by Ibe Ware Desu, LC
The sky is all white.
The houses and their yards are white,
Still the snowflakes fall.
by Ibe Ware Desu, LC
The Moon is rising,
Love on a rocket.
by Ibe Ware Desu, LC
In the leafless oaks,
high up, clumps of mistletoe,
a druid’s moist kiss.
Ibe Ware Desu, LC, is a haikuist. Yusaku Maezawa is a contemporary Japanese billionaire who is looking for a woman to go on a date to the Moon. The first two poems draw from Japanese poet Masaoka Shiki (1867-1902). The mistletoe was holy for the druids, for even in cold winter, the mistletoe remained green.
by SubCIA Weedler
A titan of the auto industry was Carlos Ghosn,
the former boss of Nissan, fugitive now on the run.
The multi-millionaire had been preparing for his trial;
but likewise quietly he’d planned escaping all the while.
He had been monitored by cameras within Japan.
On New Year’s Eve, however, he was off to Lebanon.
By private jet, through Russian air, he went to Istanbul;
continuing disguised as cargo, next on to Beirut.
Besides the clever schemes of handlers Taylor and Zayek,
along with many others, he had managed his escape.
Top-Secret Space Explosion
by SubCIA Weedler
Disintegrating up in space, a Russian satellite,
top-secret spying entity no longer there in sight.
It broke up unannounced December, six years from its launch,
Allegedly designed to seek craft of the enemy,
was this intentional, or was it hit by space debris?
Perhaps left-over fuel propellant caused the ship’s demise;
without depletion burn, the craft might blow up anywise.
The Kremlin hardly uttered anything about the crash;
but some astronomers observed the new metallic hash.
SubCIA Weedler is a poet of subterfuge and clandestine operations. Michael Taylor and George Zayek are American security-contractors.
by Cebu Awis Deser
On Monday, the Taal volcano belched out clouds of ash
across Manila, Philippines; its darkness made a splash.
Seismologists suggested an eruption would appall,
so thousands have evaculated homes around Taal.
They have detected magma, though it isn’t at the top;
but if it blows, there is no way its power can be stopped.
In fact, it’s possible a tsunami could then ensue
across the lake its crater’s in, a giant, raging pool.
Southwest from it, roads are unpassible due to the ash,
and under all the crushing weight, some structures have collapsed.
Cebu Awis Deser is a poet of the Philippines.
by Sri Wele Cebuda
He got into the lotus pose. He felt like as a ship,
as he was floating down eternity, o, rise and dip.
Although his eyes were closed, he felt as close as he could be
to ecstasy, tranquility, and, yes, eternity.
He longed to ride the waves of lust and pain disdainfully.
He longed to rise up to th’ occasion, strong and manfully.
He stretched his legs, he bent his knees, he raised his head up high.
O, how he longed to reach sweet bliss. But could he kiss the sky?
He felt like as a boat whose keel is taking him away
into the breathless arms of love forever and a day.
Sri Wele Cebuda is a poet of Indian mysticism.
Protesters in Iran
by Darius Belewec
“Our enemy is here,” protesters yelled out once again.
“Our children have been killed,” protesters cried out in Iran.
“They’re lying when they say our enemy’s America,”
protesters angry they shot down the jet plane from Ukraine.
Police were out in force, but people wouldn’t be shut down.
“Down with dictator Khamenei,” protesters cried aloud.
Despite that recently more than 1,000 souls were killed.
protesters cried “Apologize. Resign.” They won’t be stilled.
Protesters ripped both Khamenei and Soleimani pics,
and then walked over them repeatedly with scuffs and kicks.
And at Ashrafi Isfahani University,
the students would not walk upon the flags that they could see.
There at the gate, the US and Israeli flags are huge;
but most rejected hatred of American and Jew.
Along with tear gas, rubber bullets, and nightsticks in hand,
the hated Basij shooting guns are back at it again;
and presently protesters leave the sidewalks of Tehran,
but one can see on them the blood, the life-blood of Iran.
by Darius Belewe..
“O, I am one of the oppressed—the women of Iran—
who they’ve been playing with for years.” she said on Instagram—
Kamia Alizadeh the bronze medalist who won
her taekwondo match down in Rio, an Olympian.
They took her where they wanted; she wore anything they said;
she even said whatever they said that she had to say.
She left this week to claim asylum in the Netherlands;
she could no longer put up with officialdom’s commands.
“We were just tools for the regime. Of us, they could care less.
The virtue of a woman is that she not stretch her legs.”
Darius Belewec is a poet of Iran. While the regime criticized the sport she got her medal in, which requires legwork, she notes they nonetheless paraded her around.
The Russian Government Resigns
by Alecsei Burdew
The Russian government resigned post Putin’s state addresss,
according to Prime Minister Dmitry Medvedev.
It seems that Putin’s laid the groundwork—2024—
when he will leave as President and change again once more.
Perhaps he will retain his power o’er th’ Russian Fed
through beefed-up role Prime Minister, or the State Council head.
He wants to limit presidents to two four-year-long terms.
This way he can control what happens as his power firms.
A referendum soon will be proposed across the land,
in short, to rubber stamp his dictatorial command.
Alecsei Durdew is a poet of Russia. Putin has put in Mikhail Mishustin as the new PM.
by Rus Ciel Badeew
Hunchbacked Igor comes to the door. He walks painstakingly.
He does, not least of all, because he has an aching knee.
He’s an assistant to an evil, savage scientist,
content to be his lackey, lacking any other wish.
He follows him around like as a shadow in the lab.
Whatever Master wants he does, or he will get a jab.
His Master treats him like a brutish, coarse deplorable.
And never treats him kindly; he is downright horrible.
Ho! Put in with somebody else! Don’t put up with such strife!
But Igor carries on accepting his hard lot in life.
Rus Ciel Badeew is a poet of Russia.
The Red Sea Locusts
by “Scribe” El Uwade
I will bring locusts to your country; they will cover lands
from Egypt down to Ethiopia and through Sudan,
to Eritrea, Kenya, and through all Somalia,
they’ll eat what’s in the fields, on the trees, and on the shrubs.
They’ll cross the Red Sea going all across Arabia,
to Yemen and the Saudis, and the nations neighbouring.
Good rains across the Red Sea plains allowed locústs to breed;
two generations since October have helped them to increase.
The Pharaoh would not yield, no, millennia ago;
and now the highly-mobile swarms are here says FAO.
“Scribe” El Uwade is a poet of ancient and modern Egypt. The FAO is the Food and Agricultural Organization of the UN.
by “Wired Clues” Abe
In the still darkness,
are the power lines buzzing?
tree crickets chirping.
“Wired Clues” Abe is a poet of Japanese forms in English relating to technology.
Puri Sermonis Amator
by Aedile Cwerbus
And, you, too, at the summit, did not double only Terence twice;
but you were also lauded because of your simply-written prose.
What you could’ve used and then added to the smoothly-running lines
was comical power. That alone would make you honored more
than the Grecians, never henceforth despised for this awful lack.
I’m vexed merely because that alone, Caesar, was lacking in you.
Aedile Cwerbus is a poet of Ancient Roma. This poem draws from a poem by Julius Caesar (100 BC – 44 BC).
A De Chirico Perch
by “Il Duce” Wesarbe
A horizontal ladder, an umbrella opened up,
a giant column rising high, a sweet and tasty cup.
He felt like as he was within a De Chirico work,
but it was just reality, a pause before a jerk.
He felt like as he was approaching some new World stage,
but it was just another day, another time and age.
A leafless sprig of living twigs, a wall so tall and white,
a scraggly shrub beneath the hub, a window clear and wide.
He felt like as he entered in a living room so far
from any sofa, carpet, or a guiding, gliding star.
“Il Duce” Wesarbe is a poet deeply influenced by Italian Modernism, but not Mussolini and the Fascists. Italian painter Giorgio De Chirico (1888-1978) was founder of the scuola metafisica art movement.
An Oil on Canvas
by Red Was Iceblue
The painting QWERTY is by Robert Cottingham.
It is an oil on canvas of 2004,
a section of Postmodern flotsam and jetsam.
The picture’s view is looking down into the core
of a typewriter on a bright orange background,
which lies along the picture’s left and top sides more.
It contrasts with the black, blue, white, and silver bound
together in the platen, spools, typebars and keys
in such a crisp and striking way it does astound.
It is amazing how an artifact can please,
so placed with such precision, and how lighting can
produce a clarity one wishes would not cease.
Red Was Iceblue is a poet of Modern, PostModern and NewMillennial art. Robert Cottingham is an American painter noted for his urban landscapes. In “QWERTY” he has captured a passing piece of technology, first used by writers, like Mark Twain, at the end of the 19th century.
by Brice U. Lawseed
A partisan witch-hunt or an historic impeachment?
Which one is it? Or is it neither? Or is it a blend?
Was this the most political of politic designs?
The House impeached the President on only party lines.
And now it seems that Democrats are having second thoughts;
to send it to Republicans is something they don’t want.
In such a case, the Senate is the jury and the judge.
And does it seem that many, any there will likely budge?
What is the treason? bribery? extortion? and high crimes?
This is impeachment surely…in these strangest of strange times.
Brice U. Lawseed is a poet of the politics of DC.
A Spotlight Moment
by Rudi E. Welec, Abs
On Monday in New Orleans, Clemson lost to LSU.
The final football score was twenty-five to forty-two.
Joe Burrows capped his winning season with a championship;
five touchdown passes showed the Heisman winner had a grip.
It’s “what I wanted to do from the time [that] I was five…
to hoist this trophy…in Louisiana,” he said live.
Beneath a purple, gold and white confetti showering,
he raised the football trophy to the Superdome’s cei-líng.
Joe Burrows, coaches and receivers made the Tigers great.
Next stop: the NFL, a likely first-pick candidate.
Rudi E. Welec, “Abs, is a poet of sport.
The Little Lifeboat
by W. S. “Eel” Bericuda
The little lifeboat floats adrift upon the raging sea,
and though it’s tossed about, o, quite a bit, it does not sink.
Around it sharks may circle, threatening its tiny space;
but maybe it will keep its passengers unharmed and safe.
The little lifeboat travels up and down the rolling waves,
the only thing that stands between the people and their graves.
Around it seaweed’s seen, and maybe plastic bottles too;
occasionally one may even see a fishy school.
But its main purpose is to keep its passengers alive;
and it will be successful if each one of them survives.
W. S. “Eel” Bericuda is a poet of the beach and the sea.
by Bud “Weasel” Rice
He gazed in awe up at the waterfall beyond the ledge.
He watched the lovely rip-pl-ing so high above his head.
He stood right at the viewing edge, and stared, o, mesmerized.
Its beauty was so gorgeous that it pleasantly surprised.
O, he was hypnotized.
He put his hand upon the edge, and stared and stared and stared.
If he should fall down to its drop, he hardly even cared.
He loved to be so aired.
He longed to penetrate its power, though so dangerous.
He long to glide along its lines in an angelic rush.
He shuffled in his tennis shoes, and leaned across the wall.
O, he would give his all, if he could grasp that waterfall.
Nasty Jake Takes Trips out to the Country
by Bud “Weasel” Rice
O, nasty Jake went to the country on a sunny day.
He loved to snake around the roads out in an open way.
He loved to be in Nature looking at the lovely scenes,
along the rolling hills, o, and the grass so deep and green.
O, nasty Jake enjoyed a trip to take in gorgeous views.
He loved wide bridges arching over waves of shining blue.
He loved to reach up to the sky and kiss it in the air.
He loved to get into the lotus pose without a care.
In rugged, bright blue jacket, or in rough, black, shiny boots,
o, nasty Jake loved so to take a trip out to his roots.
Bud “Weasel” Rice is a poet of Nature.
At the Villa
by Cu Ebide Aswerl
The Sun was shining at the villa, near the swimming pool.
He was so hot, he thought a dip would be so nice and cool.
He stood above the lounge recliner, stretched his arms out wide,
and there below the rising trees he took slow time in stride.
He loved to contemplate the beautiful, the good, the true.
Ah, there beneath the azure sky, a pale and whitish blue.
And so he took a dip, refreshing, exercising some.
He loved to splash and swish about beneath the blazing Sun.
How sweet it is to watch the wavelets’ undulating curves.
Such leisure and such frolicking relieve the tensest nerves.
Cu Ebide Aswerl is a poet of leisure.
by Ubs Reece Idwal
He went out in his truck to get some wood for winter fires,
his red truck filled with sawn-up logs, above his hiked-up tires.
In gray wool socks and yellow-brown work boots he was prepared
to get out there in forestlands, o, adequately aired.
He got in the back end of his high-powered pick-up truck.
Out looking for some wood to cut, he had a bit of luck.
He paused to take a break once he had sawed and stacked his wood.
The sunlight filtered through the trees was ample and was good.
He had achieved his goal with lots of hard work in the woods,
and now he could go home again because he had the goods.
Ubs Reece Idwal is a poet of the Pacific Northwest.
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