by Ibe Desu Ware, LC

A winter warbler,
in Yosa Buson’s hedge, was
heard in Wang Wei’s too.


          by Ibe Desu Ware, LC

Winter’s breath blinds roads.
We choose to huddle despite
required good-byes.


          by Ibe Desu Ware, LC

On a dead carcass,
a crow has happened to hop
this winter morning.

Ibe Desu Ware, LC, is a haiku poet. Yosa Buson (1716-1784) was a Japanese haiku poet. Wang Wei (699-759) was a Tang Chinese poet.


The Crows
          by E. Birdcaws Eule

Along the highway, picking at the dead,
crows feed at carcasses of animals.
Those scavengers are quite glad to be fed
on mammals, even gleeful cannibals.
They clean the world of its decay and death.
They keep the roadways clear for trucks and cars
in summer’s breeze or winter’s icy breath;
but go to sleep at dark, unlike nightjars.
And they are loud. They caw. They caw and crow
and interrupt the silence of the world.
At times, impatient souls want them to go,
becuase they’re tired of all that they have heard.
And yet whenever I may hear them caw,
I’ll thank them for policing grounds, and maw.

E. Birdcaws Eule is a poet of birds. The nine sentences of this sonnet divide four in the octave and five in the sestet.


The Scientific Year of 2019

          by Ira “Dweeb” Scule

In 2019, many scientific views were shown,
like the pic of a black hole, at event-horizon cone,
the rise of measles, since eradication decades back,
politicizing climate science, vaping’s deadly track,
Denisovans came into focus, CRISPR trials came,
new qubit-based computers were a new and recent claim,
biodiversity was under overall assault,
new rocket trips were taken to the Moon, some in default,
depression drugs were also now available for some;
the scientifc year of 2019 on a hum.

Ira “Dweeb” Scule is a poet of the various sciences.


Eight Stanzas
          by Si Celebrade Wu

Some say the Taipei 101
looks like a bamboo stalk,
while others say it looks just like
a Chinese takeout stacked.

I tend to favor those that think
it’s boxed food from a wok,
because its sides are sloped and straight
not curvy or shellacked.

Its spire, which rises sixty feet,
is like a bamboo’s height;
though it lacks leaves or small birds’ feet,
it’s narrow, straight, upright.

Now others say it’s based upon
the look of a pagoda,
while others think it’s Star Wars fare
in which one could find Yoda.

And others yet think it is like
a stack of Chinese ingots,
one piled upon another one,
a symbol of abundance.

The tower’s planned design is based
upon a group of eights.
Upon eight columns there are placed
eight upward flaring crates;

and in each crate there are eight floors,
above the twenty-five,
which is exactly sixty-four,
to make up eighty-nine.

One-hundred-one floors climb above
the five floors in the ground.
The bottom is where shoppers shove
you if you hang around.

Si Celebrade Wu is a poet of independent, New Millennial Taiwan. Taiwan is presently combating disinformation from China’s cyber armies prior to its January 11 election.


On Dubai
          by Secwer El Dubai

“Do buy! Do buy!” the merchants cry out loud.
“Come by our souk. We have pashminas, cloth,
and caftans for the sequin-sandaled crowd.
The abras, water taxis on sea froth,
will bring you here, near where the Burj Dubai
climbs ever up so high into the sky
above the palms that splay into the bay,
that prey upon the day, and pray, and sway.
And this is only the beginning, oh.
Such breezes send an aromatic waft
past gold and golf beneath the sun aloft,
it sends its glow onto this spinning globe.
Hey, soon we’ll bring, by popular demand,
the Universe, the World, and Dubailand.

Secwer El Dubai is a poet of Dubai. Dubai is the largest city in the United Arab Emirates with a population of around 3,000,000. The Burj Dubai became the Burj Khalifa, the tallest building in the World. The sonnet uses the Pushkin rhyme scheme ababccddeffegg.


Reinhard Bonnke (1940-2019)
          by Welard Icubese

He was a German Pentacostal and evangelist
known for his work in Africa, a spirit channelist.
His gospel missions, bringing tens of millions to the fold
of Christ across the continent, were energetic, bold.
His open-air crusades were pioneering in approach.
He tried to reach as many as he could, recharge and coach.
To his huge rallies, one at Lagos had one million strong,
so many Africans across the continent were drawn.
Buhari called his death “a great loss to Nigeria,
to Africa, and the entire World” period.

Welard Icubese is a poet of Nigeria. In 2010, the top ten Christian nations of the World were 1) USA, 2) Brazil, 3) Mexico, 4) Russia, 5) Philippines, 6) Nigeria, 7) China, 8) DR Congo, 9) Germany, 10) Ethiopia. Predicitons for 2050 are 1) USA, 2) Brazil, 3) Nigeria, 4) Philippines, 5) DR Congo, 6) Mexico, 7) Tanzania, 8) Russia, 9) Ethiopia, 10) Uganda. Muslim Mohammedu Buhari is the present president of Nigeria.


A Pisan Spin
          by Luwese Becardi

At dusk in Pisa, Tuscany, the skies bedim to royal purple, violet crepuscular. The distant hills are blue beneath time’s icy brim, and one escapes the drab and dusty, muscular arena of the countryside. In the Plaza of Miracles, one sees the gorgeous Romanesque five-naved cathedral that rises grand, broad and tall. Nearby, the camponile, the Leaning Tower slants—its bright, white marble sides, sleek and cylindrical— climbs to the stars with its familiar stance askance. Around its surface, floor by floor, its columns, slim and topped with arches, radiate in the distance.

Luwese Becardi is a poet of Italy. This prose poem of five sentences has 144 syllables.


Journey of the Magi
          by Crise de Abu Wel

The rough landscape was desolate, austere.
The caravan ran long and slow and sure.
In case of highwaymen they kept quite near.
Demeanor was alert, upright, demure.

The cavalcade was made of many souls,
a colorful and motley group that ranged
from wise men on horseback to babes on rolls,
from walking kids to riders, nobel, aged.

Proceeding in a line past changing scenes,
they traveled over rugged, sloping hills
and sparsest vegetation, dullest greens,
distorted shrubs, like crosses, lacking frills.

The faint, pink summer palaces on slopes
they passed by, like mirages on the sky,
they were indifferent to; for their hopes
lay far beyond the pleasures of the eye.

Against white sands, brown rocks and beige outcrops,
they were a pert parade of vibrant hues,
in yellow, red, pink, black, and gray-brown tops,
with boots; above, the sky of varied blues.

Up in that sky a flight of birds flew in
the same direction, over other pairs
of birds. (At night a star on th’ horizon
led them to Jerusalem and prayers.)

Around the Magis’ heads were haloes shown.
The Sun shone down upon their wizened heads
of bearded wisdom, whiskered faces grown,
that left behind soft, comfortable beds.

Excitement ran throughout that moving crew.
They carried gold, some frankincense and myrrh.
They did not know whom they would find, but knew
they had to go; for that was who they were.

This was a long, long time ago. They came
and went; they saw set a star. But set
this down: they did not follow it for fame,
or wealth, or anything that they could get.

They traveled all that way and back again
on bridled horses, silver, black and brown,
or down with dogs on foot, that spritely train,
to meet a baby in a swath of hay.

It was a birth, Jesus of Nazareth,
the Son of Man, the Son of God. Set this
down: They had not gone all that way for death;
it was for life, for true eternal bliss.


The Return of the Magi
          by Crise de Abu Wel

The journey back was harder, thornier.
They did not dare go back to see the King.
They fled. The night was darker, stormier.
They sped off to the coast; for traveling

along the roads was dangerous. Besides,
if they went back by land, then Herod’s men
might get to them. Therefore, they sought the tides.
Nor did they wish to face the Saracen.

So, in that black and windy night they came
to a white, sandy beach where seagulls walked,
and boarded, all their train, both lord and dame,
the sailing boats; and huddled, on they talked,

while workers prepped the boats: one man in white
adjusted sails while wind flapped and slapped him
at th’ mast’s cross; three men, with tasks no less light
below, strained to haul up bags, and grab them.

There was no joy. All looks were stern, severe.
No face was unrelieved by happiness.
They may have found a babe beneath a star
and left behind gold, myrrh, and frankincense;

but all appeared beset with drudgery,
duress, or stress. They wanted to embark
as fast as they could—immediately.
Whichever way they looked, the route seemed stark.

The retinue was filled with fear and dread.
Gigantic waves rose up before their eyes.
The giant sea in all directions spread.
Black waters grew to an enormous size.

At left a column stood staid and secure,
and to the right—th’ activity frenzied.
A purple winter palace on the shore
contrasted with th’ whirl upon th’ windy sea.

No night more grim is easily portrayed.
No dynamo day navigator had
a better chance or time to be afraid;
yet oddly none could be described as sad,

for there was much to do and leagues to go.
This birth was hard and bitter agony
for them; and yet what they had come to know
was something greater than their misery.

No longer at ease, these alien sons,
set to return to their old places, have
set their sights upon old dispensations,
gods and kingdoms, glad to reach a tavern.

Crise de Abu Wel is a poet of West Asia. The above two poems are on paintings of the early Italian Renaissance that form a pair, each in eleven, four-lined stanzas, a structure drawn from Modernist Hart Crane (1899-1932), in opposition to the admirable free verse of Modernist T. S. Eliot (1888-1965). Verbal puns within the poems supposedly acknowledge their painters.


In Paris
          by Claude I. S. Weber

Here there is a midday street in Paris, wet with a recent rain, gray and shiny, the small cars in a line. Ahead there is a traffic light, circular and tiny. Along the curb are five story buildings with narrow windows. We are being chased by one who wants to do us harm. Railings of iron-wrought diagonals are traced. Desperately trying to get away, we turn the corner and speed past the trees. We would like to pause, but we cannot stay. Lamposts are locked in a perpetual frieze. Shadows are short. O’er the cement we soar. I think I am coming back—never more.

Clause I. S. Weber is a poet of France. This prose poem of eleven sentences has 140 syllables. French unions and the French government are locked in conflict over reforming pensions.


The British Vote
          by B. S. Eliud Acrewe

The markets were relieved that Corbyn lost to Johnson, and
the stonking victory for the Conservatives was grand.
What once was Labour’s stronghold shifted from its power base;
and now it seems that Brexit’s coming in the coming days.
Get Brexit done was what Conservatives were fighting for;
and after that, which will take time, there is a whole lot more.

So will there be more money for police and NHS?
And lowering the taxes too is anybody’s guess.
Free-trade agreements could to the United Kingdom come;
but education people too will clamour for more funds.
This vote could lead to the end of the UK as one land;
since Scottish Nationals up North were in a firm command.

B. S. Elid Acrewe is a poet of the UK. Over 30,000,000 British subjects voted in the December 2019 vote. Seats won: Conservatives 365, Labour 203, Liberal democrat 11, Scottish National 48, Green 1, Democratic Unionist 8, Sinn Fein 7, Plaid Cymru 4, Alliance 1, Social Democratic & Labour 2.


          by “Bad” Weslie Ecru

How eerie it appears—Chicago—looking north.
Faint blue skies are filled with large, violet-edged clouds,
which overhead seem ominous as they go forth,
as if they were some giant’s army’s battle shrouds.
Amidst the gray and orange concrete structures, stands
John Hancock Center, rising high above the crowds.
The dark one-hundred-story obelisk commands
the view, itself within its own Decameron,
an epic tale that dominates skyscrapered lands.
The cam’ra catches glints of Götterdämmerung:
off West—the Willis Tower; at the East—the shore
along Lake Michigan; above—Sun glimmers on.
It’s so unreal–the shining, like El Dorado ore,
broad, golden, shouldered blocks, as hard as boulders, rocks,
or mountains, rivaling the heights of Troy, and more.
Against its massive walls, wind from time’s vast plains knocks.
With mighty constructs, like those found in ancient Rome,
and hues, like those of Florence in the Renaissance,
it houses corporations. Millions call it home.
It is a hub of finance, industry and trade.
At highways, trains, and planes it sits, and on the loam.
With grain it takes, and livestock too, it makes the grade.
With iron ore and coal it also works. It buys and sells,
retails a hundred thousand things that it has made:
tools, processed foods, confections, pharmaceuticals,
accessories and engines for the modern way,
machines, equipment, printed matter, chemicals,
new instruments for media, for health, for play.
In iron gloves and girt with strength, this forceful Thor,
red-bearded, rides time’s goat-drawn car; and every day
it trades on futures, swings Mjollnir for all it’s worth,
and sends its boomeranging thunderbolts across
eternity. From out its crown of hard, square thorns,
what curses, crimes, and macrobats will it not toss?

“Bad” Weslie Ecru is a poet of Chicago, a city of approximately 2,700,000.


Crepuscular Hoard
          by Cal Wes Ubideer

The LA skyline, during sunset, shines like gold.
Library Tower, now US Bank, rises high,
like coins stacked neatly in a pile, Postmodern rolled.
The Aon Center, black with white trim, stands nearby,
as do One and Two California Plaza, gleam-
flecks in eternity beneath a groggy sky.
Besides Gas Company’s height, other towers beam:
Bank of America, 777,
Citigroup, City National and Paul Hastings,
Figueroa at Wiltshire, once known as Sanwa,
[What is there here not bold? that can’t be bought and sold?]
Wells Fargo, KPMG, 611…in
such a…Place…even Heaven has to follow code.

Cal Wes Ubideer is a poet of California. Los Angeles, the third largest city in North America, after New York City and Mexico City, is a city of approximately 4,000,000.


Bristlecone Pine Trees
          by Ileac Burweeds

Perhaps the oldest living things on Earth
are bristlecone pine trees, which can reach up
in age to almost fifty-hundred years.
Analysis of rings within their trunks
can possibly reveal the isotopes
that they ingested centuries ago.

Ileac Burweeds is a poet of botany.


          by W. S. “Eel” Bericuda

The northern anchovy, Engraulis mordax, an
important forage fish in the Pacific, oft
is used as bait for tuna. It is fed to man
as well, in pickled form—delicious, tasty, soft.
Like miniature herring, anchovies are small,
a few inches in length, and silvery. They spawn
in winter and the early spring, near shore and shoal,
like off the mouth of the Columbia, where they’re
fished for by fishermen, who pull large nets, and trawl
upon the oceanic waves in the fresh air.
Beneath the sea, their lair, they feed upon plankton
and swim in schools in shallow, brackish water where
they live out their little fishy lives, and there thank none.

W. S. “Eel” Bericuda is a poet of sea life.


A Man Eating a Grapefruit
          by Carb Deliseuwe

He grasps the golden globule in his hand
and slowly peels off the appealing skin.
A yellow grapefruit is his to command.
His lips ope’ up, as he takes it all in.
The bitter, sour juice is biting, sweet.
He takes another piece. It is quite nice.
It spikes his appetite. He likes to eat
it up—each succulent delicious slice.
He does not stop, except to pause to feel
the joy that journeys down his hardened throat.
He pulls apart the pinkish parts; a wheel
of happiness surrounds his aural float.
So brief it passes by. It’s hard to think
where it has gone, into where it must sink.


The Tart Blueberries
          by Carb Deliseuwe

The tart blueberries I have eaten were
delicious, sweet, and cold. I took them from
the refrigerator. This occurred
about a quarter until noon. No one
was saving them. I didn’t need to give
a reason why I took them. This is just
to say I did. We need to eat to live;
but you already know that’s true, I trust.
So what is the significance of this?
Not much. My theme is commonplace and real;
but then again that too is what love is.
What we reveal we feel. It’s no big deal.
Some ideas can come from things, I know;
but there is more to life than just its flow.

Carb Deliseuwe is a poet of food. One of his favourite Modernist (1900-1950) free verse lyrics is that by William Carlos Williams (1883-1963) “This Is Just to Say”, which is as follows:

“I have eaten
the plums
that were in
the icebox

and which
you were probably
saving for

Forgive me
they were delicious
so sweet
and so cold”