by Birdee Euclaws

Even there and then
in a World of grief and pain
the blurbling birds sing.


          by “Lice Brews” Ueda

A swirling flurry—
skinny skittering crane flies—
worry-free and s/light.


          by “Lice Brews” Ueda

Drinking tea alone,
scrolling for news on the phone:


These haiku of Birdee Euclaws and “Lice Brews” Ueda draw from Kobayashi Issa (1763-1828). Beau Lecsi Werd states the neologism, the verbal “blurbling”, suggests short, bubbling singing.


Doctor WHO?
          by Baidu Wercs Lee
          “From whence came this coronavirus plague?/ Wuhan’s the place.”
              —Wilude Scabere, from his play “Coronavirus Blues”

The WHO has praised Beijing’s response to COVID-19’s spread,
despite the fact of all the many thousands that are dead.
The Chinese first detected it November 17,
then tried to hide the outbreak, whistleblowers silencing.

A study by Southampton University found they
could have prevented 95% o’ th’ Wu Flu plague,
since China put their secrecy above confronting truth,
and still refuses to acknowledge all they did not do.

And WHO was covering for them—the Chinese Communists—
at first denying humans spread the Wu Flu—there’s no risk—
and when conceding it was possible, WHO played it down,
and of asymptomatic transfers claimed there was some doubt.

WHO cast doubt too the Wu Flu came from Chinese animals,
commending China’s attitudes—No, they weren’t damnable.
In March, the Chinese claimed it came from US Army plans.
To call it Chinese, WHO said, it would stigmatize the land.

WHO even said that China had contained the dread disease,
believing data sanctioned by the tyrant Xi Jinping.
We are so lucky to have WHO’s great information wealth,
to know that they are working overtime for World health.

Baidu Wercs Lee is a poet of China and the Internet. WHO (pronounced “who” in the poem) is the World Health Organization. Doctor Who is an ongoing, iconic BBC sci fi show.


Space-Time Travel
          by Sri Wele Cebuda

He got onto that poofy sofa, sinking in to it.
Without a doubt, ah, yes, it was a perfect place to sit.
He settled in to it, and spread his legs and bent his knees.
For spirit, mind and body, this was just the place to please.
He started humming as he plumbed the depths of consciouness.
His inner eye was opening to luscious launches, yes.
Like as a rocket soaring through the Universal Flux,
o, smoothly, and so frictionless, there were no bumps or skuffs.
A con-toured road before him rose, space-time in massive mound;
each way he looked, he overtook, each one but to astound.

Sri Wele Cebuda is a poet of consciouness.


Sri Alwin Aanerin
          by Sai Deebec Wurl

Sri Alwin Aanerin, well-mannered man and fan of God,
rode through the Internet and wrote brief blurbs upon his blog.
Like as a butterfly, he flew about abit aflit,
and lingered only briefly on each site that he might hit.
A glimmering, ah, flapping past, so paper-thin and fast,
like as a colourful idea, sweet while it will last.
Disarming, charming fellow following his latest whim,
whose thoughts are very hard to catch, so quickly do they skim.
But when one spots him zipping by beneath a brilliant sky,
one’s glad—if only briefly—to have caught him in one’s sye.

Sai Deebec Wurl is a poet of the whirl and colour of India.


Black Tea from Sri Lanka
          by Esala “Cu” D’ Abrew

These days I start each day in this coronapocalypse
with black tea from Sri Lanka—licking, lapping, happy lips.
Amidst this economic storm, shut in and out of touch,
one wants to find enjoyment, even if there’s not that much.
I love the feeling of the warm tea going down my throat,
more than some resp’ratory blow-out and capsizing boat.
The sunshine travels through the windows by my monitor;
so beautif’lly it stretches o’er the olive carpet floor.
I sneeze a bit and think about each brand new day of news,
and as I do, it’s black tea from Sri Lanka that I choose.

Esala “Cu” D’ Abrew is a poet of Sri Lanka.


Brahms Waltz in A-Flat Major, Opus 39, 15
          by Ewald E. Eisbruc

Brahms Waltz in A-Flat Major, Opus 39, 15,
is an extr’ordinary musical gem—shimmering.
Its mood is gentle, easy, sweet and flowing, flowering,
so quiet, quaint and calm, yet simply overpowering.
Its opening, a soft and floating ripple, rises to
detached articulated elegance, a lovely tune.

In its brief span its phrasing never breaks into a run;
grace notes appear in bars 3, 17 and 31;
accompanied arpeggios and triplet quavers add
to its poised, textured delicacy’s subtle character,
a triple meter trippingly attaining th’ optimal,
a balanced, fine display, breathtaking, stunning, classical.

Ewald E. Eisbruc is a poet of German music, in this case Johannes Brahms (1833-1897).


Fated Like Dane Hamlet
          by Wilude Scabere

To be or not to be outdone by Hamlet he would be
all dressed in black from top to bottom, o, and in between.
He wore black cap, black tee shirt, down to black socks and black shoes.
Beneath his pants he even wore black underwear, forsooth.
He stood up at the entrance of Valhalla’s hallowed hall.
He thought to speak to Thor; though he be lowly cannonball.
Like low-keyed Loki, he was quite a jake and ruse-filled guy,
who longed to play some blackjack, heavenly—beyond the sky.
But, o, he too was fated like Dane Hamlet in a part,
he really did not want to end, o, ler alone to start.

Wilude Scabere is a poet and literary critic of British literature.


He Just Dropped Out
          by “Wild” E. S. Bucaree

I woke this morning with the sunrise shining down on me,
and heard that Kenny Rogers left last night on Friday eve.
I found my mind in a brown study, bagged by shuttered blind,
and tripped upon a cloudy shroud that left me here behind.
I tore myself away from jagged thoughts that made me spin,
to check out the condition my condition now was in.
I kept my soul in a deep, dark hole—O, I was staying home—
although there was nobody here, and I was all alone.
I crawled back in to bed due to coronapocalypse.
Uptight and out of sight I would not soon be leaving this.

“Wild” E. S. Bucaree is a poet of Texas and country music. His favourite Kenny Rogers (1938-2020) song was “Just Dropped In (to See What Condition my Condition Was In) of 1968.


Goldman’s Conference Call: the Ides of March, 2020
          by Brad Lee Suciew
          “Beware the ides of March.”
              —William Shakespeare, the soothsayer in “Julius Caesar”

On Sunday, Goldman’s conference call, via VME,
told 1500 companies and clients, sev’ral things.
Half of Americans will get the virus is their bet;
it’s so communicable, like the flu so many get.
Peak-virus is expected o’er the next eight weeks or so,
and after that the numbers will decline; it dislikes cold;
especi’lly as it’s concentrated, so far in this year,
within a band located in the northern hemisphere.
Of those impacted most will be found at the early stage,
but deaths will come to the immunocompromised and aged.
Each year—US—3,000,000 die due to age and disease;
and so that number will arise, but overlappingly.
The quarantines are likely ineffective, but will slow
the rate, thus helping healthcare workers with an overload.
In China, the economy has been impacted so,
it will take half a year just to recover from the blow.
The Global GDP will be the worst in thirty years,
the S & P 500 down 15% —no cheers.
Domestic energy will take a hit from Russia’s ploy,
competing with them and the Saudis for shares they enjoy.
There’s no systemic risk. No one ‘s communicating that.
It seems less like 2008, more 9-11’s plat.
The market has been looking for a reason to reset
the longest bullish market in the US as of yet.

Brad Lee Suciew is a poet of business.


          by “Wired Clues” Abe

In the azure air,
bright gray utility poles,
rise high, towering,
above the vast, vacant lot
recently bulldozed, flattened.

“Wired Clues” Abe is a poet of New Millennial industrial scenes.