by Ibe Ware Desu, LC
Miles of flat, tan grass
touched with oak leaves and debris,
trees barren and spare,
sunlit in the open air,
stark and sparse, not hard to bear.
Ibe Ware Desu, LC is a poet of Japanese forms in English.
by E “Blue Screw” Dai
On the horizon
against the fiery sunset,
the water tower,
like an alien spacecraft
rests before the future hits.
E “Blue Screw” Dai is a haikuist of the surreal. He was a follower of German philosopher Hans Vaihinger (1852-1933), which is why he has let slip a simile into his tanka, a normally unpardonable faux pas. The spacecraft is the Wedelca Ebucer, of which Ibe Ware Desu, LC, is the Lieutenant Commander.
I. E. Sbace Weruld
“thou art no thy-lane”
—Robert Burns, “To a Mouse”
“There are so many billions of stars…in the universe
that there must be all sorts of diff’rent forms of life…out there,”
said Helen Sharman, the first Brit to travel into space;
in 1991 she was on Soyuz for eight days.
She said such beings may not be of carbon, nitrogen,
but of materials that humans might not see or ken.
“It’s possible they’re here right now…we simply can’t see them.”
The body snatchers may be nearer than we think. Flee them!
She may not be alone in her thought we are not alone.
Some cell-phone selfies would not go amiss. Let’s get it on.
I. E. Sbace Weruld is a poet of inner and outer space. One of his favourite movies is “The Invasion of the Body Snatchers” of 1956.
At the Window Frame
by R. Lee Ubicwedas
He had a most unusu’l smile, not curved up nor curved down;
it was as straight as any street in any plotted town.
But it was not a frown. He seemed content and happy there,
while standing at the window, looking out and up through air.
He gazed up at the blazing Sun, enthroned up in the blue;
but looking straight upon it was a thing he would eschew.
He looked beyond the rooftops and the chimneys straight and tall,
and gazing out, he stared and stared, but saw no thing at all.
His lower legs and eyes in shadows at the window frame.
I wondered who that strange dude was who shared my home and name.
R. Lee Ubicwedas is a poet of the ubiquitous glimpsed at in the mundane.
A Yoga Man
by Sri Wele Cebuda
He got into the lotus pose upon a wooden chair.
He spread his legs out to each side; his knees were in the air.
His look was very serious. He wondered what he’d find.
He longed for the Mysterious to open up his mind.
He wore black shoes, he wore blue jeans, he wore an attitude,
that dared someone to take him on; he oozed buff fortitude.
But would he reach his wanted goal, that vaunted inner soul,
that would somehow make him complete, o, that would make him whole.
He had a puckish sense about him, mischievous but rough.
O, who would want to tangle with a yoga man so tough.
by Sri Wele Cebuda
Another day and time to get into the lotus pose,
attempting to reach equilibrium and sweet repose.
If only one could stay the same “forever”, like cast steel,
if only one could “always” be at peace, content and real;
but that will never happen, and so one must strive, and strive,
to have control of one’s emotions while one is alive.
To be in love with life and still defiant all the same,
in awe perhaps, but also stunned, at all that comes one’s way,
like as a man in uniform who goes about his work,
but ends up having once again to put up with a jerk.
Sri Wele Cebuda is a poet of equilibrium. He noted Indian-Americans in Boston were showing their support for the persecuted minorities of Pakistan, Bangladesh, and Afghanistan.
by Darius Belewec
In Tehran, Qassam Soleimani was bemoaned by crowds,
up in the hundred thousands, who were mourning fairly loud.
It seems the crowds were not spontaneous, for they were sent;
the government required that all of its workers went.
In general, mass demonstrations are not there allowed;
the general was mourned, but then how many there were cowed.
He was portrayed in the state media a patriot,
a nationalist leader who fought for his nation state.
He fended off Islamic State and kept his country safe,
and now, with hundreds killed by his commands, he shares their fate.
The Funeral of Qassam Soleimani
by Darius Belewec
The funeral of Soleimani at Kerman occurred.
For many poor Iranians to not go was absurd.
The government had offered a free meal to those who went.
There was a stampede during it that some won’t soon forget.
Iranian outlets are saying fifty-six were killed.
Because of crowds, the burial postponed. The mood was stilled.
Then afterwards ballistic missiles coming from Iran
were launched at bases in Iraq that held Americans.
Reports are sketchy at the best, but it seems three were hit,
near Erbil, Al-Assad, Camp Taji, mighty Persian spit.
Th’ Iranian regime had posted pictures of the bombs;
the one at Al-Assad had from last year in Gaza come.
by Darius Belewec
A Boeing 737, at takeoff, Tehran,
has crashed and left 176 souls dead in Iran.
The passengers were mainly from Iran and Canada,
but also Sweden, Germany, Ukraine, Afghanistan,
and British nationals filled out the deadly flight-plan list.
The devastated filled the airport with anguished distress.
Preliminary thought is engine failure is the cause,
but the Iranians will not hand over the black box.
It’s said the pilot could not talk to air-traffic control,
as the jet fell, a deadly mix of fire and petrol.
Darius Belewec is a poet of Iran.
Life of Empedocles
by Esiad L. Werecub
Empedocles upon his bed, ecclesiastic’lly
haphazarded the forces, love and strife, moved drastic’lly,
this citizen of Acragas, who lived in Sicily,
suggesting the four elements of earth, air, flame and sea.
Influenced by Pythagoras, supporter of the poor,
he was associated with physicians and their lore.
Reportedly controlling storms, a brilliant orator,
he was the last philosopher in Greek to write in verse.
Tradition says he perished diving in to Etna’s snare,
his body to the earth, his blood to water, breath to air.
Infuriated on his bed, succumbing to the fates,
the solids, liquids, gases, plasma, and the condensates.
Esiad L. Werecub is a poet of ancient Greece. Rumors of his being a werewolf are overwought gossip.
A Simple Cathedral Complex
by Alberdi Ucwese
In the Piazza di San Giovanni,
one sees the Campanile, Battistero,
and the Gothic cathedral Brunelleschi
crowned with a dome, that’s called the “House,” il Duomo,
the main identifying skyline landmarks
of Florence seen from o’er the flowing Arno
in places like th’ extensive Bòboli gardens,
Up close, the bell-tower Giotto started
is not that fancy: green, rose, and cream patterned marble
is simply, over and over, repeated ;
but the overall effect is marvelous.
So too is the octagonal baptist’ry,
quite simple in design, yet spectacular,
its sides clad in white with green marble inlay,
Romanesque architecture extr’ordinaire,
with bronze doors by Pisano and, in the day,
Ghiberti’s brilliant Gates of Paradise glare.
The Church, Santa Maria del Fiore,
looks plain as well, yet, it is a grand affair:
the large, brick cupola above the apse is
the largest in the world, majestic in air.
And there is more about it that impresses:
supporting buttresses over the chapels;
proportional bulk that prevents collapses;
a lantern by a copper ball and cross topped;
the whole, a fine, remarkable, clear sample,
this excellent and elegant example.
Alberdi Ucwese is a poet of Firenza (Florence), Italy, and Italian Renaissance art. Giotto di Bondone (1267-1327) was an Italian painter and architect. Andrea Pisano (1290-1346), and Lorenzo Ghiberti (1378-1455) were likewise Italian artists.
by E. Ludwic Barese
at life’s middle,
hanging with the golden pears,
and wild roses,
I am dangling
at the water—there.
The air is fresh.
I see the swans.
They dip their long necks down.
They grab the molluscs
clinging to wet, vegetative ground.
They kiss small fish,
the wiggling worms,
perhaps a swimming frog.
The grass is also beautiful
beside a mossy log.
When winter comes,
where will I find
the flowers and the light?
Where will the holy shadows be
that offered me this sight?
These walls are speechless,
cold and vain.
The rattling weather vanes
in sightless winds
along these lonely lanes.
E. Ludwic Barese is a poet of Middle Europe.
Speaking to the Dead
by Waldeci Erebus
I think that Allan Johnston’s right, when speaking to the dead,
we aren’t forgiven, and they cannot hear what we have said.
Consignments for the dead, among the living, are for us;
their words are borrowed from their varied, harried, buried fuss.
Dead voices echo in our heads, but we can’t comfort them,
since stones are stones and seas are seas and ashes are not phlegm.
Molecular activities in asphodels announce
that Charon’s barge draws near whatever floral spray we flounce.
Don’t think you are alone, dear traveler; we all must go;
and evening blesses all the Earth with what we cannot know.
Waldeci Erebus is a poet of the dark side and intimate of Ludwic E. Barese. Allan Johnston is a contemporary poet. One of my favourite poems of his is “Evening Conversation”, which one can find on the Internet.
In Harmony and Strife
by Erisbawdle Cue
I do agree with William Rowan Hamilton that math
is as artistic as poetics, on a truth-filled path.
I don’t agree with William Wordsworth science only is
applied to the material and crushes images.
It seems to me all knowledge is based on our languages,
symbolic, aural, visual; all are advantages;
the alphabetic, hieroglyphic, algebraic, and
equations, similarities; all help us understand.
I dream of the confluence of all ways of seeing life,
the universal energy in harmony and strife.
Erisbawdle Cue is a poet of philosophy. Irish mathematician William Rowan Hamilton (1805-1865) and English poet William Wordsworth (1770-1850) were friendly acquaintances.
A Glimpse into the Mathematics of the Period 1900-2000
by Euclidrew Base
Increasing generalization and abstraction was
the trend; watch words completeness and consistency—the buzz.
The theories grew, group, model, graph, and singularity,
catastrophe, game, category, and complexity,
topology, knot, sheaf, and functional analysis,
along with chaos, logic’s incomplete paralysis,
cryptography, computer architectural design,
new fundamental chemistry and physics on the line,
sets, algorithms, information, and technology,
packed fractals and axiomatic probability,
complex dynamics, origamics, turbulence, and proofs,
continuum hypothesis, sudoku, rubik’s cube,
four-colour prob-solve, structural approaching disconnect,
an arcing brainbow soaring past the butterfly effect.
Euclidrew Base is a poet of math.
The US Trade Gap
by Brad Lee Suciew
Sometimes events occur that seem somewhat significant,
but they are off the main track, off the trending story hunt.
November’s US trade gap was the lowest in three years,
because the trade with China down 15% occurred.
A boost to exports also had improved th’ imbalanced trade;
but overall Americans still spent more than they made.
The narrowing trade gap, however, may just be a fluke,
and it could worsen in the future, narrowing could cool.
America trades with the World and it likes its goods,
computers, smart phones, televisions, bev’rages and foods,
apparel, footwear, traveling and pharmaceuticals,
industrial machinery, petroleum, and cars.
This can’t go on forever. We can’t always buy and buy.
Consumerism could consume America in time.
Nasty Jake at Work
by Brad Lee Suciewe
O, nasty Jake put on his clothes, and he went off to work.
In silver tie and blue-gray shirt; this was no time to shirk.
In jacket, slacks and long black socks, and fancy shoes to boot.
He had to meet his clients in a neat, well-tailored suit.
O, nasty Jake was ready to get down and do his job.
He did not want to look as though he was a raunchy slob.
Appearing promptly, he began by noting meeting times.
He checked his schedule. For his first appointment he was primed.
He met his counterpart. Aye, he was just another guy,
who just like nasty Jake was dressed in business suit and tie.
Their meeting lasted maybe thirty minutes at the most,
and after that they left to face the next each had to host.
Brad Lee Suciew is a poet of economics, business, and accounting.
At the Beach
by Seaweed Lubric
I saw them lying at the beach in full sun-tanning mode;
the older dude was on his side; the younger dude was prone.
It seemed as if the two were talking. Who could make it out?
Perhaps some joke had passed their lips, or was about to now.
Above them all was blue, below them whitish sands of time.
I saw them at the corner of my eye, with puckish smiles.
The seagulls scavenged at beach edge; the foamy waters came;
the tide went back and forth and back, the Sun, a giant flame.
I saw the many bathers swimming, and recliners too;
I saw sandcastles on the beach and grasses on the dunes.
But I remember most of all those two upon the sand
in ultraviolet repose beneath Time’s heavy hand.
Seaweed Lubric is a poet of the beach.
The Farm Worker
by Wi-Bul Acre Seed
He had been baling hay, and he was tired from his work.
He thought to rest upon the hay, a brief pause, not a shirk.
No shirt was on him as he got into the lotus pose.
He longed but to renew himself for more hard work and chores.
But he put his head on his shoulder when his boss appreared.
He felt quite awful, nasty, as the bearded fellow neared.
The boss, however, was no jerk. He understood his plight.
Take ten out here amidst the grass. O, it is quite alright.
He was relieved and gratified; it gave him brand new strength,
and he was able then to last the job’s entire length.
by Wi-Bul Acre Seed
I saw a porker lounging out within his sty-lish bed,
the light was bright, a pink delight, the softest shade of red.
It looked like he’d been fattened up in the production line;
but he had something very human, and a bit divine.
A farmer was assessing him. What was the price to pay
for such a chubby porker, scrubbed up here and on display.
Would he be made into some bacon strips or sausage links,
or would he be sliced into ham in brownish shades of pinks.
I do not know. I did not stay. I never heard a word
about that pig, his dirty gig, or frankly what occurred.
Wi-Bul Acre Seed is a poet of the farm and agriculture. He prefers jerky made of grass-fed beef and eggs from pasture-raised hens. His favourite, recent breakfast at an Old West Cafe was a plate of eggs and ham, a bowl of bananas, and another bowl of strawberries.
Three Men on a Rock
by Ed Rubee Swical
I saw them climbing up the rugged rocks of the Southwest.
Three men were challenging themselves to pass that grueling test.
The day was hot, though white clouds floated in the lovely blue.
They each were seeking out a diff’rent vantage, varied view.
The leader wore black, belted pants, black cap and white tank top.
The middle guy in blue jeans took his shirt off when he stopped.
The third guy following behind wore gray tee, black gloves, jeans.
So nonchalantly did they climb. But just what did they see?
The first looked up, the second straight ahead, the third looked down.
Each found what he was looking for, there high up off the ground.
The Coal Miners
by Ed Rubee Swical
They were two dirty fellows coming out of the dark mine.
They were so sweaty that the skin of both men seemed to shine.
The dude in yellow scuffed-up helmet, old blue jeans and shoes,
was standing up beside the wooden wall, his being fused.
The other guy in filthy white tee-shirt and brown work boots,
bent over, tired, was the other of the two galoots.
It seemed they both were looking for some thing that they had lost.
Considering the work they did, it had to have a cost.
But they’d supply the Englishmen with dirty energy,
until they had no job and they were from this hard work free.
Ed Rubee Swical is a poet of geology. On April 21, 2017, Britain went without coal for one day. In May of 2019, Britain went without coal for one week. Supposedly, all coal power plants will be turned off in the UK by 2025.
by Bruc “Diesel” Awe
He loved to ride his motorcycle any time of day.
He’d jump up on his black machine and drive it down the way.
He loved to show it off to others, take them for a ride.
In fact, it seemed, indeed it was, his very joy and pride.
He climbed upon the seat and straddled it with derring-do;
sometimes a ride came on along to see what he could do.
He’d show the proper way to mount, the best way one could sit,
if one was just a rider or was in the driver’s seat.
And then he’d fly down highway lanes, and even ride the lines.
He’d roar along, his muffler off. O, he had such designs.
Bruc “Diesel” Awe is a poet of transportation.
by Eb “Walrus” De Ice
“There is an ecstasy that marks the summit of life.”
—Jack London, “Call of the Wild”
I saw a brawny husky pulling on a makeshift sled,
on which there was a man directing, aiming straight ahead.
Snowflakes were dancing in the air. Snow covered all the ground.
The bitch’s fur was gray and white, the man’s hair, dark and brown.
As they trekked on in that white realm, a blizzard on the wing;
they still seemed quite content upon their willful journeying.
The driver had praiseworthy patience, gentle, and yet firm.
The panting bitch was focused on the task, and did not squirm.
So on they went along that day, no trail could they see,
but when they finally got home, it was sheer ecstasy.
Eb “Walrus” De Ice is a poet of the North. American Jack London (1876-1916) is his favourite novelist and short story writer of the North.
by Rudi E. Welec, “Abs”
First, everybody’s got ’em—abs. But, those who want them fit,
must eat right, work out, be at a caloric deficit.
The abs themselves are the transverse, serratus, and obliques,
internal and external, these four are the ones you seek.
A four-pack, six-pack, or eight-pack, depends on your physique,
and is a worthy goal for some, at least aesthetic’lly;
then final separation’s due to both genetics and
the exercises that you do and that you then command.
The muscle-mind connection is important in this case,
when doing knee-ups or bicycle crunches, pumps or planks.
Perhaps the most advanced is when your body’s turned and curled,
there hanging from a bar and doing All Around the World.
Rudi E. Welec is a poet of physical exercise.