by “Clear Dew” Ibuse
Hanging in the tree,
the green peach bobs in the breeze
beyond the white plum.
by “Clear Dew” Ibuse
The cat steps outside.
A large unknown bird swoops by.
Is it an omen?
“Clear Dew” Ibuse is a poet of Japanese poetic forms. Among the many names Basho went by was “green peach”. The Japanese prose and haiku writer Natsume Soseki (1867-1915), was the author who used a common house cat in his satirical novel I Am a Cat.
by E “Birdcaws” Eule
While reading World news,
unconcerned, on an oak branch,
a mourning dove coos.
E “Birdcaws” Eule is a poet of Japanese poetic forms, like haiku. He admires the poetry and prose of the Japanese poet Matsuo Basho (1644-1694).
by “Wired Clues” Abe
Lines of vehicles,
at motor speedway parking,
the next Pfizer shot?
by “Wired Clues” Abe
In the blasting wind,
scuttling down the paved street,
dry, crisp, brown oak leaves.
by “Wired Clues” Abe
towering high into sky,
electric spires rise.
“Wired Clues” Abe is a poet of technology in English, using Japanese forms.
The Death of a Poet
by Dr. Weslie Ubeca
Who will remember youthful poet Desiree Penrod,
who perished after taking it—a covid-19 shot?
And if that wasn’t bad enough, the hateful Facebook crowd
has taken off her posts of it. IT MUST NOT BE ALLOWED.
Her words are now VERBOTEN since they think they are “fake” news.
But Facebook’s tyranny’s not fake. It’s simply pure abuse.
Exhaustion, hurting arm, earaches, and stomach cramps—her words.
She cried, “The vaccine’s killing me!” She died soon afterwards.
Dr. Weslie Ubeca, not a medical doctor, is a poet of medicine.
by Walibee Scrude
He got into the lotus pose, It was out at the beach.
The Sun was shining on the sandy flat within his reach.
He perched upon a comfy spot, beside a wall of rocks.
He felt like as he was surrounded by some patient gods.
He bent his knees, he stretched his legs, his arms firm at his sides.
He looked off to his right to ride the sky and ocean tides.
He felt like as a surfer perched precarious…at sea.
The sunny rays poured over him. He longed to feel free…
to be at ease! o, yeah, He focused on his state of mind.
His inner eye was open. O, could he reach the divine?
Walibee Scrude is a poet of Oceania.
In an Hawaiian Dawn
by Cruse Wadibele
He got into the lotus pose upon a black divan.
He felt like as a black swan rousing in Hawaiian yawn.
He crouched against the black couch back, like as a Holy cow!
He slid upon the sofa’s surface, like a dhow’s slick prow.
He swam into eternity, a captain on the sea,
who steered his scow, from stern to bow, beyond, ah, ecstasy.
He stretched his torso, head and legs, and leaned upon the arm,
his meditation focusing upon the arching charm.
Perhaps if he could pull himself up from this seated spot,
he could rise high into the sky and fly into time’s flock.
Cruse Wasibele is a poet of Hawaii.
Eleven killed in Myanmar, Chinese factory burnt down,
as clashes with the military coup continue on.
UK has granted Nathan Law, the Hong Kong activist,
asylum in the country from the Chinese Communists.
by Sri Wele Cebuda
He got into the lotus pose upon the black divan.
From top to bottom dressed in black—this meditative man.
But he was quite alert; he raised his head and stretched his legs.
There was no rabbit in the grass, no Easter bunny eggs.
The cock crowed once, then twice and thrice. How could he let that
The sky was blue and lubed in orange, oxygen the gas.
Like as a patient etherized, he fell through dreams of pink.
Into the awesome cosmic OM his thoughts began to think.
He focused on the slap of mighty time’s hands at his lap;
but could he penetrate new realms of thought without an app?
Sri Wele Cebuda is a poet of meditation. At the White House, a Dr. Fauci-sized Easter bunny appeared; but not questions on the crisis at the border.
Two Yemeni Men
by Saudi Becrewel
Two Yemeni men have been apprehended recently
two terrorists who crossed the border individually.
Though on the watchlist of the FBI, they got across.
The question is how many more have Biden’s team now lost.
The agents, from El Centro Station, California, caught
both, one with SIM card in his shoe that someone somewhere bought.
Though one was on the NO-FLY list, US security.
states there’s no crisis at the border—NO EMERGENCY!
It is believed around a score of terrorists attempt
to cross the border every year. How many more will JET?
Saudi Becrewel is a poet of the Arabian Peninsula. Yemen is a nation of around 28,000,000 embroiled in an uncivil, civil war. Like Iran, the Biden administration is trying to get closer to the country.
Two Yemeni men from th’ Aradian Peninsula
were apprehended recently in California.
Just after publishing the information, Biden’s team
attempted squelching it. Why? due to high-tech tyranny?
How Beautiful It Is
by Dicase Lebweru
O, lo, how beautiful it is, the high, white mountain peak
Mount Kilimanjaro arises wide and so unique.
Some claim the Kiswahili name meant mountain of greatness,
which certainly it is arising in Tanzia’s mist,
while others claim it was the mount of whiteness shining bright,
in the Kikamba language, lit in early morning light.
Whatever is the case, and there are other proffered names,
its beauty is extr’ordinary, wonderful aflame.
The tallest mountain found in Africa, it rises high,
o, up into the overarching, charged electric sky.
So many hikers come, attempting its high, rising slopes.
Its view is so spectacular, this wide, white mount of hopes.
Dicase Lebweru is a poet of East Africa.
A Scene Seen a la Cristóbal de Virués
by Cawb Edius Reel
He was an actor in a play; step-ladder was his prop.
There waiting for his lines to say; he sat up at the top.
Dressed all in black, like Hamlet, with a band upon his arm,
though strong, he was no Hercules, though tough, he was no Mars.
Beset by vile villain in this vaudeville-esque revue,
like as a melodrama sentimentalist on cue.
There crouched in his fore-ordained niche, he faced the scoundrel’s
He had to ready his defense, for he was in his path.
On guard! he came forth with his fencing sword and buckler shield.
Would he be strong enough to hold. What would the combat yield?
Cawb Edius Reel is a poet of the theatre. Cristóbal de Virués (1550-1609) was a noted Valencian dramatist of El Siglo de Oro, who influenced the dramatist Lope de Vega (1562-1635).
The Brazilian Farm Worker
by Luc Ebrewe Dias
“Mit gelben Birnen hänget…”
—Friedrich Hölderlin, “Halfte des lebens”
He was one of the workers who had come to pick the crop,
in the Brazilian air, black tee, with bright white stag on top.
The grass was tan around the grove, where they had come to work,
the dappled light of shine and shade about their toil lurked.
In black shoes with white laces, one was leaning on the tree,
from which sweet fruit would be procured from it, o, carefully..
He focused on the gorgeous pears that dangled in the breeze,
right-angled and diagonal beneath the dark-green leaves.
Though he was so content there at his job, he wished that he
was leaner, meaner, rougher, tougher, stronger, more at ease.
Above, a plane flew overhead up in the blue-white sky;
and though he was quite sore when done, he felt a plucky guy.
Luc Ebrewe Dias is a poet of Brazil. Brazil now has about 4,000 Wuhan flu deaths a week, nearing the US peak. One should not blame the Lao Bai Xing (the ordinary Chinese people), when it clearly was all done by the Chines Communist Party, the greatest killing machine in history, led by Xi Jinping.
He Was a Wily Weasel
by Bud “Weasel” Rice
He was a wily weasel stalking through the shrubbery.
He sought some luscious flesh to catch, fresh, lush and blubbery.
His focus was aggressive and obsessive, firm and straight.
He longed to capture his next prey; he didn’t want to wait.
And so he slinked along so sneakily, so sly and lithe,
impatiently anticipating seeing his prey writhe.
He’d pounce upon the unsuspecting creature in his sight,
attacking from behind, and slamming it beneath his might.
He was a wily weasel managing to catch his prey,
so he could thrive, and thus alive, live for another day.
Bud “Weasel” Rice is a poet of the Animal Kingdom.
by Crise de Abu Wel
The sky is gray, but bright outside. There is one street-lamp on,
while going down, on Trinity, now in the afternoon.
The road is rough, filled with clay clumps, a truck’s huge trailer parked,
the houses incomplete and empty, new construction marked.
Portable toilets line the sidewalks, siding piles sit.
At Calvary, the change pronounced, is similarly lit.
There are no SUVs or vans. There are no people here,
a single semi tractor on the Be-All in the blear.
Around the Crimson Circle, empty houses are for lease.
One single car in one driveway is all the cars one sees.
Some voices fill the Garden, though one cannot see the Sun.
Here at the City’s edge one feels as if Time’s just begun.
Crise de Abu Wel is a poet of Christianity.