by Ibe Ware Desu, LC

The white snow covers
rooftops, cars, trucks, vans and yards,
in the fresh, crisp air.


          by Ibe Ware Desu, LC

Along 380,
Wedelca Ebusir sits,
ready to take off.

Ibe Ware Desu, LC, is a haiku poet. Lieutenant Commander Ibe Ware Desu, a member of the Space Force, is the designated pilot of the Wedelca Ebusir spaceship.


          by “Wired Clies” Abe

Brilliant rainbow beams
on the truck-route exit sign;
translucent gleams shine.
Dancing colours captivate,
turning off the Interstate.


          by “Wired Clues” Abe

They rise up so high,
the steel utility poles,
into the blue skies,
carrying high voltages
and the odd flock of pigeons.

“Wired Clues” Abe is a poet of technology and Japanese literary forms in English.


The New Cornona Virus
          by Dr. Weslie Ubeca

The new coronavirus has eclipsed SARS horrid spell,
but seems to use the same cell-u-lar lock to get in cells,
inside, attaching to ACE-2, accessing as a guest,
the wretched 2019-nCoV virus gets.
It picks the surface with a spiky protein attribute,
according to virologists at Wuhan Institute.
When cells have ACE-2 proteins on their surfaces, they are
susceptible to 2019-nCov’s harms.
Researchers know infected souls are able to transmit
the virus even when no symptoms have arrived as yet.

Dr. Weslie Ubeca is a poet of medicine. So-called official stats midweek: 24,000 infected, 500 dead; but, according to the Taiwan Times: “Tencent seems to have inadvertently released what are potentially the actual numbers of infections and deaths, which are astronomically higher than official figures…” unbelievably well over 150,000 cases and over 20,000 deaths. I’m not sure one can trust either the Taiwan Times or Tencent; but it does make one wonder where those numbers came from.


Yassy from Mumbai
          by Sai Deebec Wurl
          “In In-dia dia-monds are everwhere.”
              —Badri Suwecele

I saw her on the Walk of Fame in Hollywood, CA.
The Sun was shining brightly on the stars in silver gray.
Around her crowds of people mulled; their shadows crossed the walk.
She pointed to the star of Drew, Drew Barrymore, in fact.
She squatted down in soft pink top with silver lettered charm,
tan bag upon right shoulder, light-blue jacket on left arm.
Her shoes were very beautiful, like golden slippers on
a walk on which she was a living star, lush, dark hair long.
She hails from Mumbai in India. Life is her Muse.
Much in her life inspires to poetic interludes.

Sai Deebec Wurl is a poet of India.


Enfolded by the Sky
          by Sri Wele Cebuda

Although the walls and drapes were gray, and furniture was black,
he still loved to get down in to a lotus pose, in fact;
because when he was in that state the World could be seen
as beautiful, as lovely, through his fine imagining…
even if the World be mean.

Indeed, it did require physical abilities
to spread his legs out to the sides, while bending both his knees.
He’d lift his head up high, as if some god was pulling it,
above his head and arms, in balance, where’er he might sit.

He’d drone his groaning moan, an OM, to focus his mind’s eye;
and then he felt as if he’d been enfolded by the sky.
He loved to let his mind’s eye go; it filled him with delight;
and then the ordinary, drab surroundings would take flight.


          by Sri Wele Cebuda

The day was sunny, but was shady underneath the tree
whose branches stretched out far and wide with sweet serenity.
Nearby the bright, white picket fence wrapped round the square, grassed yard,
and on the green grass a black, shiny pick-up truck was parked.

The man got in the lotus pose in the back of the truck,
and though the surface was quite hard, he had a bit of pluck.
He kept his work shoes on, and really didn’t care at all;
he merely wanted but a peaceful moment with the All.

He thought about the struggles he’d been having at his work,
particularly one tough boss who was a fucking jerk;
but somehow he would have to cleanse his mind of such as that
if he would reach tranquility, ah, yes, and then come back.


On the Rocks
          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.


Upon the Dark Brown Couch
          by Sri Wele Cebuda

He got into the lotus pose, upon the dark brown couch,
below the picture in its frame; he was a plumpish pouch.
He lifted up his head above his chest and abdomen,
as if a puppeteer was guiding him; his eyes were dim.
He sat upon the poofy, cushioned contours—serious—
he felt at ease, if not indeed pleased or delirious.
His legs, stretched out, bent at the knees, were spread, o, very wide,
as if they were not on the Earth but floating to the sky.
He breathed the air in deeply, so content to be alive.
He felt embrace by godliness. He truly felt alive.


Within His Inner Eye
          by Sri Wele Cebuda

It was so long ago. I think it was Montana too.
Out in the World, he remembered, it was quite a view.
He didn’t understand at all exactly what it meant:
perception flashing from the past, once present and unspent.
He did not know where he was going, what was happening.
He wasn’t happy, or unhappy, merely tapping in…
to something higher, something keener, something never seen.
His mind was shifting to new visions, o, so cleverly.
He’d seen this story many times within his inner eye.
The winter slowly vanishing into a summer sky.


Upon a Metal Net
          by Sri Wele Cebuda

He could get in the lotus pose most anywhere he went,
industrial or park-like, even on a metal net.
He’d even leave his socks and shoes upon his outspread feet.
He didn’t care as long as he could feel, o, complete.
He’d contemplate most anything that came into his sight,
o, even in the darkness, but one shining, filtered light.
He longed to be connected to the Universe at large,
although it toss and turn him down, and shake him like a jar.
Surcharged, he felt that he could see with greater potency,
and he would be content, yes, there upon Times raging Sea.

Sri Wele Cebuda is a poet of the inner eye. He remembers, when he was younger, and in college, staying up all night long on campus with two fellow students, so that we might watch the Sun rise, which we did. To keep warm, we spend much of those early morning hours on a fairly large, warm air vent—a thick, hard metal grate.


Tetiana Aleksina
          by Radice Lebewsu

Unbolted and f/r/e/e-volting, involuted all the way,
Tetiana Aleksina is a woman from Ukraine.
She’s practicing the Mooreeffoec—it brings her great delight—
the act of seeing th’ ordinary in a brand new light.
With Mr. Single and surcingle, she is on a roll.
A puppet or a puppet master? Who is in control?
Though English isn’t her first language, she writes in its midst;
she’s from Dnipro, city of a million—mind-splash blitzed.
At times the blizzard of her mind ‘s spectacular and brash;
it crashes through one’s sensibilities a dashing flash.


The Ukrainian Airliner Crash Investigation
          by Radice Lebewsu

Iran says it will work with other nations on the probe
of the Ukrainian airliner that it shot down cold;
but Tehran blamed Ukrainian authorities, because
Zelensky said the audio showed Tehran knew the cause—
immediately—not days afterward as Tehran said—
the Revolutionary Guards who left so many dead.
Iran said its investigation is meticulous;
but other countries must avoid politicizing this!
Cooperation is required of all those involved,
and only that way can the situation be resolved!

Radice Lebewsu is a poet of Ukraine. Днiпро is a city of about 960,000. The missile of the Iranian Revolutionary Guards that hit the Ukrainian Airliner killed 176 people.


From A to Z, a Child’s Encyclopaedia
          by Bieder C. Weslau

Aare, I remember, was the first entry
in my childhood encyclopedia,
the river that runs through Berne, Switzerland,
where Einstein lived and traveled on a bus
back in 1905, a stern sentry,
that showed me new worlds in old media,
I, like a Dickensian Bitzer, scanned
those pages seeking the World’s omnibus.

Then, at the end, my hands frozen in time,
I can still see the photons passing by,
the atoms in their configurations,
the speed of light demonstrated, logged there,
e = mc2, and so sublime,
those ideas attracting first the eye,
that trip with so many stops and stations,
looking back, the Clock Tower, Zytglogge.

Bieder C. Weslau is a poet of Switzerland, Austria and Germany. He loves Biedermeier—the style of furniture and interior decoration (1815-1848) characterized by restraint, conventionality and utilitarianism.


Brexit, January 31, 2020
          by Basil Drew Eceu

On January 31st in 2020, it
is over for the Brits, they fi-nal-ly have Brexited.
The Union Jack was lowered, folded, taken from its height
in Brussels in a somber ceremony—no delight—
whereas in Parliament Square in Westminster there were joys,
a celebration elevation and elation noise.
“Let us be optimistic.” said Farage, out to the crowd.
Let’s think about “the future of our…nation.” He was proud.
But those who didn’t care at all, or care for the result,
were merely glad that it was over, finally would halt.


Basil Drew Eceu is a poet of UK.


Impeachment Trial Vote, February 5, 2020
          by Brice U. Lawseed

The Senate of the USA acquitted Donald Trump
of both obstruction and improper conduct. It ‘s been dumped.
It followed party lines, as did the charges, in the main,
as few Republicans or Democrats deigned dare to stray.
Although the Democrats have wanted to impeach the Prez,
since the election back in 2016, nonetheless,
this was the quickest of impeachment trials on the books.
It wasn’t close, two-thirds were needed to give him the boot.
And so the nation ‘s still divided, as when first begun,
since Massachusetts’ Adams and Virginia’s Jefferson.

Brice U. Lawseed is a poet of DC politics.


He Whom the Dayton Boys Did Emulate
          by Air Weelbed Suc

The dream of flying came to him—Santos-Dumont—
while contemplating the magnificent blue skies
of South Brazil. Long, sunny days would make him want
to float upon the air, above the fields, and rise…
He left for Paris, when his dad, the Coffee King,
became a paraplegic. In high-collar ties,
wrist watch, and floppy hats, he went air trafficking
in 14-bis, Oiseau de proie, his own design;
from big balloons and dirigibles to fixed wing.
His life, a Jules Verne book, had trouble with the spine,
and there was no escape, e’en to his fav’rite haunt, A Encantada,
from multiple sclerosis and the bottom line.

Air Weelbed Suc is a poet of flight. Alberto Santos-Dumont (1873-1932) was a Brazilian inventor and aviation pioneer.


Clifford Holland
          by Dic Asburee Wel

In Gotham, unafraid to go the vole,
he, ever at the surface of the earth,
he, digging, going deeper down, a mole,
he dropping from the dawn to deal with dearth,
how many days had he—Clifford Holland—
designing tunnels underneath New York,
subterranean subways, swollen and
hollow from working, swallowing the Dark.
When he became chief engineer to build
below the Hudson River’s open mouth,
continuously checking figures, filled
with anxious energy, still going south,
he met a nervous breakdown at the end,
and died two days before the two ends met.

Dic Asburee Wel is a poet of New York City. Clifford Milburn Holland (1883-1924) was an American civil engineer, for whom the Holland Tunnel is named. This sonnet used a slant rhyme purposefully in its couplet.


The Hard Man in a Maze
          by SubCIA Weedler

There was no chance he could escape, no way to get away.
He had to face the music of another time and day.
He steeled himself, but would it be enough in coming days.
What hope was there that he would find his way out through the maze?
He had to be as hard as he could be; there was no doubt;
for, after all, there was no way that he could stay, get out!
Perhaps he’d find a little consolation in the place
that he would find himself in trying to achieve some grace;
but it was just as possible no one would understand
what he had done, and why he did it. Time was now at hand.

SubCIA Weedler is a poet of espionage.


The Cat Burglar
          by Bilee Wad Curse

He was dressed all in black, like as the night in ebony,
from black boots on the ground to black wrist band above the knee.
He walked along the alleyways among the moon-lit walls,
beside the barrels, like a cat, there where it puts its paws.

Occasionally he would meet a fellow stalking soul,
beside a grate or chained-up shop near shadowed round manhole;
and then he’d have to slink away lest he be seen and caught,
and charged with loitering upon some crass, unholy spot.

And there were vigilantes in the City, just as well,
who, strapped with guns, would trap bad ones with Justice wrought from Hell;
and there beside the passing El, they would accost a bum,
and choke him silly, willy-nilly, til dawn’s light had come.

Bilee Wad Curse is a poet of crime and criminals.


At the Makeshift Gym
          by Rudi E. Welec, “Abs”

The constant Sun was shining in the early morning light,
a white cloud passing over a bare, branching oak in sight.
Already at the barbell, doing exercises there.
In white tank top, one held the barbell high up in the air.

Another, in white tee shirt and light blue gym trunks, gripped hard,
as sunlight dappled through the open air, like as a pard.
A final dude in white shorts and white socks was stretching, and
so serious in his exertions on the task at hand.

It seemed to be a makeshift gym of gray poles and gray walls,
aluminum, and corrugated, purposefully small;
but was effective for those there whose focus was so keen.
One doesn’t need to have much—just a little—in between.

Rudi E. Welec, “Abs” is a poet of exercise.


Sweet Ice Cream Bars
          by Carb Deliseuwe

He loved to eat sweet ice cream bars; they pleased his tongue’s taste buds,
va-nil-la covered with milk cho-co-late and al-mond nuts.
He longed to have one every day he could, they were so good.
O, it was quite a treat, indeed, such an indulgent food.
Its creamy, dreamy flavours made him happy just to lick;
to suck them in without a mess was really quite a trick.
In clean, neat tie and business suit, he had to be alert,
lest he might spill some of it on his freshly laundered shirt.
But it was worth it—definitely! awesome to behold.
It was one of those small things that make life worth living—gold.


Mr. Peanut RIP
          by Carb Deliseuwe

Old Mr. Peanut with his pals drove on high mountain curves;
but when he saw a giant rock, his big. long pea-van swerved.
They all went over that steep cliff, but managed to hang on

to one tree branch, just hanging there; their vehicle long gone.

But how long could they last up there? The branch began to c/r/a/c/k.
Would all three perish when that lengthy limb they hung on snapped?
O, no! To save his pals, old Mr. Peanut just let go!

He fell down to the rocky floor, and smacked, o, crashed—explode!
he who had driven down that mountain road—but lost control!
Was he the undisputed star of this year’s Super Bowl?

Carb Deliseuwe is a poet of food. Planter’s Mr. Peanut (1916-2020) has been replaced. The Super Bowl final: KC 31, SF 20.