by “Wired Clues” Abe
A Suga appears
as an Abe goes away,
so nice and quiet.
“Wired Clues” Abe is a poet of modern Japan
Across the Globe
by Usa W. Celebride
There’s violence across the Globe; no place free from its hell,
including in the USA, and Germany as well;
And yet of all the nations in the World, as of now,
those are the countries migrants most want to get to somehow.
Not many want to go to Communist dictatorships,
like China, North Korea, those upon that hated list.;
nor do they seek out the totalitarian regimes,
like Syria, Arabia, Iran and vile schemes.
Across the Globe the freedoms of the people are attacked.
When will the human race be free to speak, to think, to act?
Usa W. Celebride is a poet of America.
“I Am Taiwanese.”
By Si Celebrade Wu
A senior Czech official has invoked a Cold War phrase
of John Fitzgerald Kennedy, when he was in Taipei.
In 1963 when JFK was in Berlin,
he said, “I’m a Berliner”, solidarity within.
Remembering his past, when Communists had crushed his land,
and all his people had been under tyranny’s command,
the speaker Miloš Vystrčil directly made his speech,
concluding it with anti-Chinese, “I am Taiwanese”.
Of course, it irked the Chinese Communists who think that they
control Taiwan, and only want its people to obey.
Si Celebrade Wu is a poet of independent Taiwan.
Another Chinese Provocation
By Lu “Reed ABCs” Wei
Late August, Chinese Communists provoked a new assault
upon the Line of Actual Control. They had to halt.
The troops from India pushed back Chinese belligerents,
the Indians expecting them due to due diligence.
Upon the southern bank of Pagong Tso, Red Army troops
had to retreat when Indians had beat them to the punch.
The Communists were outmaneuvered, so they could not stay,
despite aggressive shots illuminating up Depsang.
Among the Himalayan peaks, up high in azure sky,
it seems the Bengal Tiger poked the Dragon in its eye.
Lu “Reed ABCs” Wei is a poet of Chinese imperialism.
by Sri Wele Cebuda
He is a poet and a connoisseur of food, he says,
and has a longing for what is unique, from a to zed.
He is a young man with a youthful yen for yellow things,
from sunny honey sweet to yummy Indian cuisine.
You could see Shanyu, with a light-blue, fresh and icy drink,
which holds a bright and golden lemon slice upon its brink,
him smiling momentarily, while seated in a chair,
unlike Shan Yu, the Chinese warrior poet of despair,
who felt, in his psychotic way, that one would find oneself
in torturing and butchering, a fiend right out of hell.
Sri Wele Cebuda is a poet of India.
Down Firm upon the Floor
by Sri Wele Cebuda
He got into the lotus pose, down firm upon the floor.
He sat there at the corner flat. His boss had closed the door.
He spread his legs out to each side, He bent his knees as well.
He raised his head. He closed his eyes. His thoughts began to gel.
He longed to reach a heightened beach beyond work’s tedium.
His mouth was open in the form of OM, and he did hum/
He put his shoulders back and opened up his inner eye.
He felt as if that then he was a universal guy.
His head began to rise above his thighs. He stretched his neck.
He felt he had achieved nirvana, if but just a sec.
Sri Wele Cebuda is a poet of India. While holding “talks” with India, the Chinese Communists are deploying more troops and fighter jets along the LAC, and building new sites and 5G infrastructure networks.
It Has Begun Again
By W. Israel Ebecud
It has begun again—Kenosha, in Wisconsin—now:
a driveway of a synagogue spray painted by the crowd.
It was a Jewish place of worship in America,
“Free Palestine”, the subtext runs, get rid of Israel,
It has begun again—a silent Mainstream Media—
will go along, say naught, complicit and invidious.
It was a Jewish place of worship in America,
Degrade Beth Hillel Temple, for it is not our concern.
It has begun again—it’s not the first time in this year.
But who dare speak out for the Jews, the Jews and what they fear?
W. Israel Ebecud is a poet of Israel.
The Dying Gladiator
by Aedile Cwerbus
The dying gladiator, on his left elbow,
extends his right arm out to stave the pain away.
He leans upon his left thigh’s side, and cannot go;
he must remain transfixed upon that stone display.
His right knee’s up, as if he might escape his fate,
but his head leans to his left shoulder come what may.
He still has strength; and so he longs to lift his weight
from off that unforgiving horizontal plane;
but this he cannot do, and it is getting late.
Despite the strapped-up sandals on his feet, again
he will not rise. Though time is in slow motion, oh,
for him it matters naught; he fights against life’s grain.
Aedile Cwerbus is a poet of ancient Rome. The rhyme scheme of tjis bilding is ababcbcdcdad.
In Tallinn, in Estonia
By Adrus Webeceli
He lay upon the wooden bench out in the morning sun,
a Mensch who leaned upon his elbows near some leafy shrubs.
He cocked his head off to the right; one saw a subtle smile.
One wondered what he was about . He’d been there for a while.
His white and light-blue shirt was open at the collar there;
the pattern was a plaid criss-cross of latticed line and square.
Perhaps he was involved in spying in Estonia;
perhaps he sought a secret agent in, yes, phony love.
Nearby tan hills were sloping down to where the young Mensch sat.
One longed to know what he was up to and where he was at.
Adrus Webeceli is a poet of Estonia.
by Uwe Carl Diebes
He was a German chemist who investigated much:
emission spectra of the heated elements and such,
discovering in 1860 metal caesium,
and, with Kirchhoff in 1861, rubidium.
He helped create gas analytic method symmetry,
and also was a pioneer in photochemistry.
Likewise he studied carbon-arsenic compounds early on,
for use as fungicides and other applicated spawns.
With lab assistant Pete Desaga, he developed too,
his Bunsen burner, an improvement on what was in use.
Uwe Carl Diebes is a poet of Germany.
The Ebon Fox
by Bud “Weasel” Rice
I saw him standing in the hall, an upright, ebon fox,
In black cap and black tee, down to his black shoes and black socks.
He paused before the opening into the living room,
And stretched his arms and shoulders, slim and trim as any groom.
He seemed associated with a horse, no paladin,,
but rather more like polo player on a field’s span.
He came into the dining room to have a cup of tea
with some sliced cookies, almonds and cranberries mixed in sweet.
His cheeks indented, chin quite firm, eyes narrowed to a point;
he would not be the one whom other men would e’er anoint;
and yet there was about him that which indicated strength
about his temples and his face—o’er his entire length.
Bud “Weasel” Rice is a poet of wildlife.