by Ibe Ware Desu, LC

Tan grass, crinkled leaves,
the Sun makes a brief showing:
Nature’s beige carpet.

Ibe Ware Desu, LC, is a poet fond of Japanese forms.


          by “Lice Brews” Ueda

A little junko,
along a dead, maple branch,
hops, squeaking his song.

“Lice Bews” Ueda is a haikuist of the small.


          by “Wired Clues” Abe

Entirely in white,
a Shinto priest clears a path
to the holy shrine,
near by Lake Siwa’s side,
with an orange leaf blower.

“Wired Clues” Abe is a poet of Japanese poetic forma and tecgnology. Lake Siwa, and the city of Siwa are in Nagano Province in Japan. Siwa has a population of about 48,000.


The North Korean Hackers
          by Dae Wi “Scrub” Lee

It seems the North Korean state-backed hackers work now with
the Eastern European cybercriminals, lords Sith.
The digital state spies, along with gangster counterparts,
are getting to their victims through a gang that’s called TrickBot.
The Lazarus group has associations with the most
sophisticated Russian botnet operation ghosts;
like stealing millions from the Central Bank of Bangladesh,
or leaking Sony Pictures emails through the Intermesh.
Both German BAE and Japanese NTT have
been speculating their assisting is not tentative.

Dae Wi “Scrub” Lee is a poet of the Korean peninsula.


A Soldier of the PLA
          by Li “Web Crease” Du

Beyond the trees, the Dragon Tiger Mountain rises high;
a soldier of the PLA is sprinting quickly by.
In light gray boots and heavy jacket, warm hat on his head,
he runs across the snowy land without a bit of dread.
What is the red thing he is carrying in his right hand?
What is the message he is taking to the high command?
What does he see off to the left? What is it over there?
His giant stride is mighty, as he rides the thin, fresh air.
There are no forest musk deer here, no animals to see;
just one lone man amidst the trunks with bursting energy.

Li “Web Crease” Du is a poet of China. Mount Longhu (Dragon Tiger Mountain) is one of the birthplaces of Daoism. PLA stands for People’s “Liberation” Army. I recall watching a movie about a battle between bandits and the PLA directed by Tsui Hark. On Wednesday the CPJ (Committee to Protect Journalists) released its annual findings, noting that China took the top spot for journalists in prison, ending Turkey’s three-year winning streak. Tying for third were Egypt and Saudi Arabia.


Upon the Earth
          by Sri Wele Cebuda

He got into the lotus pose on patterned-carpet floor.
He closed his eyes and panted OM. Not this would he abhor.
He meditated for some time on his predicament.
O, he was striving for a moment of enlightenment.
He thought about his situation here upon the Earth.
He wanted to escape its gravity, its rugged girth.
If he could take a rocket off the launch pad he was on,
he could flee anger and the pangs of nasty Jake and John.
O, but he wasn’t really going anywhere at all,
just sitting on a patterned carpet, barely bearable.


Ecstatick, Heavenly
          by Sri Wele Cebuda

He got into the lotus pose and spread his legs out wide.
He lifted up his head a bit, as if to kiss the sky.
He felt so calm and peaceful, as if on a pleasure boat.
He felt so good, it seemed to him, he was a bobbing float,
a bobbing lotus blossom on the waters of eterne.
He felt as feathery as is the frond of an air fern.
He twitched, and felt an itch, o, so ecstatick, heavenly.
He slowed his automobile down to a mere seventy.
Although he stayed in but one place, he sped along so fast;
he soared up to one-hundred-per-cent, plentifully gassed.


In the Ex of Ecstasy
          by Sri Wele Cebuda

He got into the lotus pose in the fresh, filtered shade,
beside the rocky wall beneath the tree of silky jade.
He placed one foot up to the trunk of a tall rugged tree.
He felt like he was floating in the ex of ecstasy.
He spread his legs out to each side and sat on rugged ground.
Nearby he saw the rising hills, a gorgeous orange mound.
He felt at peace, content and free; he focused on the loam.
His lips were rounded in position of an open OM.
His hands were at his buttocks and his eyes were softly closed.
Though he’d not reach nirvana, he was closer than sup-posed.

Sri Wele Cebuda is a yoga spiritualist.


The Saudis at the Pensacola Naval Air Station
          by War di Belecuse

The Saudi shooter at the Pensacola Naval Base,
within his on-line manifesto called the USA
an evil nation, killing three Americans in turn,
three young men, only nineteen, twenty-three and twenty-one.
But that’s not all, and with his Glock, too, caused eight injuries,
before he was shot dead and couldn’t cause more misery.
Bizarrely one more Saudi was recording the event;
two other Saudis watching from a car were quite content.
The terrorist invoked bin Laden in his on-line post.
It’s plain to see the Saudis sure know how to treat a host.

War di Belecuse is a poet of terrorism.


On the Sea of Chinnereth (Matthew 8: 28 – 9: 8)
          by Israel W. Ebecud

And He, having come to the other side,
to the country of the Gadarenes, met
two demon-possessed men, who came in stride
out of the tombs. Quite dangerous, they set
themselves so that none could pass, saying thus
“What have You to do with us, Son of God,
come here before it’s time, to torture us?”
Now there was a herd of pigs on the sod;
so the demons said, “If You cast us out,
send us into the pigs.” And He said, “Go!”
So they went into the herd, down the route
to the lake, and died. Others fled, with no
delay, reporting this to the city,
begging Jesus to leave out of pity.

And so, having embarked into a boat,
Jesus crossed over into his own town.
And behold, a paralytic was brought
to him. He said, “Cheer up, child, [do not frown].
Your sins are forgiven.” Some scribes said then,
“This One blasphemes.” “Why think in this way?
with evil in your hearts?” Jesus again
spoke, and said, “Which is easier to say,
sins are forgiven or rise up and walk?
But, in order that you may know the Son
of Man has the authority to talk,
and forgive sins, rise up, take your bed on,
and go home.” The man rose, left; and the crowd,
awed and afraid of this, glorified God.

Israel W. Ebecud is a poet of Israel. This poem is an answer to a Richard Wilbur poem.


Russian Doping Scandal
          by Radice Lebewsu

Director Grigory Rochenkov ran the Sochi lab
that ran the testing for the thousands of Olympians.
He said he had developed cocktails of banned substances
he mixed with liquor to facilitate elab’rate plans.
In shadows of the night, the antidoping experts changed
the tainted urine samples with some clean ones they’d obtained.
In darkness with a single lamp, they passed the bottles through
a hand-sized holed made in the wall for the next day’s purview.
The gray-haired dude who ran the Sochi lab ring has confessed,
and Russia now is banned again from next Olympic tests.

Radice Lebewsu is a poet of Russia. Sochi, where the 2014 Winter Olympic games were held, is a city of about 340,000 permanent residents. As Russia’s biggest resort city, its population is in constant flux. Russia is banned from the 2020 Olympics and the 2022 World Cup and 2022 Winter Olympics.


At the Immortal Banquet
          by Aedile Cwerbus
          “The vanished gods to me appear…”
              —Ralph Waldo Emerson, “Brahma”

Amidst the civil storms and fateful enemies we have
for which there seems to be no purely wholesome, holy salve,
I think of Cicero, the ancient Roman senator,
who there upon the Capitol, its golden orator,
said to “Live as brave souls, and if Fortuna is adverse,
then front its blows with doughty hearts, and deal with its curse.”
As Tyutchev pointed out, almost two centuries ago,
o, he is blessed who meets the World in its destined flow,
a witness who has been invited by the gods to be
at their immortal banquet in the throes of history.

Aedile Cwerbus is a poet of ancient Rome. Cicero (106 BC -43 BC) is a famous Roman writer. This tennos draw some of its inspiration from Russian poet Fyodor Tyutchev (1803-1873).


Sage Leonardo Fibonacci
          by Euclidrew Base

Sage Leonardo Fibonacci, lying flat,
was counting numbers, searching for the golden mean.
He stretched out like a lion lying on a mat,
and counted out, 1, 1, 2, 3, 5, 8, 13,
then 21 and 34 and 55…
his wheels spinning, whorls, o, continuing,
sunflowers flowering, and on to 89,
a lovely split, o, sinewy that gorgeous form,
from DNA to galaxy, within divine,
as if the very essence of his inner core
was striving after some ideal, where it’s at
and reaching for the next—144.

Euclidrew Base is a poet of mathematics. Leonardo Fibonacci (c. 1170 – c. 1240 -1250) was an Italian Medieval mathematician. He popularized the Hindu-Arabic numbers and brought to light the sequence known to Hindu prosodists. The bilding above of 144 syllables, has a break at syllable 89 (right after the word “o”). The golden ratio phi, φ = (1 + √5 ) / 2 ≈ 1.60339887…


From Homer, the Odyssey, Book 12
          by Acwiles Berude

So I explained our situation to my friends,
while our fine vessel traveled on a gentle breeze.
We neared the island of the Sirens. Suddenly, the winds
descended and a calm appeared upon the seas,
as if some god had lulled the waves to peaceful sleep.
With sword, I sliced a gold cake from the wax of bees,
and kneaded it in my strong hands. The heated heap,
from rays of Helios, I plugged in the crew’s ears.
My comrades rose and furled the sail upon the deep,
and tied me to the mast. Seated, they struck the oars.
They rowed the vessel through the waters, grey and green.
Once near, the Sirens started singing, beautifully clear.

“Odysseus, glory of the Greeks,
draw near and bring your ship to rest.
Regard our voices as they speak
in lovely music. You’ll be blessed.

“No man rows past this gleaming isle,
without the sweet sounds from our lips.
And wiser, with a rising smile,
all men leave in their passing ships.

“We know the suffering you’ve faced,
what Greeks and Trojans have endured.
So listen to us. You’ll be graced
with lovely music, sweet and pure.

“We know all things that come to pass
upon this fertile, turning Earth.
Pause here to hear these melodies,
and you shall feel full awesome mirth.”

Odysseus shouted to his men to set him free;
but they rowed on, and bent themselves into their work.
Two men tightened his bonds, and added more rope. He
could not escape no matter how he’d twist and jerk;
and not until they’d rowed beyond the Sirens, did
they then untie him with strongs hands and hard, sharp dirk.

Acwiles Berude is a poet of ancient Greece, particularly the world of Homer.


By the Rocky Shore
          by Eber L. Aucsidew

I saw him by the rocky shore, the waters churning white;
his hair was flapPing in the wind; thE Sun was burning bright,
a light gray sweaTer on his back, some hair on lip and chin,
he was in one round corner at the Edge of slipping in.
There mimoids formed beside SolaRis, undreams in the mind,
a man embarking on a journEy through the shoals of time.
Who knows what water will return? Who knows what he wiLL find?
An oceanographer is wandering about the brine.
I’m trying to remember that vast open emptIness,
the brisk breeze in the fresh, wet air, the restless, endlesS sea.

Eber L. Aucsidew is a poet of air and water.


Back Country Trip
          by Ileac Burweeds

He was a bold, intrepid traveler in hiking boots.
He cherished trips to the back country, took them when he could.
He vividly remembers one such trip he took one day.
The sun was shining; he was rested; he was on his way.
His purpose was to find some wild huckleberry shrubs.
The hill before him, looming high, was filled with bush and brush.
He thought that it would only take an hour at the most;
the climb seemed very passible; it might just be a coast.
And so he dove into the brambles, am-bl-ing along;
but not for very long, the stickers rose up in a throng.
He wished he’d brought a pair of shears, a glove upon each hand;
but he had neither, only drive to press on through the land.
There was no love, no berry bush, he just had push and shove.
An hour in, and very hot, he’d gotten half way up.
The wild growth was thick with thorns, with thistles and with branch;
he wished that he was now back home there at his humble “ranch”.
Too bad. He had committed his self; he was so far in.
To go back down would be as hard; he was filled with chagrin.
So he kept thrusting though the thickets multiplied by ten,
attempting not to be slapped silly, longing for a glen.
Scratched up a bit, by spike and prick, he kept on pressing forth.
He would not be defeated by this hill there facing north.
Although his troubles now were manifold, and irksome too,
he felt as though some god was smiling on him in that brew.
So he kept going, doing his best, trying to excel
at getting through this hard ordeal, o, this hillside hell.
And when he finally arrived there at the hilltop’s crown,
he was relieved; but now he’d have to start the long trek down.
But what he noticed at the top was an old logging track,
where trains had pulled out many logs, so many long years back.
And so he followed it awhile, and finally came to
a gravel road, that he could walk. O, what a gorgeous view!
And though he walked some miles back, to get back to his home;
it was much easier, in fact. But he’d be back for more.
For the back country calls to him; it seems most every day.
And though it isn’t very easy, it’s still the best way.

Ileac Burweeds is a poet of Nature.


Package Delivery
          by Bruc “Diesel” Awe

This is the season for delivering of goods and such.
In tall vans, drivers zip about to drop off packages.
I saw one in the neighbourhood. The van came to a halt.
The driver in a drab-green tee, quite stocky, not that tall,
jumped out as quickly as he could, and ran around the van,
and opened up the sliding door, quite quick with foot and hand.
He crawled up in that open van to grab a package there;
he was so focused on his task; he didn’t pause to care.
And though the box was taller than he was, he took control,
and carried it off with aplomb. Yes, he was on a roll.
He was so fast, o, at his task, I will not soon forget
that driver and his fast delivery—a jaunting jet.

Bruc “Diesel” Awe is a poet of transportation.


We Passengers
          by Bed W. Surveilace

Lift off, ascending over PDX’s rising Tow’r,
we mount the skies and soar at 700 miles per hour,
up in a Boeing 737 on our butts,
we passengers, above the clouds, munch on warmed, salty nuts.
The sunlight filters through the windows lightly on our snacks;
we lean against the cushioned seats, supporting heads and backs.
We pass the mountain chains and gleaming rivers winding past.
We play our games, while smiling, penning poems on our laps.
We sip on water bottles as we climb ten thousand feet.
We stretch our legs, our arms, our heads. We feel incomplete.

Bed W. Surveilace is a poet of close observation.


Juice WRLD Left Us His Lucid Dreams
          by Educable Wires

The plane that carried SoundCloud rapper Juice WRLD came to rest.
It landed in Chicago—1 AM—on Sunday last.
Some law officials greeted it—they’d gotten bulletins—
cough syrup, marijuana, metal-piercing bullets, guns.
But Jarad Higgins went into convulsions at that time.
Some agents tried applying Narcan to try to save him…
                                                               to revive his mind.
In seven minutes the Chicago firemen were there;
they took him to the hospital; he died at 3 AM.
So many still can see his shadows lurking in the air.
He left us falling, landing in…side of grave lucid dreams.

Educable Wires is a poet of contemporary music. Though he may not always agree with her musical assessments, he enjoys reading Lizi von Teig’s Feedback.


Banana Art
          by Red Was Iceblue
          “bonana fana fo…”
              —Shirley Ellis

When a banana duct-taped to a wall was decently
sold for $120,000! recently,
a Georgia artist, Dave Datuna, peel’d it on the spot,
and then he ate it, while onlookers watched him swallow it.
The said banana was part of an art exhibit by
Italian artist Cattelan, the Coxes had to buy.

Although it’s only a cheap piece of produce from the store
connected by gray duct tape—only this and nothing more—
and though the Hunger Artist wasn’t in black leotards
with ribs protruding, sitting on spread straw before a crowd,
he gobbled up the wall fruit unapologetic’lly.
Art Basel, then, removed the fruit piece energetic’lly.

Red Was Iceblue is a poet of contemporary art. “The Hunger Artist” is a short story by German writer Franz Kafka (1883-1924).


          by I. Warble Seduce

I love you all the time,
and more and more as time
goes on marching,
marching by and by.
I love you so much that I am
indeed a happy guy.

You know just what to do
to keep me loving you
all the time
no matter what you do.
I love the way you are right now
it’s absolutely true.

My daddy told me life
is hard to face sometimes
for the horror,
intolerance and war.
It really is a crime
that people can be so unkind.

I’m happy as a kite.
The love I feel—so right—
I will love you
until the day I die.
No matter what the world may do
I’ll be a happy guy.

You make my heart feel good.
You show me that love could
become true
for anyone who would
embrace it as it should…be.
That is what you do.

My mama told me that
the world isn’t
all that good,
they don’t do what they should.
But the whole damn world
can go screw itself
for all I give a hoot.

I’m happy as a kite.
The love I feel—so right—
I will love you
until the day I die.
No matter what the world may do
I’ll be a happy guy.

I Warble Seduce is a poet of love.