“Wired Clues” Abe
The morning birds are
all a twitter, whistling.
No one’s cutting wood.
by “Wired Clues” Abe
Sun, in cloud-filled skies,
lights sidewalks, streets, and driveways—
such beautiful grays.
“Wired Clues” Abe is a poet tied to technology in Japanese forms in English.
by “Clear Dew” Ibuse
The pink Dianthus
even after frost.
by “Clear Dew” Ibuse
The white Crepe Myrtle
lacks flower clusters and leaves,
looks like branching sticks.
“Clear Dew” Ibuse is an haikuist of flora. He couldn’t resist the simile in the second haiku, because of alliteration.
by Lu “Reed ABCs” Wei
The dread reign of the late coronavirus in Wuhan
had just commenced before the new Year of the Rat began.
Each morning news appeared about new deaths that had occurred.
No day elapsed which did not bring increased deceased by word.
The very air from China seemed so redolent with death.
The thought indeed took grip of millions with each passing breath.
Ah, this new terror, many millions understood it well;
but of its shadows, how many could comprehend its hell?
O, why do every year new strains come out from China’s land?
From snake or bat, sea creature, rat, what is the latest strand?
The 2019-nCoV ‘s shutting down Hubei,
infecting thousands there as well as Japanese and Thai,
Korean, French, Australian, Taiwanese, American,
as well as from Nepal, Malaysia, Singapore, Taiwan.
From Canada and Vietnam, no nation is secure.
The death toll rises daily. How long will that still occur?
The Chinese government has quarantined much of Hubei,
some 50,000,000 people are required there to stay.
And now we hear a Wuhan nurse upon a video
suggests it’s worse than Chinese leaders want the World to know.
She claims that 90,000 have contracted the disease,
a lot more than the number sanctioned by officialese.
She’s in the area where the coronavirus launched,
Her claims for truth, her cries for help, will they be heard or scraunched?
Lu “Reed ABCs” Wei is a poet of China.
The Lotus Pose
by Sri Wele Cebuda
One can get in the lotus pose most anywhere one is,
because one’s ever striving for sweet peace, fresh air and bliss.
I saw one man out near his porch, the sun was shining down.
He sat upon the bumpy ground, on earth, rich, deep and brown.
He squatted down to do his yoga poses then and there.
He got into the lotus pose, content, his mind looked bare.
He stretched his shoulders and his torso, his hands cupped his head.
His eyes were closed but he arose upended and intense.
I only briefly passed him sitting there, but I was struck
how calm he looked, when all about seemed sucky, mucky, yuck.
What the Heck
by Sri Wele Cebuda
He got into the lotus pose upon a dark, black couch.
He looked like he was not content, like as a constant ouch.
Perhaps he was uncomf’rtable where he was seated at;
perhaps he’d an appointment that was coming up, in fact.
He sat beside the potted tree and little picture frame
that had a gorgeous country scene, quite peaceful in the main.
It sat upon a shiny wooden shelf shellacked and honed,
as he droned on aloud and long a groaning open OM.
He longed to meet nirvana, even if but for a sec,
but could he reach it in that hard position? What the heck.
Out Near a Waterfall
by Sri Wele Cebuda
“…preternaturally keen and alert”
—Ambrose Bierce, “An Occurrence at Owl Creek Bridge”
Lush foliage surrounded him out near a waterfall.
It was the kind of place where one might see an otter roll.
By hard, gray rocks along the flowing, rushing, clear, wide stream;
it was quite an adventure just to be in such a scene.
And here he got into the lotus pose upon a rock.
What was the possibility tranquility would come?
By palm-like, large leaves, he was breathing in the warm, fresh air.
He groaned an OM above the thrashing, splashing water there.
But he was not at peace, o, no; one saw that on his face.
In Nature’s arms, he seemed between a rock and a hard place.
He was alert surprisingly to all surrounding him;
the question was could he endure this wild and crazy whim.
Out in the Country
Sri Wele Cebuda
He got into the lotus pose upon the wooden deck.
But what would he achieve by this? What good things would he get?
Perhaps he would experience the World anew and thrive;
recharged and reinvigourated he could feel alive,
attuned to all around him, like the wooden railing and
the gorgeous trees, the lovely breeze, fulfilled and feeling grand.
He sat right in the open air, his legs spread out and wide,
as if he had decided that he didn’t need a chair.
He loved to be near mist and lake. As such he felt so tall.
He felt connected to the Universe, but that was all.
Sri Wele Cebuda is a poet of the lotus pose. In the dodeca, folíage is pronounced as if it had three syllables.
by Radice Lebewsu
A week before the start of World War II was on its track,
the Russians and the Germans signed a nonaggression Pact,
dividing Poland in between them, marching through its land
that to this day has still not been resolved…we understand.
These eighty years have seen a ruthless history played out.
How could it be undone…by both the Commie and the Kraut?
O, Molotov and Ribbentrop concluded their designs,
and Poland had to pay the price in life and land and lines.
This week Ukraine’s Zelensky pointed out the history
of Soviet collusion with the Nazi blistering,
the Blitzkrieg march to Holocaust, still worth remembering
by those who had to go through that fierce, grim dismembering.
Radice Lebewsu is a poet of Ukraine. Last week’s Holocaust Memorial in Jerusalem was attended by leaders from around the World.
Evangelista Torricelli (1608-1647)
by Euclidrew Base
Italian physicist and mathematic engineer
Evangelista Torricelli had a short career.
Inventor o’ th’ barometer, he wrote a treatise on
mechanic, De Motu, which Galileo thought well drawn,
succeeding him then at the Florentine Academy,
where he became a fine professor of geometry.
He filled a glass tube four feet long and turned it to a dish,
observing that some mercury did not flow out of this.,
creating in the process the first vacuum so sustained,
concluding atmospheric pressure caused the height to change.
He did a lot with little time, an inspiration to
the likes of Robert Boyle; indeed, o, there were quite a few.
Euclidrew Base is a poet of mathematics. In mathematics, Torricelli extended Cavillieri’s method of indivisibles to cover curved indivisibles, “a gem of the mathematical literature of the time”, as Gliozzi has pointed out.
O, Nasty Jake in Prison
by R. Lee Ubicwedas
O, Nasty Jake, your basic rake, was in a prison cell.
No doubt about it, he was ever getting into hell.
He dreamed of being free out in the crisp, fresh, open wide,
but he was stuck behind that grate, not in the countryside.
Sometimes he’d drive his cellmate crazy, grabbing at the bars,
and shaking his whole body, but not going very far.
His cellmate hated it when he would go into his must,
and try to bust out, when he couldn’t, angry and nonplussed.
At times like that his cell mate cringed. He’d tense up. Would they fight?
When Nasty Jake attempted to break out—that was a sight.
R. Lee Ubicwedas is a poet of off-colour moments.
An Ancient Sculpture
by Aedile Cwerbus
The august figure stands before an upright spear.
Although erect, he places greater weight upon
his left long leg, his right leg’s to the rear
and slightly bent. It seems he’s come to a new dawn,
for he is bathed in golden light from head to toes.
His torso, sinewy and flat, shines bright as bronze,
a brand new age he will command that gleams and glows.
His left arm makes a vee, his left hand in a fist;
his right hand grabs his spear, his right arm’s bent elbow’s
vee circumscribes his face from shoulder to his wrist.
His penis rests upon his neat dangling nuts near,
but stands secure upon the bucking chariot.
Aedile Cwerbus is an appreciator of ancient art.
The Tallest Free-Standing Statue in America
by Red Was Iceblue
Against the azure cloud-touched sky, the Golden Driller stands
in Tulsa, Oklahoma, high above the open plains.
At seventy-five feet, the statue of the oil man
is huge, in fact, colossal, climbing up so great a span.
Ripped muscles on a bare chest, slender waist and chiseled head,
on which is placed a hard hat, focused eyes look straight ahead.
Though twenty-two tons heavy, it is said the statue could
withstand two-hundred mile-per-hour tornados in his hood.
His gloved right hand rests on an oil derrick next to him,
the giant in big boots, a paean to petroleum.
The sculptor was George Hondronastas, a Greek immigrant,
who thought his mustard-coloured dude his most important work.
Red Was Iceblue is a poet of Modernist art. George Hondronastas (1893-1979) was the designer of the statue.
La Peña de Bernal
by Cesal Dwe Uribe
La Peña de Bernal, a boulder with a lot of pith,
in Mexico, is one of the World’s largest monoliths,
like the Rock of Gibralter or great Rio’s Sugar Loaf,
or Mount Augustus in Australia, mountain for an oaf.
The porphyrytic monolith of the Jurassic Age
must have been three times larger than the size it is today.
Lo, half way up, a little chapel sits, that hikers seek,
before they go up to the highest hiked points of the peak.
Although the roads are narrow there, it still is unsurpassed.
If driving in the area, o, it should not be passed.
Its beauty is spectacular, the little town quite cute.
It’s worth it just to stay a while at its up-rounded butte.
Cesal Dwe Uribe is a poet of Mexico. His first name is frequently misspelled, “Cesar”, as a more common Mexican name.
The Beach Bum
He would get up each morning at sunrise.
He’d lift his head and leave his bed behind.
He’d stretch his arms and open wide his eyes.
He’d stretch his legs and organize his mind.
He’d eat bananas, nuts, perhaps yogurt,
or maybe omelette, sausages and juice,
once he had showered, shaved and shit ungirt;
and then he’d waddle off, like gull or goose,
and dive into the water, where he’d stay
all day with his surf board, astride its width.
He waited, weighed each wave that came his way,
and took the ones that took him zenithward…
Then afterwards he would hang loose and rest
and fall asleep within warm arms caressed.
At Coast and Club
by Cruse Wadibele
Perhaps one pauses at a sandy beach to wash the particles of silica away, to dry the water from one’s freshened skin, to joke and josh while tow’ling off beneath an open, azure sky. And then before one has a chance to slow time’s pace, the beauty’s passing fast, one’s at another sigh. One finds onself is walking through another case: a gathering of faces fills the premises. Libations go the rounds. Some music shakes the place. Male and female bodies whirl about in dances. Here one is topless, serving drinks, though none is posh. Then, too, one leaves this emptiness sans emphasis, aware there’s an abundance of insignificance.
Cruse Wadibele is a poet of Hawaii. His favourite tune is Hawaii Five-O by the Ventures, though he likes all versions and the television programs too. The sonnet uses slant rhyme, while the prose-poem has 144 syllables.
by Rudi E. Welec, “Abs”
He was “the father of the body building crew,”
a German born in Königsberg three years before
the Franco-Prussian War. At eighteen he withdrew
from Germany to leave behind conscription’s bore.
Eugen Sandow became, among the very first,
to flex and pose and market flesh displays for ore,
a true gracilian, who ever seemed to burst
out of his body. But his time was long ago.
That dying gladiator passed away unhearsed,
dropped in an unmarked grave at fifty-eight, a hole
beneath the grass; although in 2002
a plaque was placed; and aft, a monument of stone.
Rudi E. Welec, “Abs” is a poet of physical exercise. Eugen Sandow (1867-1925) was born Friedrich Wilhelm Müller.
The Beauty Queen
by I Warble Seduce
She always did her very best to look as good
as she was able to. She’d press her breasts up nigh.
She’d turn her thighs and hips. It mattered how she stood.
She combed her hair, adorned her ears, high-lit each eye.
She tightened lips, she twisted smiles, she powdered cheeks.
There wasn’t any beauty aid she would not try.
Though it might take her hours, she could go for weeks.
And then she dressed. What colors would coordinate?
What tops would work to bring perfection to her peaks?
What jewels would work so as to accentuate?
What bottoms would bring out her buns, but not too rude?
And after that, what heels wouldn’t leave her prostrate?
by I Warble Seduce
It happens all so suddenly.
One’s simply walking down an aisle,
doing something ordinary,
and one’s hit by a touch of bile.
It doesn’t take that long, and then
that touch of mild disgust becomes
an avalanche of longing, yen.
The heart goes pounding like ten drums.
What’s happened? One’s transported, swept
up in a maelstrom of wild winds.
One falters. One becomes inept.
It’s quiet, but one hears such dins.
The racing heart’s enamored, and
one wonders what has just occurred.
How can a person understand
such rushing flows without a word?
It happens unexpectedly.
One cannot reproduce its stay.
One finds it accidentally,
and then it flees. It runs away.
But one has just been smitten, caught
off guard. It is not easily
forgot. It pops into one’s thought—
o, such an odd, but pleasing thing.
by I Warble Seduce
He felt like Romeo when viewing Juliet,
who stood upon the garden balcony at night.
He was excited, flush with love, ebullient;
for here he was beneath the moon, bathed by its light.
He longed to kiss those gorgeous lips between such cheeks.
He felt so lithe and blithe, filled up with much delight.
He wanted so to touch those curves of softest pinks.
He gazed upon the lushest flesh his eyes had seen.
Here was the purling sea his open island seeks.
Here was the purest form, as close as he could be.
Here was the truest beauty he could ever get.
Pale white, he turned away. And now he’s green with spleen.
I Warble Seduce is a poet of female beauty, both inner and outer, and love, both beautiful and disturbing.
If You Discover
by Bic Uwel, “Erased”
“Missing me one place, search another…”
If you discover I’m on Facebook, I’m not really there,
or if you find me Twittering, it’s really only air.
If you read it on Reddit, that is, something that I wrote,
it may be there, but I’m not where you are, you now may note.
Nor am I Linked-In Pinterest, nor on a trampoline;
the only Tumblr I am near ‘s my washing clothes machine.
It’s odd one’s words are places where one never has logged in,
picked up by some electric whirling rain, some dang-blogged wind.
Sometimes I wonder if it’s true I really do exist;
but then I realize some day I won’t…I won’t be…missed.
Bic Uwel, “Erased”, is a poet of the nearly invisible. One of his favourite movies is “Erased”, starring Aaron Eckhart as Ben Logan.
A Ginseng Tat
by R. Lee Ubicwedas
He was a walking advertisement for the ginseng charm,
because he had a tat that spelled it out upon his arm.
Wherever he was at, it followed him—a potent sign.
One couldn’t help but notice it, lest he wore suit and tie.
He really only ever thought about its benefits,
and basic’lly he disregarded any side effects.
It made him happy just to see its fancy lettering,
but whether it improved his sex, I could not say a thing.
The only times I saw it was when he shook someone’s hand,
and then I read its letters out, displayed and neatly fanned.
R. Lee Ubicwedas is a poet of Wherever.
A Magic Show
by Seer Ablicadew
“…as if a magic lantern threw the nerves in patterns on a screen…”
—T. S. Eliot
A soft red glow suffuses over all.
It is a corner of a basement floor.
The light’s subdued. Dark red bricks form a wall.
It’s unknown—the location of the door.
It is a magic show. One dude leans back.
He’s floating in the air. How is it so?
Perhaps he is suspended on a rack?
One sees his hair against the lovely glow.
A dark magician moves him with his wand.
He is a strong, broad-shouldered sorceror.
What is it? Something’s hidden, or beyond?
He seems like he is an enforcer, sir.
The audience applauds. The act is good.
How does he do it? I wish I knew…I could.
Seer Ablicadew is a poet of magic and fortune telling. In his neighbourhood, when he was still in elementary school, he and his friends put on a back-yard fair. His job was fortune teller, which he proceeded to do with remarkable aplomb, having really no idea what a fortune teller did. Unlike the picture in the sonnet, he was a fortune teller in a tent, with cushions, a turban, and a crystal ball. It was at that moment he began to act.
My Name Is Bee
by Bee Rediculaws
I saw him in his Venom Web. He had a grinning sneer.
By his left hand, I saw his trap. I wanted to stay clear.
But I could not. I dove right in. The shrubbery was lush.
Beware flush flower towering above such lucious bush.
I do not love the Wasp, it’s true, because my name is Bee,
but I could gather pollen, yes, in his vicinity.
In his left hand, the pen is close, the pencil graphite marks
some curves along some lines that make some words in cursive arcs.
It is a wasteland of ornate spun from some woven thread.
O, I can see, it is indeed Brett Kristian’s Venom Web.
But I will watch those dark brown grasses for signs of the Wasp,
quite chary of the laughing taunts that dominate the Copse.
Bee Rediculaws is a poet of bees, et cetera.