by Ibe Ware Desu, LC

A baby leaping
frog-like onto a hard floor
brings a pond of tears.


          by Ibe Ware Desu, LC

A newborn baby
with bent legs and squat haunches
resembles a frog:
however, he may become
a Frenchman or a Buddhist.


          by Ibe Ware Desu, LC

A growing baby
four-and-one-half months old is
one-millionth the surface
of the Gulf of Bothnia.

Ibe Ware Desu, LC, is a poet of Japanese forms. These PostModernist poems were written at the birth of honorable father’s first child. The Gulf of Bothnia is the northernmost arm of the Baltic Sea, along Finland’s west coast.


I Hear
          by Bruc “Diesel” Awe

At night I hear the distant train. It’s whining oft and low.
It is the only thing I hear—that locomotive moan.
When it has passed, I hear the traffic on the highway go.
Its dull roar penetrates my mind because I am alone.
And then up in the sky I hear an airplane engine, o.
It rumbles by up in the sky—mechanical its drone.
And now I hear the heater whirring, warming up this home.
I cannot sleep; I am awake; because I’m on my own.
It seems that even where I live machines are sighing so;
although I know it’s only me that makes them seem to groan.

Bruc “Diesel” Awe is a poet of mechanical contrivances.


          by Ed “Bear” C. U. Lewis

The GPS relies upon two dozen satellites,
that orbit Earth two times a day, all mornings, noons and nights.
Devices that have been equipped with GPS receive
transmissions from a few of them for data they “perceive”.
They can “discern” precise positioning where they are at,
and use that information which they map and then they plat.
In 1974, the first satellite was launched;
by 1994, the 24th had taken off.
Since then the aging ones are periodic’lly replaced
to help the World’s citizens move all about their base.

Ed “Bear” C. U. Lewis is a poet of equipment.


The Battle of Leyte Gulf
          by War di Belecuse

The battle spanned 100,000 miles-squared of sea.
The largest battleships e’er built shared in the misery.
800 ships and 1800 aircraft did partake.
337,000 tons of shipping sank.
200,000 soldiers fought on both of the two sides.
The Japanese used kamikaze fighters in their dives.
The navy of Japan was paralyzed, brought to its knees.
MacArthur’s personal goal was to reach the Philippines.
Although most will forget what happened in that brutal War,
my mother’s cousin Dorin never lived past ’44.

War di Belecuse is a poet of war. The Battle of Leyte Gulf, October 23 – October 26, was the biggest naval battle in World history. Joint naval war games planned by Russia, China and Iran are slated to be held December 27th.


Pics from the LRO
          by Drew U. A. Eclibse

An amateur astronomer helped NASA find the crash
of India’s lost lunar lander, Vikram’s bomb and smash.
Soon after Vikram’s crash, high-resolution images
by NASA were released from the predicted target site.
Space sleuths combed through the data for signs of the craft’s demise;
yet for a time there were but unsuccessful scrimmages.
The first to find a piece of the debris came from Chennai—
Shanmuga Subramanian—a pixel caught his eye.
Meticulously checking pictures, after and before,
the NASA scientists concurred with his shot in the dark.

Drew U. A. Eclibse is a poet of the Moon. The LRO (Lunar Reconnaissance Orbiter) has been orbitting the Moon since 2009. Shanmuga Subramanian is a mechanical engineer from Chennai, whose urban agglomeration has a population of around 10,000,000.


To Reach Nirvana
          by Sri Wele Cebuda

He got into the lotus pose, the room of brilliant blues.
He had tied-up red laces on his black athletic shoes.
He stretched his legs out to each side, his legs bent at his knees.
It seemed his spine has spiraled up into a whorling frieze.
He longed to reach nirvana there in the square room he was in;
but he was not content at all, he only felt chagrin.
Amidst so many lines, rectangles, corners, walls and squares,
he felt so out of place; there were no windows anywhere.
And yet he tried to make the best of it as best he could.
He meditated on the true, the beautiful and good.

Sri Wele Cebuda is a poet of meditation.


Like Omar Khayyam
          by Delir Ecwabeus

Sometimes I’d like to break out of all that I am, to stop all the stopping and to go for it all, like tent-maker and wine-drinker Omar Khayyam, who solved his cubics by methods geometrical, that is, by mean utilizing conic sections, seated in his stately star-studded portico; and I often wish I could make new connections, to go for the gusto and leave the rest behind, to take, like the poet previously mentioned, directions from a heart not to Earth’s beauties blind, not too seriously the scene of Abraham or the intricate arguments of a great mind.

Delir Ecwabeus is a poet of Persia. Omar Khayyam (1048-1131) was a poet and mathematician of Persia. Abraham (c. 1800 BC) is a figure from Western Asia, whose life is related in Genesis in the Bible. This prose poem of one sentence contains 144 syllables.


Iran Protests November 25-30, 2019
          by Delir Ecwabeus

The numbers keep on coming in from testimonials
of protests in Iran that come from social media.
The number who have been arrested by the harsh regime
is more than 13,000—thanks to thé IRGC.
Reporting of the wounded too is growing by the hour;
more than 6,000 have been injured under IS power.
But horrible as this all is, worst are the growing deaths—
400+—the crackdown seems more ruthless every day.
And now we hear that forced confessions will be broadcast soon;
Iran it seems is under a most inauspicious moon.

Delir Ecwabeus is a poet of Iran. IRGC stands for the Islamic Revolutionary Guard Corps, IS, the Islanic State. It is hard to know what the exact number of arrests, injuries, and deaths is, as the government does not report such data honestly.


          by Beau Ecs Wilder

The formal terraced gardens rising on a steep hillside behind the Pitti Palace in Florence, laid out by Tribolo and Ammannati, sleep in unadorned forlornness, slight abhorrence, as Edith Wharton has suggested of the old Piazzale dell’ Isolotto, but for the occasional bench, which Italians seem so loathe to place about, and Pieratti’s putti of white marble. Sargent made them shimmering; although when I was there, they seemed to be hardly above benighted, th’ whole damn place in need of dire upkeep, a grim reminder all decays, grays, even love.

Beau Ecs Wilder is mainly a poet of 19th century painting. Niccolo Tribolo (1500-1550) was an Italian Mannerist painter; Bartolomeo Ammannati (1511-1592) was an Italian architect; and Domenico Pieratti (1600-1656) was an Italian sculptor. The painting of 1907 referred to here is by American John Singer Sargent (1856-1925). Edith Wharton (1862-1937) was an American novelist and short story writer. This prose poem has 144 syllables.


The Calculus
          by Euclidrew Base

The calculus of Newton was based on the algebra
of power series, infinite-wrought polynomials.
The calculus of Leibniz, likewise based on algebra,
that is, the algebra of the infinitesimals.

Today’s derivative was literally for Leibniz
the quotient of infinitesinals dy/dx.
The modern integral of f(x)dx, he thought,
the sum of the infinitesimals that he had got.

The calculus proved suitable at finding many things,
like volumes, lengths and areas of swervy figurines,
determining as well the tangent, normal, curvature,
and making mathematic physics possible and sure.

Euclidrew Base is a poet of mathematics. He believes poetry can be on anything, including mathematics. Englishman Isaac Newton (1642-1726) and German Gottfried Leibniz (1646-1716) are often considered the founders of calculus.


The Prose of Eric Blair
          by B. S. Eliud Acrewe

The prose of Eric Blair, George Orwell, at the end,
as found in Nineteen Eighty-Four, was brutal, spare.
Tubercular and disillusioned, nearly dead,
he wrote out his dystopia in that hard air,
that horrid era, in which doublespeak was borne:
Big Brother watching over all the bleak despair;
the Thought Police arriving just in time to warn
one of thoughtcrime in Air-strip One, Room 101,
the Party, Minitrue, and Miniluv. Forlorn,
both Julia and Winston Smith succumb, become
unpersons in stark pain and misery; they bend,
as all must do, in such a nightmare deep within.

B. S. Eliud Acrewe is a poet and literary critic of British literature.


The Thirty-nine Steps
          by Cawb Edius Reel

And there he was, Mister Memory in the Music Hall,
answering ev’ry question put forth to him by the crowd.
when then, back there in that dangerous cloak and dagger world,
two shots, die Dame! doing her damnedest to get away,
avoiding phones, turning mirrors around, watching her step,
starved for even a red herring, anything but a knife
in the back and a crumpled map of Scotland in the hand.
He had to get out of London. so he boarded a train.
There was nowhere else to go but down that long winding track;
but the Authorities found him out, so he jumped into the arms
of a glassy-eyed woman reading a book, kissed her, and,
then, the train stopped on a bridge. he made his daring escape
into the Country, where under another guise, he had
another scrap, another scrape with the Authorities,
a chase through the Grampians, over the rugged terrain,
those dizzying heights, those rolling hills, rushing rapids, and more,
a pterodactyl above coursing the land below for
him, to fill him full of lead, not very far from Killin,
when at last in the Professor’s House he felt safe, yes, safe,
a safe as a finger on the trigger of a Springfield,
saved, thanks only to the thickness of but one thin hymn book.
So he decided to go straight to the Authorities;
but it was, You may say, not what he expected at all;
and so, via parade, he marched to the Assembly Hall,
became the keynote speaker, was escorted away by
two very shadowy figures, and the glassy-eyed dame;
and when stopped on a bridge, their chance to escape,
so they ran into the night, hid beneath some waterfalls,
checked in to an inn, and fell asleep together in bed.
In the morning she escaped from him, stepped out to the stairs,
and there heard their previous escorts talking on the phone.
That was enough for her, so she returned back to the room,
slept, awoke when he did, and told him ev’rything she knew.
When surrounded by the Authorities he shouted out,
“What is the Thirty-nine Steps? What is the Thirty-nine Steps?”
and from the Professor’s booth, two shots, down the curtain fell,
and there he was, Mister Memory in the Music Hall.

Cawb Edius Reel is a poet of film. The 39 Steps was a movie by British-American director Alfred Hitchcock (1899-1980); die Dame! meaning the woman, in German. Killin, Scotland, has a population of around 600.


No Superman
          by Des Wercebauli

He was no Superman, but he had marked abilities,
his strength, his skin, his tough chagrim, and some agility.
He had no cape, no costume, only one discreet tattoo,
an ess encased below his nape—no gold, no red, no blue.
He had not come from Krypton, and his name was not Kal-El,
nor did his friends refer to him, at any time, Clark Kent.
He wasn’t from the middle of the country—Kansas—no;
but he would jump right in, if he was needed, heart and soul.
And he could fly, o, way up high, his eyes, like x-rays, glared.
His stamina was adamant; intrepidly he dared.
I really only saw him once come to some workers’ aid.
He leaped right in to help them out, and, o, the day was saved.

Des Wercebauli is a poet of labour.


Leg Raises
          by Rudi E. Welec, “Abs”

He got onto the light blue mat to do leg raises—yup.
He hands were interlocked behind his head and slightly up.
He lifted up both legs at once, as high as he could go;
and then he dropped them down again, but very very slow.
He felt like as a master puppeteer directed him,
and pulled his legs—Was he a joke?—the stirring strings with vim.
He concentrated on each movement that he worked upon;
but still no matter what he did, he felt like as a pawn.
His mouth was open as he breathed in air within that room
with wooden walls and wooden table and one window too.

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


A Pleasant, Fleeting Sit
          by Cu Ebide Aswerl

The Sun was shining on the patio. It was so warm.
O, he was there upon a chair in lotus-posing form.
His knees were at the chair’s firm arms; he looked uncomfr’table;
but such was not the case; he seemed untroubled, happiful.
He wore a smile between his stubbled cheeks and short-cut hair.
I think I’d never seen a man so happy in a chair.
I wondered what was in his mind—that meditating man—
who seemed beyond all earthly cares above that cement span.
It was as if he had achieved hints of enlightenment,
if only but for one brief moment’s sweet excitement’s zen.

Cu Ebide Aswerl is a poet of leisure and pleasure.


Conversation and Tea
by “Wild” E. S. Bucaree

It was Friday
           the day of Venus
     when I came to You for conver-
                   sation and
                 mth      to
           the nth degree!
                 no peace
                 no hel-
O, You were as warm as the desert floor
                   and as bare,
                     die freiheit
                                                     from your
                            freedom flying high and mighty
like the desert sky,
                 not quite quiet.

The return to reality was like cactus,
                                              cactus in a coyote’s mouth.


“Wild” E. S. Bucaree is a poet of the American Southwest. The German phrase die freiheit means freedom. The poem is in free-verse placement. His most recent most recent sighting of a coyote was July 10, 2019, along a nearby street. This week, on December 3, 2019, he spotted three black vultures sharing a meal on that same street—a family repast.