Each Generation
          by R. Lee Ubicwedas

Each generation, like a phoenix, rises up out of the ashes of the previous one; and it is transformed, though not without some interrup-tions, torn seams; for this is the law, nature’s command. How beautiful it is, the new replacing th’ old. It is both wonderful and sad to see. It’s grand; yet also filled with misery, as life’s unrolled. We all go through this. Maybe we will be aware, and will observe the great bird rising high and bold, its flaming, fiery wings spreading in the air, a shining treasure gleaming in a golden cup, before it dissipates into a deep despair… [or happily creates the future in its gulp].


          by R. Lee Ubicwedas
          “So much occurs within one year, one never can express it, let alone connect with one percent
          of it; and yet, oh, how we want to understand its power and its flowing hours—where they
              —Walibee Scrude

I saw that dark rat, 2020, chasing me,
harassing me, as I proceeded on my way.
I watched its long and slender body racing me,
and almost passing me, sidewinding through each day.
I’d shake my head with too much info overload,
its undulations whipping me up into a
wild frenzy, o, while sliding through tan, grassy fields.
I heard its vulgar whispers in my inner ear,
as it sloughed off another covered lover’s bed.
Yet it pressed on, its movement rectilinear,
and reared its horrid head. Where was it placing me?
I had to flee that vile rodent—skinnier.


At an Impasse
          by R. Lee Ubicwedas

He felt that he was at an impasse, stuck where he was at,
he felt a twinge, a pain, a pang; he was disconsolate.
Behind him were those many times he felt he had been wronged,
and all those troubles plaguing him that now seemed to be gone.
Before him stood the wall he felt that he could not get past.
If he could go no farther, how much longer could he last?
He pushed and pushed upon the wall, and yet it would not move.
He put a brave face on. What else was there for him to do?
Perhaps connected to a mighty force, some thing would give;
and he would have a chance to go forth, o, and truly live.

R. Lee Ubicwedas is a poet of wherewhen. His first prose-poem contains 144 syllables, the second poem is a bilding [sic], and the third is a tennos.


          by “Wired Clues” Abe

Extremely gleaming,
in th’ early morning commute,
glinting in the eyes,
sunlight off car back windows,
brighter than diamonds sparkling.

“Wired Clues” Abe is a poet of technology combined with Japanese poetic forms.


Hoar Winter Yields Its Place
          Birdee Euclaws

They’re back again, the morning doves, they’ve flown up to their north.
So slowly, but assuredly, the Spring is coming forth.
Though lawns be wet from recent rains, and snows just melted too,
though cold outside, the sun appears in skies of pale blue.
The turkey buzzard cleans the streets, the hawk soars through the sky.
They’re searching for some meat to eat, some rabbit on the sly.
The people scoot about in cars, occasionally bike.
Though winds are brisk, it’s still too crisp, to go and fly a kite.
Hoar Winter slowly yields its place to warm and hopeful Spring.
As caroling is fading, one can hear sweet yodeling.

Birdee Euclaws is a poet of birds, changing seasons, and the landscapes birds inhabit.


Covid-19’s Spread
          by Dr. Weslie Ubeca

WHO warned the Globe it should prepare for covid-19’s spread.
Each day we hear that cases rise. Each day there are more dead.
Japan’s Shiseido told employees they should work from home.
The tourists now confined are told they won’t be let to roam.
Th’ afflicted rise in South Korea, just as in Japan.
The deaths are up in Italy, as well as in Iran.
There is a shortage of good masks, protective gloves and clothes.
Globalization’s under an assault. More borders close.

The cases have passed 80,000, China with the most.
The deaths are now at over 2700 souls.
Leaked documents, however, tell a diff’rent story that
Chinese infections have gone up more than that number—STAT.
The numbers grow across the Globe, from Thailand to US,
from Vietnam to Germany, from Canada to France.
From Singapore to Lebanon, from Finland to Kuwait;
the covid-19 cases climb; from Sweden to Bahrain.

First cases came to Switzerland, Algeria and Spain,
Croatia, Austria, Iraq, United Emirates,
Brazil and Pakistan, and, too, North Macedonia,
Greece also, and as well a person from Mongolia.
Bond yields dropped to yearly lows; stocks dropped with currency..
If this is not now a pandemic, why th’ emergency?
Not everyone is tested; one can’t really know the stats;
and countries that suppress their numbers cannot know the facts.

Dr. Weslie Ubeca is a poet of medical info.


The 50¢ Army
          by Lu “Reed ABCs” Wei

The Chinese Communist regime, has recently dispatched
some 1600 online trolls to stifle and to catch.
The censors want to stop all sensitive materials,
especi’lly those relating to coronavirus tales.
The Chinese Communist regime does not want bloggers to
blog stories on the Internet from their own point of view.
The censors are quite sensitive to stories some may tell.
They must not let its netizens describe their local hell.
The trolls, known as the Army 50¢, have been unleashed
continuously they are tracking dread forms of free speech.


A Moment in Shanghai
          by Lu “Reed ABCs” Wei

He sat beside the high skyscrapers towering
at the white-blue rectangular pool, brightly lined
in light—the elder agent, old and glowering,
his shoulders back behind his back to his behind,
his swim suit light blue, like his mood and attitude,
his radar ears out large and wide. What will they find?
his hair cut short and water-slick. Will it be good?
His feet are dangling in the silvery wetness.
He’s miles away from everyone—that lonely dude.
He seems to be a specimen of fierce fitness.
It’s time to leave the pool and do his showering.
One wonders what is going through his retinas

Lu “Reed ABCs” is a poet of China.


Fang Bin and Chen Qiushi?
          by Bic Uwel, “Erased”

Where are Fang Bin and Chen Qiushi? They have disaappeared,
recording dozens of reports as covid-19 neared.
O, don’t forget the brave truth-tellers, keeping us informed,
despite the thought-police that have around such candor swarmed.
Beijing has gone to great lengths to track down the honesty
on Twitter, WeChat, other formats, letting people see
WHAT”S GOING ON both in Wuhan and all around the Globe.
How can the naked Emperor disguise he has no robe?
And now in Xiantao word has gone out to stop all tweets
that do not tow the Party line and propaganda sweeps.


Beside the Masonry
          by Bic Uwel, “Erased”

Beside the tall, stone masonry, two men were loitering.
The sunlight filtered over them in shadows glittering.
Were these two soldiers trying to relax, just hanging out?
or were they spies, transferring messages, who scoop and scout.
The taller man was dressed in black, the other, black and white.
They stood there in deep seriousness; there was no delight.
There was no plant in sight—cement and stonework, rising steps—
there didn’t seem to be anything else they should address.
A dangling, short, white rope was hanging down in deference;
but if it was a clue, I couldn’t tell the difference.

Bic Uwel, “Erased”, is a poet of the missing. He feels uneasy whenever he reads “Lost”, a short story by Postmodernist Polish-American writer Isaac Bashevis Singer (1902-1991).


In an Australian Outback Pub
          by Walibee Scrude
          “He just smiled and gave me a Vegemite sandwich.”
—Colin Hay, Men at Work, “Down Under”

The pub was dark and poorly lit, a place to get a drink,
to take a pause from all the heat, a place upon the brink.
O, yes, it was—Australia—o, a place to sit upright,
despite the darkness and the lack of much electric light.
O, but it was so good to take a break out of the Sun,
and with a mate to share a brew away from everyone.
Some ice would be so nice, so cool, in such a land so hot,
the sunlight filtering inside that god-forsaken grot.
O, let me go back to that place—so many years ago,
as if it were another lifetime, and another, o!

Walibee Scrude is a poet of Australian settings and scenes.


Monday, in Ahmedabad
          by Sai Deebec Wurl

In India, Ahmedabad, 100,000 cheered,
“Namaste Trump” was on the stump with Modi, there endeared.
Motera is the World’s largest cricket stadium,
each taking turns before the crowd, there at the podium.
The energy, enthusiasm, was enormous, and
the thunderous applause repeated was both loud and grand.

As niceties were traded, there were helicopters bought,
more than $2,000,000,000 worth were sold when they were sought.
“He is a tough negotiator,” Trump said Modi was.
Then off to Taj Mahal they went amidst the crazy buzz.
There Hollywood met Bollywood. In Delhi protests raged.
Protesters stirred, indelibly, they would not be assuaged.

Sai Deebec Wurl is a poet of India. Ahmedabad is a city of approximately 6,000,000.


A Combination
          by Sri Wele Cebuda

He was a combination of two super-hero dudes,
Clark Kent, Bruce Wayne, disguised in New York City neighbourhoods.
He was a contemplative stud who studied to be good,
so powerful and mighty, hopelessly misunderstood.
But crude and rude as well, when meditating or in sesh.
For some he was too awkward and for others way too fresh.
In writing, touched with fantasy and ideality,
he still was grounded in the pounding of reality.
A cross between unhappiness and smug complacency,
where could he not go wandering in sheer, sweet vacancy?

Sri Wele Cebuda is a poet of enlightenment.


          by Darius Belewec

In all the history of siege warfare,
few can compare with Zopyrus,
who, as an advisor to Darius,
the Persian ruler, did what few would dare
to bring about Babylon’s fall. There are
few who could ever be so devious
as this crazed, bold son of Megabyzus,
who cut off his own nose and ears and hair,
and then flogged himself, just so he could gain
entrance into Babylon, pretending
to hate Persia, Darius then sending
troops to staged places so he could attain
Babylonians’ faith in him again
and again, getting charge for defending
the city; but then later opening
the protective gates to the Persians’ bane.
It is said Darius would have preferred
to see Zopyrus unhurt, uninjured,
than twenty more Babylons. This occurred
in the Histories of Herodotus.

Darius Belewec is a pot of Persia. Zopyrus (c. 500 BC) was a Persian military figure; Darius was the Persian Emperor. . This poem is so whack out, I wouldn’t try to analyze it; but I do aver I wasn’t in a “Kombi on a hippie trail with a head of Zombie”.


A Fan of God
          by Crise de Abu Wel

Upon the black mat on the floor, he was a fan of God.
He got into the lotus pose beside the silver wall.
He felt like as he had come to the future spread out wide
before him on a magic carpet o’er the countryside.
Dressed all in black, from vest to shoes, but not Prince Hamlet, no.
He spread his legs out to each side and bent his knees below.
O, he was awed, o, yes, though he could not see Him at all;
he felt like he was in the presence of Almighty God.
It seemed like as time was a giant squeezed accordion.
He bowed his head before his Lord, and prayed accordingly.

The Last Supper: From Matthew 26: 20-25
          by Crise de Abu Wel
          “I had no thought at all about my own reward.
          I really didn’t come here of my own accord.”
              Tim Rice, “Damned,” Jesus Christ Superstar

When it was evening, Jesus sat at the table
with twelve disciples, eating. As they ate, he said,
“Oh, truly, this I say to you. One of you will
betray Me.” They were very sad and dumbfounded.
Each there at once did say to Him, “Is it I, Lord?”
He answered, “He who ‘s dipped his hand where we have fed,
he will betray Me. This occurs with God’s accord,
as it is written; but woe to that man by whom
the Son of Man has been betrayed, his word’s a sword;
for it would have been better far if never womb
had borne him.” Judas asked, “Is it I, Master?” ill
at ease. Then Jesus spoke, “You have said so—to Me.”

Crise de Abu Wel is a poet of the Good Father and the Anointed One.


          by Dicase Lebweru

It is so beautiful, it rises high above the plain,
magnificent, so splendid, o, a wonder to attain.
But one can never have it, just experience its height.
O, what a grand colossal site, o, even in the night!
Its puissant power plagues my dreams. I waken then with fright!
But then its mighty pulchritude, o, makes me feel alright!
O, climbing up its gentle slopes, the mountain beckons me,
as if I’ve come at last to some fine final reckoning.
O, let me howl, like as hyenas and the jackals might,
with crazed delight to sense it there against the starry light!

by Dicase Lebweru
          “I know that I must do what’s right, as sure as
          Kilimanjaro rises up like Olympus above the Serangetti”
              —Toto, “Africa”

With three volcanic cones, Mawenzi, Kibo and Shira,
Kilimanjaro rises at th’ edge of Tanzania.
It is the highest point in Africa—that giant pearl!
It is the highest, o, free-standing mountain in the World!
Its peak’s the fourth most topographically prominent
aft 3) Denali, 2) Aconcagua and 1) Everest.
The first to reach its summit were the German mountaineers,
Hans H. J. Meyer and his partner Ludwig Purtscheller—
those climbing pioneers, then back in 1889.
What were they looking for up there—a trace of the divine?

Dicase Lebweru is a poet of East Africa.


Edmund Husserl
          by Erisbawdle Cue

Husserl was the father of phenomenology.
He hurled his ideas out in the last century.
He made important contributions to philosophy,
those near realms of psychology and sociology.
In logic focusing upon intentionality,
as well as propositions and indexicality.
He emphasized life conscioness and singularity,
withholding judgment, bracketing, noema, epoché,
the Lifeworld, empathy and intersubjectivity,
transcendent ideality in objectivity.

Erisbawdle Cue is a NeoAristotelian poet of philosphy. Edmund Husserl (1859-1938) was a Modernist German philosopher and student of Weierstrass. Frege called his “Philosophy of Arithmetic” a “devastation.”


Reprise: João Azevedo, or Johnny Salvatore
          by Luis de Cawebre

His hands were folded, lower fingers, they were intertwined,
his index fingers pointed upwards, like a church’s spire.
He wore a black and bulky sweater, dark shades on his eyes,
and he was sitting for a pic, surprisingly inside.
Although it looked like he was at a window on the world,
it seemed more like a picture of a garden realm unfurled.
He seemed like Ferdinand Pessoa transposed to this clime,
as if, amidst the misty madness, he was here to rhyme
in English or in Portuguese, in eddies of sublime,
João, or Johnny, Azevedo, poet caught in time.

I found a bottle in the sea, the oceans are a mess;
inside it had a message, which I read I must confess.
Its words, like waves of the Atlantic lapping Portugal,
like as typed telegraphic paths in telepathic graphs,
splashed there, upon the rocks in foamy anapestic din,
and flew like flocks of alexandrines scattered in the wind.
I looked around to see where it came from, but could not see
naught but a single fishing boat and net upon the sea.
I saw a crowbard on its deck and literary chains
that hung in neo-realist-romantic tangent planes.


Lines on the Spring of João-Maria
          by Luis de Cawebre

O, Lord, at times, the World is too wonderful for me.
I long to be relieved of it, and its blind ecstasy.
O, let me flee the mountains and the lovely filatures,
mulberries, bromeliads, all of nature’s furniture,
snapdragons and the hyacinths and gorgeous frilling path,
the utter beauty of the pages of its Caliath.

O, Lords, at times, the World is too horrible for me.
I long to be relieved of it, and its blind misery.
O, let me flee the taurobolium at once, o, please,
the horrid zenith of such sacrifice and wretched scenes.
I long to flee the long and narrow seif dunes flush with sand,
eroding flows through hollowed holes of rocks in wringing hands.

O, Lord, spare me the waves on waves of waves implacable.
I long to be relieved of them, and their blind lack of love.
O, let me flee the hailstones of harsh eternity,
ice-covered rime, the heart-felt rhyme, the turning galaxy,
the darting hares in meadows, and the bead-touched blades of grass.
I’d give all that environs me a magic Caliath.

O, Lord, let me become for once a patina of dust,
above your ferity, like as a starry sweep nonplussed.
O, let me flee geometry and its excessive joys,
unfettered, and there flickering, in fumbled stillest noise;
for this is but discolouring; there’s more than only this:
dis-man-tl-ing, dis-co-ver-ing, and dis-a-ppear-ing bliss.


          Luis de Cawebre

He was born in a rural village, 1995,
along the outskirts of Lisboa. Ah, he was alive.
The town was small, illusory, a distance from the sea,
replete with holly, cork oaks, and occasional pear tree.
He was the child of a seamstress and a carpenter,
itself enough to be auspicious and an harbinger.
Arriving from the space beneath his thoughtful solitude,
he joined humanity in lassitude, ineptitude.
Eleven on, he bought the cheaper English books to read,
absorbing, and recording his concerns—sheer poetry.

Luis de Cawebre is a poet of Portugal. Though I imagine he is not famous or known, and though his English is always slightly off, I cannot help but think that he is one of the purest poets of this era. And though what I am striving for in English poetry, is not what he is striving for, when I read his words, I am always reminded of Pessoa; and I love his English more than most of the writers of our time. The only reason I can think of why I love his poetic prose so much, is that he has a great soul.


Nasty Jake Takes a Pause
          by R. Lee Ubicwedas

O, nasty Jake, he took a break from working on his job.
O, he was looking forward to a well-earned, yearned-for, pause.
He walked on over by a couch, hobnobbing with a yob.
He wasn’t sitting, only quitting for a little prop.
O, nasty Jake, he had an ache; he wanted easing it,
which he could do if he could pause here with the yob a bit.
He stood up tall, then stretched himself, and rubbed his muscles some.
He wanted so to get back to an equilibium.
O, nasty Jake, he was a rake, but he had urges too.
Sometimes he wanted just to purge his aches to be renewed.

R. Lee Ubicwedas is a poet of unknown areas of the Universe. One of the reasons he enjoyed the acting of the late R. Lee Ermey, was because his acting seemed so real.


The Savage
          by “Wild” E. S. Bucaree
          “The Savage interrupted him, ‘But isn’t it natural to feel there’s a God?'”
              —Aldous Huxley, “Brave New World”

I saw him standing up to all the powers that be…there,
although he felt like as a savage up against a bear.
His curvy tat designs upon his arm contrasted with
the suit-and-tie offensive of the office—pungent pith.
I thought he was amazing for his dauntless arrogance,
his rugged, stalwart pluck, and his straight-as-an-arrow stance.
But what chance did he have against the press of destiny?
the overwhelming puissance of relentless energy?
I pondered what he’d get by kissing kismet forcefully.
Would he be left with nothing but an empty husk of love?

“Wild” E. S. Bucaree is a poet of freewheeling energy.


The HVAC Worker
          by Des Wercebauli

The dude was quite a trooper, super-duper, all the way.
He’d fix the heat or air-conditioning most any day.
No matter who the customer, he’d work for her or him.
and he would do each job he faced with vigour and with vim.
He’d get up in the early morn and start to work at light,
and he would work until the weest hours of the night.
He said what was his ol’ bod’ for, if not for helpin’ folks
get through the day, get through the night, get through fate’s constant pokes.
Though many treated him with pent-up anger, bile or rage,
he treated them as if a king or queen and he a page.

Des Wercebauli is a poet of labour.


An Early Morning Cup of Coffee
          by Carb Deliseuwe

An early morning cup of coffee is so wonderful,
it picks one up, it gits one going, like a thunderball.
One sips upon one’s silver cup and savours the caffeine.
From sleeping, it wakes one up to such tasty flavouring.
Who doesn’t want to drink it up—that nectar of the gods?
Who would not joy in joining to its aromatic prods?
It helps one feel the ecstasy of ordinary life.
It leaves one happy and content. O, one’s so satisfied.
O, bring another cup to sup, to sip, to slurp, to please,
o, whether one is standing tall, or seated on bent knees.

Carn Deliseuwe is a poet of food and drink.