SFC Antonio Rodriguez and SFC Javier Guttierez
by War di Belecuse
Remains of SFC Antonio Rodriguez and
SFC Javier Guttierez came back to this land,
flown in to Dover Air Force Base on a C-17.
They gave their lives to keep us safe in damned Afghanistan.
Both men received the bronze star and, as well, the purple heart.
O, God, such little consolation. Death is always hard…
for family back home—Las Cruces, in New Mexico,
for family back home in Texas—San Antonio.
An Afghan dressed in Afghan uniform attacked the men.
In the US, this week they were the most American.
For the Men of the USS Indianapolis: 1945
by War di Belecuse
“The very deep did rot: O Christ!”
—S. T. Coleridge, “The Rime of the Ancient Mariner”
The ship had just completed its quick trip to Tinian,
with the first atom bomb e’er used in war by anyone,
and then proceeded on to Leyte in the Philippines,
through waters still patrolled by Japanese-helmed submarines.
Torpedoed by I-58, it sank, o, hapless souls,
in but twelve minutes, down it went—the͡ Indianapolis.
With heavy thrump, about 300 went down with the ship,
the rest then facing horror on this wretched, fated trip.
Exposure, dehydration, deadly water-salt and sharks,
a thousand slimy things surrounding them in vicious arcs.
More than 500 more Americans died in that sea;
and after four days there were left, 317.
An orphan’s curse can drag to hell a spirit from on high;
and an ungrateful person can spit in a dead man’s eye;
so let me honour them for fervent, heart-felt loyalty;
for, Christ, those sailors gave their lives for countrymen, like me.
War di Belecuse is a poet of war. His father, in the US Navy, fought in the West Pacific in WW2, and later, became a medic, attached to the US Marines in the Korean War. This week in the Philippines, President Duterte terminated a two-decade old Visiting Forces Agreement with the USA.
Li Wenliang (1985-2020)
by Dr. Weslie Ubeca
Li Wenliang, an ophthalmologist, worked at Wuhan;
and when he saw the new cornoavirus coming on,
attempted to alert the public to the dread disease;
but he was quickly silenced by the Wuhan thought police.
Li Wenliang, December 30, on WeChat, confirmed
that seven cases from the Huanan Seafood Market were
coronavirus carriers. But the police demurred…
for making comments on the Internet that were “absurd”.
Li Wenliang, on January 12, was taken to
the quarantine located in the Wuhan ICU.
An ECMO had been used to rescue him. In short, they tried.
But it was all in vain. On February 6, he died.
by Dr. Weslie Ubeca
Each day Hubei announces deaths; tranquility’s been jarred.
New cases jump much faster than those who have been discharged.
WHO ‘s designated ten whole provinces disease “hot spots”.
Coronavirus deaths are irritating those on top.
Dictator Xi Jinping, in mask, suggested things are grim;
and will get worse before improving; data stats are dim.
And yet across the globe, the numbers keep on growing more,
with some suggesting that the cases and the deaths may soar.
Near Wuhan and Chongqing, there’s been a very sudden rise
in SO2, sulfur dioxide, reaching to the skies.
Is this the burning of organic matter—human lives—
cremated quickly with coronavirus in their “hides”?
One at a crematorium told a reporter that
the ovens burn around the clock, some thousands burnt, in fact.
The total global death toll’s over thirteen-hundred souls.
Or is that undercounted? Are there maybe more than those?
Beyond the sea one hears the ghoulish ringing of the bells.
O what a world of solemn thought their monody compels.
Dr. Weslie Ubeca is a poet of medicine. ECMO stands for extracorporeal membrane oxygenation, a life support system to keep patients alive when their bodies cannot. The last line of “The Cornoavirus” comes from Edgar Allan Poe.
by Edcur Alies Bew
In darkness, far from Stoke Moran, swamp adder and baboon,
beside the barrels, pipes and shutters, lit by but the moon,
among the tires, boxes, vents, cement and metal bars,
far from night lanterns glowing, pokers, pull-bells and dogcarts,
nocturnal prowlers comb the city filling blazing fires,
the openings and closings of those deadly flaming pyres,
such fevers, breathing, mad pursuit, such willful arrogance,
in nightmares of brutality and insignificance,
beside the trains, upon the streets, in corners fringed with fright,
o, coroners should have checked punctures in that grimmest light.
Edcur Alies Bew is a poet of darkness, and an intimate acquaintance of Waldeci Erebus.
Poéti Norac (1995-2020)
by W. S. “Eel” Bericuda
She started surfing in the seaside town Les Sables d’ Olonne,
beginning on a shortboard when she was but six years young.
She later took the longboard up, competing for ten years,
improving as she aged, a champ off France’s lovely piers.
She recently went to Australia, ever seeking waves.
Poéti Norac chased the rolling billow-crests she craved.
She loved to glide along the sliding waters of the sea.
She loved to fly upon the splashing, flashing, smashing spree.
She’d ride and ride until she died at age of twenty-four,
along the Sunshine Coast in Queensland, surfing nevermore.
W. S. “Eel” Bericuda is a poet of gorgeous beaches and the sea. Les Sables d’ Olonne is a city in western France on the Atlantic Ocean of about 40,000. The circumstances of her death are unknown and are being investigated by local authorities.
by We Be De Cur Is Al
As wave on wave of spume-spun spam crash-splashes on my shore,
I wonder who or what or when or how or why I’m bor…n…e…
O, Borneo! Varuna, god of water and the rain!
the Ocean thrashes all of us who dare to live again.
Amen—wangmin—We netiZens—across the Internet,
are international and smashing, digital, widespread.
Like mushrooms, no one sees us, nudgers, shovers, meek and mild.
By morning we’ll inherit Earth; by noon we will be filed.
In this the New Millennium, we’re mixing in the blogs.
We chat like mad cicadas hidden in forbidden rocks.
We Be De Cur Is Al is a mercurial poet and acquaintance of Esca Webuilder. Varuna meaning eater or the Hindi god of Rain, from which the word Borneo may come, wangmin means web user, netizen. This tennos draws on Basho and Plath.
by Eucari Bewdles
For some time scientists have known that types of fungi are
attracted to the radiation in a graphic core.
In 1991, researchers at Chernobyl’s site
had noticed some black-spotted fungi breaking down graphite.
Researchers in Saskatchewan found that some fungi grow
more rapidly when they to radiation are exposed.
Eight fungi species have been sent up to the ISS,
and even now they are involved in new experiments.
Up there they’re facing far more radiation than on Earth;
experts are waiting and anticipating the results.
Perhaps these fungi could lead to new cancer treatments, or
protect the astronauts on long-term missions, say, to Mars.
Eucari Bewdles is a poet of the fungi kingdom. Fungi are a group of eukaryotic organisms that include yeast, molds, and mushrooms. The eight types of fungi were sent up to the the ISS (the International Space Station) in 2016.
Upon the Black Footrest
by Sri Wele Cebuda
He got into the lotus pose upon the black footrest.
Eyes closed, he hummed his OMG, he longed to be his best.
He spread his legs out to each side, his knees were bent a-part.
He longed to give his everything; the thoughtful dude had heart.
He dreamed he was a resting man, o, lying on his side,
and holding up, as best he could, against the rising tide.
He dreamed he was upon and island floating in the air.
Although he was relaxed and eyes were closed, he still could care.
He felt the moment passing him, as he was very still,
and there he was in inner space in fields of asphodel.
Sri Wele Cebuda is a poet of meditation and prayer.
by Dicase Lebweru
He looked to be in deepest meditation where he sat;
his poetry unspoken, Kenya—yah, where he was at.
His head was bent and pondering. What was he thinking of—
romance or strife, the dance of life, perhaps the the prance of love?
Whatever it could be, one could not tell, so dark the space,
as if he contemplated plaintive pleasure in that place.
The images upon his shirt were hard to figure out;
perhaps a scene between the trees and winding hilly route.
Whatever be the case, wherever he may now exist,
back then the darkness that embraced him made him who he is.
Reprise: The Kenyatta International Conference Center
by Dicase Lebweru
It stands tall in Nairobi, Kenya, the KICC;
it soars some twenty-eight floors up in lush humidity.
A teracotta, flush facade, it kicks the lovely sky,
like as a giant cylinder upturned to catch the eye.
At night it shines deep in the city with a shiny sheen;
but still it throbs with life, though from the 1970s.
Distinctively its top extends into a helipad,
from which breathtaking views can be experienced and had.
It’s so spectacular a spot one can’t forget the time
when one is there! o, definitely worth the rugged climb.
Tanzanian Peaberry Coffee
by Dicase Lebweru
The Tanzanian peaberries—brown touched by violet—
are grown throughout the country in the sunshine and the wet,
though most are grown in little fincas on the mountain slopes
of Mount Meru and towering Mount Kilimanjaro,
at elevations of 4,000 to 6,000 feet;
it’s Tanzania’s largest export crop—the coffee bean.
It’s known for its rich choc’late flavour, high acidity,
its soft, sweet finish, dark fruit notes, and bright intensity.
A morning cup is wonderful. It fills one splendidly.
And if the truth be known, o, yes, it does so candidly.
O, I would love to have my cup filled with it any day,
a stimulating prelude from exciting sipped café.
Dicase Lebweru is a poet of East Africa. The earliest written record of the word “Kenya” was noted by Johann Ludwig Krapf. Chief Kivoi told him it was called “Kï-Nyaa” or “Kïïma Kïïnyaa” possibly because the black rock and the white snow reminded the various tribes of the feathers of the cock ostrich, the biggest bird in the World. They can grow up to 2.7 meters tall and weigh up to 145 kilograms. Finas are the small mountain farms that grow coffee beans, etc.
Mount Meru is about 4500 meters high and Mount Kilimanjaro is about 5900 meters high.
by Esca Webuilder
He never was a blogger; no, he did not blog at all;
but he was recently amazed some bloggers made a call.
Not many, that is true, but he was quite okay with that.
Too many and he’d never get a bit of rest in fact.
Saul may have had his thousands, David, tens of thousands too;
and others may have millions, maybe billions coming through.
Ah, yes, he has but few. That’s good. He is not overwhelmed.
Too many and he would not see the forest for the Elm.
He laughs at all the traffic, does his best to keep in lines.
He does not want to crash somewhere, or end up in the vines.
As long as he is traveling along free as a bird,
and leaving, in his journeys, little more than just his word.
Esca Webuilder is a poet of the Internet. One who recently passed by was Candice Louisa Daquin, a woman now living in San Antonio, TX.
A Dirty, Sci-Fi Buddha
by Ibe Ware Desu, LC
He is a dirty sci-fi buddha, filthy in the main,
a novelist who seeks the truth, though it be touched with pain,
a private man, avoiding pictures in this selfie age,
an author of dystopia and subtle camouflage.
He spent ten years within the military, but was not
“a sex-nuts, strong, [and] roided-out, Bin-laden wasting stud”,
nor was he a “fat, whiny…pencil-pusher, high-and-tight…
who lived to yell” to make sure uniforms and hair were right.
Refreshingly he does not want to be thanked for his term,
but notes minutiae are what will help one through life’s storm.
Ibe Ware Desu, LC, is a poet of Zen, and Lieutenant Commander of the spaceship Wedelca Ebusir.
Reprise: Stanley Martin Lieber (1922-2018)
by Wic E. Ruse Blade
I still remember reading comics at the barbershop,
when I was young and waiting to receive a quick-click crop.
Away from all the mundane thought of ordinary life,
I would Ess Cape into each superhero’s urban flight,
like Superman or Spider-Man, Green Lantern, Batman—there!
I knew Bruce Wayne was Wise; I followed him through Template Square.
I would absorb the brutal world that lurked behind each scene
and read the bubbled, printed, coloured, brief-speak dream machine.
Today I hear that Stan Lee has flown off and out the door.
I pray that he enjoyed the trip. So long. Excelsior.
Two Comic-Strip Heroes
by Wic E. Ruse Blade
“…refuse to be weak. Push as hard as you can.”
It was as if two comic strips had dovetailed into one,
the spotlight on the brown, wood fence, a white, gold, scarlet sun.
Bruce Wayne as Batman bumping in to Clark Kent Superman,
crimefighters pausing for a moment from the battle plan,
attempting to attain a piece of sweet utopia,
mysterious, in misty blues, amidst dystopia.
They had a BS sesh between the two of them right there,
comparing notes on crime and life in the nocturnal air.
The car parked near a giant tree, near eerie aqua light,
utility poles in the distance, shades of death and blight.
Amidst disguises, masks, boots, capes, lurked something genuine,
there holding on, for all their worth, to that most tenuous.
Wic E. Ruse Blade is a swashbuckling poet, who enjoyed the films of Errol Flynn as a kid, as Stan Lee also did.
A Rising Star
I only saw him briefly, from a distance, from afar;
but I could see he was indeed an up and rising star.
In white shirt and smart tie, precariously balanced there,
upon a golden seat, ideal in the open air.
Perhaps he’d come to this fine place at motivation’s urge;
perhaps he’d come to face the jerk he needed most to purge.
The countryside was beautiful. he loved to take it in.
He loved to go out in its routes, to take a scenic spin.
I barely saw him, passing by, there where the sunlight beats,
but wished him luck, beyond the truck, beyond the city streets.
Erisbawdle Cue is a poet of philosophy.
by “Wired Clues” Abe
At the RV lot,
towering, with folded wings,
a giant pigeon
in red, white and blue, stars and stripes,
fastened by firm, black cables.
“Wired Clues” Abe is a poet of Japanese poetic forms and New Millennial technology.
by “Birdee” Euclaws
Beside the paved road,
poking through littered garbage,
are two large vultures.
A Gentle Touch in Winter
by “Birdee” Euclaws
It was late afternoon, when we were hanging at the house.
We heard a dining window “clunk”. From rest we were aroused.
It was a dark brown bird that landed right-side-up, but out.
And plopped, it didn’t move at all. It didn’t flap about.
The temper’ture was dropping, and the light was fading fast.
At freezing, stuck, it did not look like it was gonna last.
My love proceeded to construct an opened cardboard guard,
and wrapped a blanket round its lodged space, frozen, cold and hard.
And though, the temper’ture fell down below a bitter freeze,
in morning ice, roof lifted off, out burst the bird…re-leased.
“Birdee” Euclaws is a poet of the avian world.
The Man Upon the Bed
R. Bed Lie Curesaw
Although he never knew it, he was closer to the edge
than he had ever thought, not when he was up in a jet;
but when he was upon the Earth, in bed, his legs up, crossed.
He’d no idea, even resting, he was tempest tossed,
his body’s many cells, created and destroyed—again.
How many worlds had he traveled through and to back then?
He’d lived through many lives, though it was really only one,
and always part of something great…er, he remained alone,
and ever searching for his home, though not the place he left,
while ever going, though not knowing, to the place he fled.
Time to Go to Bed
by Bed Lie Curesaw
The night had come and it was time to go to bed for him.
He got upon the poofy mattress, O, it was his gym.
Beside the headboard by the pillows, he had placed his head.
O, he was comfortable there, content to be in bed.
He stretched his legs out to the edge, his arms next to his sides.
He felt the sheets beneath his hands. He let himself unwind.
Although his lips were open, he was breathing through his nose.
Perhaps he’d snore, or snort a bit, and maybe twitch his toes.
The gods of night embraced him there; he felt so good, at ease.
Though troubles followed him to sleep. the beast was now appeased.
Bed Lie Curesaw is a poet of sleep.
by I Warble Seduce
Those eyes, those lovely, gorgeous eyes, that shine so beautif’lly,
so mesmerizing and enticing, penetrating too.
Those eyes, those lovely, gorgeous eyes, that draw me in so deep,
that I would love to gaze at them, forever ecstasy.
Those eyes, those lovely gorgeous eyes, a wonder to behold,
beyond the realms of magic, very real, royal, gold.
Those eyes, those lovely, gorgeous eyes, like shining jewels seen,
anticipating, fascinating, tacit-waiting sheen.
Those eyes, those lovely, gorgeous eyes, such depth of feeling felt,
that stir my inner being with their hypnotizing spell.
Those eyes, those lovely, gorgeous eyes; I could get lost in them;
such pools of love, o, shimmering, like diamond diadems.
The Beauty of the Morning
by I Warble Seduce
I love the beauty of the morning, slowly waking up,
reclining on the bedding still, like as a plumpish pup.
I love to feel its edges, as I turn upon my side,
as if I were beside the pretty contours of my bride.
I love the early morning in the beauty of its light,
those splendid and refining moments, feeling, o, so, right.
I love to open up my eyes, to come upon the dawn;
the captivating loveliness begins to overwhelm.
O, I would stay here for forever, ever on the wing,
so happy and content to be awake in revering.
I Warble Seduce is a poet of love. Beau Lecsi Werd notes that the rare adjective plumpish means well rounded and rolypoly, while the neologism revering meaning having reveries.
A Cup of Coffee
by Carb Deliseuwe
He longed to have a cup of coffee in the early morn,
before he’d take off for his work in boots and uniform.
He set the coffee cup upon the table where he sat,
the long and shiny, silver-gray one, firm, secure and flat.
His shadow on the gray wall was bent over at his cup.
He loved to taste, to sip; in fact, he loved to pick it up.
For it would pick him up and make him rarin’ just to go,
awakened, o, excited, yes, and readied for life’s show.
It focused him, without, within, that warm, brown liquid muck.
He’d git up off his seat, o, yeh, and go to town with pluck.
Carb Deliseuw is a poet of food and drink.
The Warehouse Worker
by Des Wercebauli
At work he did his very best, although he simply had
to keep tabs on the warehouse items, metal pole and pad.
He’d follow his instructions to the letter every time,
if he was getting dirty or if he was in the slime.
Sometimes he’d take a hose and clean up messes on the floor,
if necessary, scrub and mop, and get down on all fours.
He wore black work boots, safety straps, and all that was required.
He loved to work, to earn his money. O, that was desired.
Though his surroundings there were drab, it didn’t bother him.
If he was doing what was needed, he did it with vim.
Des Wercebauli is a poet of work
The US Budget Deficit in the Month of January 2020
by Brad Lee Suciew
The Argentines say they will not pay back their debt accrued,
until in August, when they will begin to pay anew.
But th’ US Budget deficit continues every month;
it worsens as the very persons who could halt it don’t.
In January of this year, Americans spent more
than they took in, by $30,000,000,000 plus some more.
Social Security and Medicare were at the top,
those followed by Defense and Health, the numbers will not stop.
The Int’rest was some $30,000,000,000 on its own,
Americans still pay, but how much longer—no one knows.
Brad Lee Suciew is a poet of business, economics, and accounting. What Americans spent their money on was, in billions: 1) Social Security, $91; 2) Medicare, $87; 3) National Defense, $53; 4) Health, $49; 5) Income Security, $39; 6) Net Interest, $32; 7) Veternas’ Benefits, $18; 8) Education, $12; 9) Transportation, $7; 10) Other, $17. Where Americans got their money from was, in billions: 1) Individual Income Taxes, $217; 2) Social Insurance and Retirement, $121; 3) Corporation Income Taxes, $10; 4) Miscellaneous, $9; 5) Customs Duties, $7; 6) Excise Taxes, $6; 7) Estate & Gift Taxes, $2.