennial art. Jeremy Sams and Alex Ruiz are contemporary artists. Vincent Van Gogh (1853-1890) was a late 19th century Dutch painter. The poetic structure used in these two visual poems is a bilding, as is the following poem.
Duo des fleurs Léo Delibes
by U. Carew Delibes
Along a stream, the daughter of a Brahmin priest
and her maidservant sing and gather flowers, pleased
beneath the floral canopy, light in the East, Léo DelibesLéo Delibes
white jasmine mingled with rose, morning’s laughter seized.
‘O, let us gently glide along th’ enchanting flow.
O, let us drift together for forever eased,
that current following, wherever it might go,
upon the rippling, gleaming waters, to the shore,
so nonchalantly passing bird-chants in that glow,
o, past snow-winged swans, soft blue lotuses, and more,
so like the lovely Lady of Shalott, at peace
before the shutting of the door. O, je t’ adore.’
U. Carew Delibes is a poet of French music. Duo des fleurs (The Flower Duet) by French Romantic Composer Léo Delibes (1836-1891) is ethereally beautiful.
A Sunny Day Back Them
by I Warble Seduce
It was a sunny day back then; I’m turning back the time.
I then was strolling by the streets through crowds of no sublime.
I felt like some film actor reeling though the celluloid,
another era’s tech-no-realms I never once enjoyed.
And then I saw her in the breeze, as fresh as days in May,
come walking down the sidewalk by a blue and shining bay.
She changed the moment with her presence; time stood still for her.
At least I felt it did, because I stopped. There was no stir.
From that time on, my life went down another path, and I,
though haunted by the same old demons, saw a brand new sky.
I Warble Seduce is a poet of love.
A Very Ordinary Day
by Rusdic E. Weebal
It was a very ordinary day; not much occurred.
There wasn’t any sound that he could hear, not bird, nor word.
He went out to the wooden deck in lovely sunshine’s warmth.
He got upon a wooden seat in yoga lotus form.
The scene was so spectacular out to high-rising trees.
The sunshine was delirious, with but a subtle breeze.
He sat there in the gorgeous light, his bent legs spread out wide.
It was so nice he felt he could there a long time abide.
The sun upon his back felt very pleasant to his skin.
He felt like D was coming to him as a vitamin.
He gazed up high across the fields, the sky up over him.
For just a spell at least he could escape the world of men.
Rusdic E. Weebal is a poet of the country, of rural idylls and bucolic ideals.
by Rudi E. Welec, “Abs”
One can do exercises anywhere one might be at,
o, even in some tiny place with little room to act.
One can lift weights in closed-in spots, one needn’t use barbells.
Commanding what is handy works as well, and it fulfills.
One needn’t be perceptive, but just focused on one’s task,
for building strength uplifts one, o, whatever is the mass.
In fact, one can be half asleep, if one’s still focused on
whatever one is doing, or whatever one is on.
It’s good to get into the mood to make it seem a joy,
though one may never crack a smile, nor placid face destroy.
The Happy Exerciser
by Rudi E. Welec, “Abs”
He worked hard on his exercising in his living room.
The light was bright, a blinding white, both beautiful and blue.
He held two barbells in his hands he gripped securely there,
and pushed them up above his chest into the open air.
He loved to work out any time; it felt so good to him.
When he was flushed, he loved the rush he felt in every limb.
He stared up at the ceiling as he pumped his muscles up:
hup one, hup two, hup three, hup four; and in, his stomach sucked.
He wished he could be vigorous, like this, all of his life.
It was important to be active morning, noon or night.
He took a break then on his black, flat competition seat;
relaxing for a minute, it would help him feel complete.
Massaging body parts he had been exercising hard,
there near the closed French door he felt so warm and safe from harm.
It was important to kick back, and do this all his life.
He was a happy exerciser, moderating strife.
Rudi E. Welec, “Abs”, is a poet of physical exercise.
Breakfast at the Window
by Carb Deliseuwe
On high, the Sun is flaring down on rooftop, fence and yard.
Its beating, pulsing radiance is pounding very hard.
A man stares out his window at the bright blue-white light there,
while eating oatmeal, raisins, walnuts, honey, dates—o, glare—
as well as yogurt with blueberries and some apple sauce;
he takes a sip of pomegranate juice in glassy gloss.
He steps up to the window in his black shoes and black socks.
He stands before it in a light blue shirt, like Babe the ox.
The sky is blinding, so he keeps his eyes in shadows safe.
He lifts his back and shoulders up; he hears the passing planes.
He is reminded of his high school pictures at the track,
and wishes he could go back there, as he lets in the cat.
Carb Deliseuwe is a poet of food and drink.