The Globe Is on a Buzz
by Bee Rediculaws
So many things occur across the planet every day;
no single person can make sense of much of their display.
No one can even comprehend the merest one percent.
It’s hard enough to have the money just to pay the rent.
The human home is huge, humungous, it’s a giant hive,
so many places in so many countries people thrive,
in Asia, Europe, Africa, and the Americas,
as well as Oceania—the Globe is on a buzz.
So many thoughts, so many acts, so many ways to be.
It is a miracle of sorts there’s this much harmony.
Bee Rediculaws is a poet of bees and other insects.
by Ibe Ware Desu, LC
The leafless old oak
points up to the Solar Disk,
plagued by mistletoe.
The Lunar New Year
by Ibe Ware Desu, LC
The thin bamboo sticks
coated with herbs and spices,
Ibe Ware Desu, LC, is a haikuist of sorts. The parasitic mistletoe derives its water and nutrients from the wood of tree branches.
The New Coronavirus
by Lu “Reed ABCs” Wei
Alert! The new coronavirus found in China has
spread to more than 500 people all across the land.
It seems to have come from the central city of Wuhan.
Some cases came to Thailand, South Korea and Japan.
The flights from central China to the outside now are screened;
but now the Lunar New Year’s here; more cases could be seen.
So millions traveling across the Chinese countryside
will need to take precautions in the flowing human tide.
Face-mask is trending on Weibo, but does it help police?
How many more will have succumbed to this brand new disease?
The good news in the modern era is news travels fast;
the bad news is more people travel; more things can be passed.
Lu “Reed ABCs” Wei is a poet of China. Was it a seafood market in Wuhan where the new coronavirus came from? Wuhan, with over 11,000,000, is a central Chinese industrial hub.We now know this pneumonia-like disease is communicable through human contact, as fifteen medical workers have contracted the disease. Were they wearing masks?
The Australian Bungee Jumper
by Walibee Scrude
He wore no shirt to cover up his chest,
and his light-colored pants were short and tight.
He wore white crew socks and the leather vest
the man had strapped him in at such a height.
He wondered if he should be doing this.
It seemed absurd. It seemed insane and dumb.
He wondered if he would be ruing this.
Why was he here? Why had he even come?
He wanted to. The danger and the thrill
were his best friends, and so he took a jump.
And down he went, free-falling down until
he reached the end—The end!—and then shot up,
ascending into joy’s elastic cord,
rebounding over, over, over, then…
when all the energy had gone, and bored,
he longed for it again, again, again,
until he came to rest. Oh, why do I
allow myself to be hung out to dry,
up here in this contraption in the sky,
the object of some mad desire to fly?
he asks himself again, again, again.
Then deeply sighs: this is the world of men.
Walibee Scrude is a poet of Australia. The alternating rhymes of iambic pentameter resolve into a quadruplet and a couplet.
by Sri Wele Cebuda
It was the worst of places to get in the lotus pose,
grey rocks beneath, green shrubs above, some water falling close.
So stark, so drab, so unattended, empty dank and dark,
it seemed no place that one would go to mentally embark.
And yet, the man was seated there upon the hard, flat rock.
His eyes were closed, but not his mind; it flew up like a hawk.
He soared above a fisherman beside a nearby stream,
although he really still was there within a daytime dream.
A man nearby, observing him, thought he looked fairly strange;
yet he could not but be intrigued; the dude seemed free from chains.
Sri Wele Cebuda is a poet of mystic revelations.
In Gondar, Ethiopia, January 20, 2020
by Luwi Recs Abede
At least three people died and dozens more were injured when
a wooden stand erected for Epiphany went down
in Gondar, Ethiopia. The stand was meant for more.
Up to a thousand souls. But it collapsed and hit the floor.
Collapse occurred inside the Emp’ror Fasilides Bath
where thousands came to celebrate baptism of the Christ.
Some 15,000 foreigners had come to celebrate
along with all the Ethiopians upon that date,
on January 20, 2020, sad to say,
for such a joyful festival to be a somber day.
Luwi Recs Abede is a poet of Ethiopia.
The Dying Gladiator
by Aedile Cwerbus
The dying gladiator, on his left elbow, extends his right arm out to stave the pain away. He leans upon his left thigh’s side, and cannot go; he must remain transfixed upon that stone display. His right knee’s up, as if he might escape his fate, but his head leans to his left shoulder come what may. He still has strength; and so he longs to lift his weight from off that unforgiving horizontal plane; but this he cannot do, and it is getting late. Despite the strapped-up sandals on his feet, again he will not rise. Though time is in slow motion, oh, for him it matters naught; he fights against life’s grain.
Aedile Cwerbus is a poet of ancient Roma. This prose-poem has 144 syllables.
The Ancient Mariner Speaks Out
by Ercules Edibwa
O, billowing the sails were when we put to sea, a fair wind blowing past me, warm and wonderful. We felt like we were going to eternity, though it was very stormy and the thunder rolled. We held on tight to keep our vessel steady, sure. We did not want to fall below the undertow. The captain steered us straight. All hands kept us secure. So wild and free we sallied forth through time’s vast squalls. We did our best to meet each test and to endure. We hoped that we would make a hundred port of calls. O, it was glorious to be alive to me, to rise up to the pounding surf with grit and balls.
Ercules Edibwa is a poet of ancient Greece. This prose-poem likewise contains 144 syllables. Each time he goes out to the World he thinks of Hercules.
A Glimpse of Herakles
by “Crude” Abe Lewis
I saw great Herakles, alone and bared.
Around him was a clamor of the dead,
as if grim birds were scattering and scared
in each direction, even overhead.
He held his bow, an arrow on its string,
forever looking like as one who ‘s shot,
with glances terrible of dark surmise.
Across his chest, a wide, hard belt did cling
and golden baldric thick with works of art,
with lions, bears and boars with glaring eyes.
It also had imprinted deep in it
fierce battles, quarrels, murders, slaughtering.
May he who has designed such awful shit
never again make such an awful thing!
He recognized me, wise Odysseus,
to whom he spoke in hurried, flurried words:
“Unhappy man, why are you also here,
Laertes’ son and seed of Father Zeus?
Is yours some wretched destiny’s harsh curse,
like mine of endless misery and fear?
I was made slave to one far worse than I,
sent here to Hades to fetch Cerberus;
and here I must remain forever. Bye.”
And off he skipped into eternal dust.
“Crude” Abe Lewis is a free-form translator of ancient Greek poetry, in this case Homer’s Odyssey. This poem is a duododecad. Its rhyme scheme is ababcdecdefgfghijhijklkl. According to Beau Lecsi Werd, the duododecad (24-lined poem) was a late PostModernist creation.
Guglielmo Marconi (1874-1937)
by Luwese Becardi
O, in that lovely lavender o’ th’ Modern Era’s morn,
Italian engineer Marconi opened up a door,
experimenting first in wireless telegraphy,
and then groundbreaking work in radio technology.
The aural door he opened—golden possibilities—
communications through the air across the seven seas.
He brought a brand-new notion to a brand-new century
Intrepidly advancing forth with his adventuring.
In 1899 he had equipped two US ships
to send reports of progress at America’s Cup trips.
Success aroused Worldwide excitemnt o’ th’ experiment,
and later his new patent, o, then into hist’ry went.
Luwese Becardi is a poet of Italy.
The Lovely Christmas Tree
by Crise de Abu Wel
It’s time to take the lovely Christmas tree down for the year.
The Lunar New Year fast approaches; it is very near.
The packages have long ago been opened and received.
It’s time to put the ornaments away, balls, lights and wreathes.
The people on the wooden floor are getting ready to
dismantle, o, that beautiful and gorgeous Christmas view.
The decorations will be missed; they love the grand display;
they do not want to put such pretty items clean away.
And so they linger for a while on the shiny floor.
O, could we not just leave it there—right there forevermore?
Crise de Abu Wel is a poet of the Good Father.
Passing by Woods on a Snowy Evening
by Ecwus Beal Ride
The night was fast approaching; snow was falling from the sky.
The full moon shone above the hills in twilight’s soft blue lie.
His colt connected to the sleigh; the reins were in his hands.
He traveled cheerfully along past upright fir-tree stands.
He saw the houses in the distance, lit by electric lights.
He slid on down the snowy hill, the colt content to glide.
How lovely was this winter scene, spectacular the view.
Around the moon there was a faint, pale pinkish, purple hue.
He gazed up high, he looked down low, he felt a lovely glow.
O, he would ride forever and a day if he could go.
Ecwus Beal Ride is a poet of horses.
by Usa W. Celebride
O, Joseph Smith was visited—Angel Moroni came!
the guardian of golden plates in purest golden flame.
This angel was, like purest light, enrobed in lovely white.
His hands were naked, like his arms, above his wrists so bright.
Not only was his robe exceeding white, his person too
was glorious beyond description, similar in hue.
About his waist, he had a girdle going round his form.
O, he was there so pure, of whiteness he’d not seen before.
He longed to put his message down so he would not forget.
The Angel left, then Joseph Smith; the two had visited.
Usa W. Celebride is a poet of the United States of America.
In My Car
by Bruc “Diesel” Awe
Sometimes I wonder if I’m gonna make it in my car,
down highway this and highway that, and highways long and far.
The traffic is remarkable, the thousands shuffle round.
Will I make the next exit sloshing in the lost and found?
Just where I am exactly now is anybody’s guess.
Ten miles here, ten miles there, thank God for GPS.
So many things conspire against me on these varied trips,
the looping, sloping, winding, groping, rolling, o, off-ramps,
the speeding, tail-gating, interweaving, and sun glare,
the massive, passing, semi trucks, the arbitrary dare.
I must keep in between the lines. O, watch out for that bar!
Sometimes I wonder if I’m gonna make it in my car.
The Mustang Family
by Bruc “Diesel” Awe
Young men returning from the War found something they would like,
a lightweight, scooter-sized and inexpensive motorbike.
Produced from 1946 to 1964,
the Mustang motorbikes enjoyed their short historic snort.
The first, named Colts, with British Villiers engines, were 2-stroke.
The hardtail Mustangs then came next, the Pony, Stallion, Bronc’.
They had the telescopic front suspension—what a punch.
Next generation Colt contained a centrifugal clutch.
The Thoroughbred, the pinnacle of Mustang’s street bike line,
had swingarm rear suspension, higher-output—o, divine.
DeliverCycles, Mustang trikes, 320 cc too,
were followed by the Trail Machines, the offroad bike that flew.
Today originals are highly prized, and priced as well;
the top go for $10,000, if someone will sell.
Bruc “Diesel” Awe is a poet of transportation.
Chic Agogo Ren’ee Sawngz
by “Bad” Weslie Ecru
A vlog, a bounty hunter, his computer on his lap:
at 3:00 am, at the train station, emptiness on tap.
Upon the train he’s traveling…a…long…six-hour trip.
Outside the scenes are passing by; inside a Star Trek clip.
The re-el rolls to Bobby Caldwell’s bluesy, jazzy soul,
“What You Won’t Do For Love”, within a bowl, becomes the bowl.
The traffic passes, paintings hang, the water fills…the pot…again.
A quiet, oriental riff goes drifting by…and then…
the trip comes to an end, the drip comes to a stop.
The re-el ends; it disappears; it rolls into a drop.
“Bad” Weslie Ecru is a poet of Chicago. Bobby Caldwell’s “What You Won’t Do For Love” was a hit from 1978.
The Winter Wood
by Ubs Reece Idwal
Those days have disappeared when he had no electric heat,
when all he had was a wood stove to keep his shack-hearth mete,
He loved the winter wood stacked up so tall and neat and straight;
it meant that he could keep warm when the hard snows came and chafed.
In summer, when he cut the wood, alone, or with some guys,
o, he felt very warm right then beneath those azure skies.
He would be quite content in blue jeans on the grassy dirt,
there sucking in the fragrant smells of flowers, trees and earth.
O, then he felt so high, while even bending down to cut,
a belt too tight, or e’en the latest, nasty scuttlebutt.
O, this would keep him warm in January’s rushing breeze,
and then although he be outside, he would not freeze—o, frieze.
Ubs Reece Idwal is a poet of the Northwest USA.
A Minor Note
by Ubs Reece Idwal
I still remember vividly, when I was fairly young,
I’d just come from the Art Museum, flush with imajung.
The pictures there were beautiful, with power, taste and grace,
amazing for their patternings in this park setting’s place.
There were so many pictures I could not describe them all;
but there were sev’ral mem’rable that I can still recall.
One was a youth embracing love, as if he were a man;
another was a driver in a car, a forceful span.
But it was afterwards when I had left the building that
the thing I most remember happening occurred, in fact.
There walking past the sprouting trees out to the parking lot,
a vile man passed by and shouted what I’ve not forgot.
He cussed aloud, so tough and proud. I thought he’d pick a fight.
But I walked on, not turning back, and left him in his plight.
And yet, I still remember, after all these many years,
that vile man of violence.whose cussing fiercely pierced.
Ubs Reece Idwal is a poet of the Pacific Northwest. Beau Lecsi Werd notes that the neologism imajung suggests being inundated mentally with visual stimulation, e.g., paintings or film.
by R. Lee Ubicwedas
It was another day up at the bathroom countertop.
He gazed down at the sink beside the ever-turning clock.
He felt the Hand of Fate was slapping him behind his back,
but he would keep on going forth and stay upon the track.
He needed grooming, cleaning, screwing on the toothpaste cap.
He focused on his washing up. He scrubbed with soapy tap.
He placed his hands upon the counter, looking at the mirr’r:
another day, another week, another month and year.
He wished the Hand of Fate would go away and leave him here;
but that was not the case; each day an older man appeared.
A Free Chameleon
by R. Lee Ubicwedas
He knew no matter what he did he’d not be good enough,
but he would keep on trying to be better than he was.
But this was not his fate alone; it fell to everyone,
each human being on the Earth and orbiting the Sun.
He’d have to find contentment where he could and call it good.
He sought to reach an equilibrium, and thought he should.
Could he transform himself into another entity,
and still continue being who he was and he would be?
Life is so strange, it is like as a free chameleon,
that moves about and changes to environments it’s in.
O, Nasty Jake
by R. Lee Ubicwedas
O, nasty Jake, he was a snake, a snake deep in the grass,
and he would take, for Goodness’ sake, whatever dared to pass.
He’d snatch a fellow creature who came to his neighbourhood,
and had the sheer audacity to claim that it was good.
O, nasty Jake was a coarse fellow slithering along,
pretending he was innocent, he simply traveled on.
He’d seek out foods that he could eat and swallow them up whole.
He was a rude, crude, brutal dude who’d try to steal one’s soul.
O, nasty Jake was quite a snake in sneaky ess-shaped form.
His hunger was unsatiable. He always wanted more.
Beware of slimy, nasty Jake in garden or in grass.
For Goodness’ sake keep from his wake. O do not dare to pass.
R. Lee Ubicwedas is a poet of anything anywhere.
by Rudi E. Welec, “Abs”
A solid core’s important; it helps one to stabilize;
to balance and to power though the hardest exercise.
The plank’s an exercise for the abdominals and core;
it works the muscles from the pelvis up the spine and more.
Reducing stress on joints, allowing better posture too,
the plank’s essential building up one’s strength to be and do.
A man about one-fifty pounds would burn three calories,
if he could hold a plank in place a pretty minute please.
A mat will give you comfort, when you’re down upon all fours
on elbows under shoulders and you’re looking at the floor.
Engage abdominals, move navel upward to your spine,
your torso flat, no bending, as if you were a straight line.
And hold, o, hold for all you’re worth, flex glutes tight as you can,
as if someone was punching you right in your abs, o, man..
And in the process you can even tone your skanky flanks.
A solid core foundation comes from good old-fashioned planks.
Rudi E. Welec, “Abs” is a poet of exercise and the mind-body connection.
by Educable Wires
He was a fan of God. He was from India as well.
She was an expat German or Australian, show and tell.
He was a British subject, lots of topics on his mind.
She was a soulful writer saying all that she could find.
He was American. Saint Louis seemed to be his port.
She blah blah blah…would blog, blog, blog. She made a tasty tort.
He was a Russian making postcards, taking pics and time
to drop on by and leave a line, though one might not know why.
And finally, he was a balladeer of art and news,
of math and music, exercise, of living on a fuse,
philosopher and poet, rhymer, trod-dl-ing along,
surprised when any anywhere, would listen to his song.
Educable Wires is a poet of tunes.