The Nurses Go To Work
          by Dr. Weslie Ubeca
          for Maia

She was an OR nurse—Louisiana now her base—
so lovely, o, so beautiful in spirit, heart and face.
She felt it was her duty to help Wu Flu patients out.
What was her task? Where was her mask? Must she do this without?
She thought this was all hands on deck. She had her chance to help.
She missed Katrina years ago; now she could join this hell.
Bureaucracies, officialdom, unhelpful media:
Would she survive the shameful rush and the expedience?
O, sing their praise across this land, from Texas to New York,
from Florida to Washington, the nurses go to work.

Dr. Weslie Ubeca is a poet (not a doctor) of medicine. The goddess Maia (nursing mother) was found in both Greek and Roman myths. Maia is a possible etymology of the month May. What he doesn’t get is why hospitals aren’t working harder for nurses and getting them proper covid equipment. We owe all the workers in the medical field our grateful appreciation…and more.


          by “Clear Dew” Ibuse

The rosebud opens.
April is the cruelest month.
Shantih. Shantih. Shh…

“Clear Dew” Ibuse is a haikuist of nature. This haiku uses the opening and closing of “The Wasteland” by Modernist Anglo-American poet T. S. Eliot (1889-1965).


Haiku: April 7, 2020
          by Drew U. A. Eclibse

Ah, Super Pink Moon,
shining in uplifted skies—
this night’s finest prize.

Ah, Super Pink Moon,
it is true you too must pass
hurr’edly along.

Drew U. A. Eclipse is a poet of the moon. The second haiku draws from Japanese poet Matsuo Basho (1644-1694). A supermoon looks larger and brighter at perigee-syzygy.


A Mandarin in Black Eating an Orange Mandarin
          by Wu “Sacred Bee” Li

I saw him in the hallway, dressed in black from head to toe,
a mandarin was eating an or’nge mandarin up whole.
He loved its taste, he wouldn’t waste a single wedge of it.
He loved its citrus flavour, savouring each luscious bit.
The window light lit up his back; it shone with shiny glow.
His big head underneath his cap was turned to see that gold.
His big head turned off to the right to see the bedroom light;
agreeable gray, white-trimmed, narrow walls were in his sight;
dark pinkish, amber face and arms, above each long, curved leg,
paused there upon the floor, far from coronavirus plague.

Wu “Sacred Bee” Li is a mild mannered poet and literary critic of ancient Chinese literature. One of his favourite poet-painters is Wu Li (1632-1718) from whom he got his name.


The Meditator on the Mat
          by Sri Wele Cebuda

I saw him in the lotus pose, his knees bent to his sides,
like he was in for one most unforgettable of rides.
One hand was on his neck, the other out and to the left,
for balance in the universe, from which he had been cleft.
O, he longed to reach out into the cosmic canopy,
surrounding him upon his mat, o, lovely panoply.
His azure shirt hung loosely on his shoulders and his chest.
He looked to be comfortable, both moving and at rest.
He raised his head up to the sky, and kissed it on its lips,
while keeping all that stretching pressure on his open hips.

Outside the sun was shining, gorgeous scintillating light,
that bathed him in its beauty of shear shimmering delight.
The soft, green grass, the rugged shrubs, the white mist over all—
though of an ordinary height, o, he was feeling tall.
Inside upon the pale mat, he looked up high, in bliss,
although the look upon his face was very serious.
Short light-brown hair upon his head, and slight hair on his cheek
gave him a neat appearance, strong and masculine, but weak.
He wore a watch upon his wrist, but did not think of time.
He had quite nat’rally come in, o, to the sweet sublime.

The mat of pale violet, the wall of pale beige,
flew back away from him, as he surrendered to engage.
He reached out for the realm of gods, though only just a man,
and gave himself up totally to his Lord’s lofty plan.
The lattice window by his mat, though closed, was clear and clean,
as if it were a third eye opening upon the scene.
O, he was satisfied, uh huh, as he had never been,
like as a universal joint had suddenly come in,
and warmed him to a happiness that he had never known,
an unbelievably good place, a sweet ecstatic zone.


Despite Coronavirus Blues
          by Sri Wele Cebuda

He got into the lotus pose, while seated on his bed.
He stretched bent legs out to each side and lifted up his head.
He felt so peaceful there despite coronavirus blues.
Here was a moment to ignite a meditative fuse.
O, lovely rosebud, soft, pink posy, petals opening,
no thorny stems to touch, be pricked, no tricky gardening.
He hummed his OMG before the gates of heaven’s host.
He felt the full embrace of Father, Son and Holy Ghost.
He loved to open up to cosmic powers, strong and sure.
O, he was ready to enfold the future, true and pure.

Sri Wele Cebuda is a poet of India and meditation.


A Fragment
          Ercules Edibwa

My soul, o me, disturbed by sorrows inconsolable,
bear up and meet my foes, so base and dishonorable,
who never give me peace or victory’s sweet honeycomb,
but ever leave me here defeated in a heap at home.

My soul, o me, enjoy those things that truly bring delight.
Be happy and content to be elated in the night.
In hard times, grieve for ills received, conceived by stinging hives.
But not too much. Appreciate the rhythms of men’s lives.

For though I may not ever be fulfilled, at peace or ease,
at least while I’m alive I nonetheless can still be pleased.
For I will heal wounds no sooner with dour sappiness,
or make them last much longer by accepting happiness.


In Her Youth: Eva Xanthopoulos
          by Ercules Edibwa

When she was young and learning Greek, and learning her first words,
a small canary came to her, a singing yellow bird.
She learned to play the pear-shaped Cretan Lyra happily,
enough to play some lovely songs that she would gladly sing.
O, and she wrote right from the first, becoming PōeteX.
When she first drew, her drawings were somewhat Picassoesque.
She loved to ride her bike in fall and hear the fallen leaves
crunch underneath her tires as she passed sky’s azure eaves.
Her heart would jump out of her chest and head off to the moon,
while riding in the basket of a large hot-air balloon.

Ercules Edibwa is a poet of Greece. Eva Xanthopoulos is a contemporary poet.


The Man Stuck on the Bed
          by Uwe Carl Diebes

“Cough, cough.” He woke up from his sleep, like as an ugly bug,
stuck on his back, his flailing arms and legs above his mug.
He could not move from off his bed, as if he must stay put,
ignoble and immobile, uncontrolled each hand and foot.
He tried to rise up off the bed, but he could not get up,
as if he had been packed and tacked, an impish, simpy puck.
He ventured to turn over, and it took some time to do,
but when he did it, he was rooted on his guts like glue.
Some crazy, tattooed dude attempted getting him to rise,
but prodding him and shoving him did not work—no surprise.

And so that tattooed dude attempted getting up that git,
but he could only pull his chest and shoulders up a bit.
In that dim, unlit room, he floundered, like a fish on land,
but nothing he could do could help to get him up to stand.
“O, fuck,” he cried. “I’m stuck inside, and never will get out.”
He stayed there in his situation, hopeless as a doubt.
His gut was wrenched, his shoulders taut, his ass uptight and locked.
He felt as if he were a holy priest who’d been defrocked.
“O, God,” he cried out to his Lord, “I’ll never be released.
I’ll be stuck in this harsh embrace, a wild, vile beast.”

Uwe Carl Diebes is a poet of German literature. Here he ‘s drawing on the story “Die Verwandlung” (Metamorphosis) by Franz Kafka (1883-1924).


Deaths in the USA
          by Usa W. Celebride

To April 8th, coronavirus stats in the US—
about 400,000 cases, 14,000 deaths.
But there are many other causes in the USA;
in fact, there are more than 8,000 single deaths per day.
In our obsession with one cause, we’re overlooking some
of all the many other deaths, from here to kingdom come.
And economic figures can be glum in their own way;
with many having major hardships, since they cannot pay
their mortgages, apartment rent, and other bills they have,
as unemployment figures rise, and leave souls with no salve.

Usa W. Celebride is a poet of the United States of America.


The Truck Driver
          by Bruc “Diesel” Awe
          “When there’s a fork in the road, never go straight.”
              —the Motaur

He was so tired driving that he paused to take a rest.
His watch told him that he could stay a whi-le. He felt blessed.
Beside the steering wheel, he tried to make his seat a bed.
He stretched his legs out wide within the cab, and turned his head.
He closed his eyes, but still he was uncomfortable there,
his destination on his mind, his back up in the air.
He looked so squished, with little room to move where he was at,
his left arm a right angle, elbow bent in covered tat.
He wished he had some company, for he was all alone;
but social distancing his fate, coronavirus, o.


Two Truckers in a Barren, Urban Landscape
          by Bruc “Diesel” Awe

It was a barren, urban landscape truckers rested at;
one guy was sitting upright while one guy was lying flat.
The guy in shades, there lying, was not looking at the scene.
he didn’t seem concerned at all about what he could see.
Nearby, two trucks, long haulin’ giants, parked on the cement.
A distant bridge arced at the edge of their environment.
Off to their right, the seated dude could gaze upon the plants
along the gutter. But what was the colour of his pants?
Although both seemed relaxed, and spent, one sensed some tension there,
both parallel and perpendicular out in that air.

Bruc “Diessel” Awe is a poet of transportation. We owe a lot to the truckers, who keep on trekkin’ through the plague.


The Husky Driver
          by Eb “Walrus” De Ice
          “…the northern lights a-runnin’ wild in the land of the midnight sun”.
              Johnny Horton (1925-1960), “North to Alaska”

I saw him traveling the Yukon many years ago,
across the glistening and cool white avenues of snow.
O, there beneath Aurora Borealis palace dreams,
he drove his ginger-coloured husky over icy streams.
He pressed his husky on to Dawson in the midnight sun.
He mushed him onward through those hills, but at a steady run.
He steered that frisky, furry fellow through the darkest days,
as if he were Jack London hounded by the hardest haze.
He prodded, goaded, spurred and urged, behind him all the way,
and did not stop until he dropped into time’s lovely bay.

Eb “Walrus” De Ice is a poet of northern North America. Yukon, a province of Canada, has a population of about 40,000, Dawson is a town of about 1300. In 1898 it has a population of around 40,000 dur to the Yukon Gold Rush. Jack London (1876-1916) was an American Realist with some stories of the North, such as “Call of the Wild” and “To Build a Fire”.


Exercising in the New Norm
          Rudi E. Welec, “Abs”

He did his exercising on the bed in early morn.
It was important that he do them; this was the new norm.
And he must keep good form, as when he does knee raises, man.
He must bring thighs and knees as close to his chest as he can.
There is no reason wearing socks and shoes when on the bed;
but they can offer added weight when reaching past one’s head.
When doing planks, it’s so important everything ‘s aligned.
It takes great strength—all of one’s length—o, spirit, body, mind.
Endorphins may produce a feeling of euphoria;
though on life’s battlefield one gets little glory, ah!

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