by “Clear Dew” Ibuse
Green leaves appearing,
at each twig’s triggered limb, send
the oak fluttering.
by “Clear Dew” Ibuse
In the warm sunshine,
the cat lounges in the lawn:
“Clear Dew” Ibuse is a poet of Japanese poetic forms. Among the many names 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 a house-top,
a mockingbird chants.
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 getting
next Wu flu vaccine.
by “Wired Clues” Abe
After next plague vax,
sleeping soundly through the night
“Wired Clues” Abe is a poet of technology in English, using Japanese forms.
by Dewie Lucas Erb
He was a poet loving herbs and flowers in his life.
The most he ever got was at his gravesite when he died.
Dewie Lucas Erb is a poet of flowers and herbs.
A Tale Told
by Eric Awesud Ble
O, I am Eric Awesud Ble, the heir to Eric Blair.
In 1950 I arose up in the open air.
There was no changing of batons, or changing of the guard,
just notice of the situation of the World at large.
The Scarlet Fever was arising, on East Asia’s shores,
to plague the people with disease, deceit and deadly wars
on mount, sea, tongue, wherever hung humanity’s fine forms.
The man of steel, with killing sock himself kicked up cold storms,
A chilling force arose to greet the people of the Earth.
The nasty camps had been replaced with ghoulish flog and hearse.
It was a tale full of sound and fury in the Sun
a tale told across the Globe affecting everyone.
Eric Awesud Ble is a poet fond of the prose of Modernist British prophet George Orwell (1903-1950).
Attuned to Cosmic Law
by Sri Wele Cebuda
Though he was in the military, in his army boots.
amidst decorum, conduct, duty and the flag salutes,
he got into the lotus pose; he wanted peace and poise.
He wanted not to be distracted by the constant noise.
He longed to be like Ram, though Krishna called to him as well;
he wanted to face heaven forcefully, and likewise hell.
So he would meditate whenever it made sense to him,
his boots spread out, his torso up, his energy marked vim,
while being centered, inner eye awake, alert to all
a human soul can ever be, attuned to cosmic law.
When Not in Innisfree
by Sri Wele Cebuda
He lay back quite contentedly on the white-sheeted bed,
His right hand lifted up, his left hand underneath his head.
The room was filled with light, a cactus in an earthen pot;
he felt like as he was within a beautiful, warm spot.
He got into a lotus pose to meditate on life,
the hustle-bustle passing hassle, stress, strain, struggle, strife.
He wished that he could reach a peach in his imagined tree,
but sweetest peace comes dropping slow when not in Innisfree.
He felt like there he was in heaven breathing freshest air.
But how long can one last within a fantasy so fair?
Sri Wele Cebuda is a poet of finding a middle balance in life. “The Lake Isle of Innisfree” is a poem by the Irish Modernist William Butler Yeats (1865-1939).
The Omani Dock Worker
by Saudi Becrewel
O, man, it is the sound he loves, his muezzin, his OM.
Here in Muskat, beside the docks, his work he calls his home.
He moans and gets into the lotus pose upon a chair.
He spreads his legs and knees. His feet are in the air—right there.
Th’ Omani worker, all alone, in white, lunchtime is now.
He meditates out in the middle of the vast warehouse.
His fellow workers will return, about at one o’clock.
It is twelve now, he can unwind. He need not walk or talk/
O, all Arabia embarks in violence and war;
but here he can embrace sweet peace. He need not love abhor.
Saudi Becrewel is a poet of Arabia. Muscat is a city of around 1,500,000, and is the capital of Oman.
The Passing of Idriss Dèby
by Scribe El Uwade
On 20 April, 2021, Chad’s ruler died;
while visiting troops up north, Idriss Dèby lost his life.
It was just one week after the election, which he won,
as for three decades in his runs, he had already done.
His son was then declared the leader; curfew has been called.
The government goes on, no matter what—how odd the fraud.
Like in so many countries, from America to Chad,
elites and power brokers keep the people from the “bad”.
Elites and power brokers keep the populists enslaved;
so that the countries they control can be redeemed and saved.
Scribe El Uwade is a poet of northern Africa. Chad is a country of around 16,000,000.
The Warrior King
by Lebu Seric Wade
Enjoying life by traveling, he had been voyaging,
off to the land of Nyameyesky, Ghana, warrior king.
That was the only name he ever knew him by, oh, yeah,
less African than Russian, even, to some, bio-tech.
He loved a gorgeous, orange top; bright colours caught his eye;
though his flag’s hues, red, yellow green, he also loved to fly.
So beautiful, he thought it was, when he was in control;
for then he felt like as a monarch, o, completely whole.
It was the time when he felt most alive and powerful,
like as a haughty, regal ruler, mighty, tow’ring bull.
Lebu Seric Wade is a poet of West Africa. Ghana has a population of around 30,000,000.
The Tattered Man
by War di Berecuse
He was a tattered man who had been in horrendous war.
He had a tattooed left arm, a reminder of the horr’r
He longed to fe-el good, so long had he been feeling bad.
He only wished he could have love, but it could not be had.
He exercised to make his mind and body stronger—yeah.
But he had not reached what he wanted so to be as yet.
He wanted to attain contentment, if but just awhile.
He wanted to gain power to endure the baneful bile.
He wanted to contain the pain he felt within his soul.
He wanted to maintain sweet peace though he be on a roll.
War di Belecuse was a poet of war. At times, he felt like he might end up like the tattered man in the “Red Badge of Courage” by American Realist writer Stephen Crane (1871-1900).
Iraq’s predominantly Shi-ite population pools
quite easily with pro-Irani military groups,
whose drones attacked Baghdad as well as Erbil Turkish troops.
Iraq continues to endure despite th’ ongoing spew.
by W. Israel Ebecud
A missile launched from Syria struck southern Israel,
that set off air-raid sirens. The response was visceral.
The incident was likely caused by the Iranians,
whose nuclear facilities had been sapped at Natanz.
The missile hit beside Dinona in the bleak Negev,
the nuclear reactor Israel keeps for defense;
and so Israeli’s targeted the launches that were used,
as well as Syrian defenses. Both in part defused.
This missile incident has marked the greatest violence
between those foes in Western Asia. This is dangerous.
What will be next? one wonders, as new tensions are unhurled.
From Mexico to China, terror spans th’ entire World.
An Edenic Scene
by W. Israel Ebecud
He stood outside, beside the overarching tree nearby.
He longed to be there in the orchard for an apple pie.
The morning garden was edenic, with no eve in sight;
He leaned upon a trunk, no Johnny Appleseed in light.
There was no woodland satyr playing music on his pipe.
He would pick apples from that tree—so pink, so big, so ripe.
He so looked forward filling up his basket full of fruit,
The scene so beautiful. above the hidden, covered roots.
He stood upon the grass while grasping for low-hanging drupe,
like as a pirate with his booty, not a prude, more brute.
His focus was like as that of a clicking camera
that caught him in the act of plucky plunking from a branch,
Israel W. Ebecud is a poet of biblical proportions. John Chapman (1774-1845) was an American gardener and Christian missionary.
by Esiad L. Werecub
He was a wi-ld man infected with lycanthropy;
on all fours, he would h-o-w-l to the lunar canopy.
Though crazed, he could control himself, when he was on the town.
More civilized than Cyclops, even when the Sun went down.
He wasn’t raised, like Romulus and Remus, by a wolf;
but still somehow he managed to cross that quite massive gulf.
Though rude, fowl-mouthed, somewhat unfortunate in love and life;
he faced adversity with vigour, enduring stress and strife.
At times, beset with difficulties, he would wail and quake,
as if out prowling, growling at the moon caused him to shake.
Esiad L. Werecub is a poet of ancient Greece and wolf lore.
by Euclidrew Base
Researchers at the Université Paris did find,
by MRIs, that neural networks differ in the mind,
compared with those, when processing the thoughts of higher maths
to those of algebra or some word problem mental paths.
In short, mathematician brains lit up in varied ways:
in places others did not in particularly gaze.
The higher maths ignited parietal petal splash;
prefrontal, and temporal, o, inferior! went flash.
Exploring higher maths increases coloured splattering;
French scientists found that it mattered—mental patterning.
Euclidrew Base is a poet of math, lower, higher, and anything in between.
The Water Treatment Plant
by Educable Wires
When I was young and rode to school upon an orange bus,
we would drive past a water treatment plant. Yes, all of us.
I wonder what the other students thought, but only now.
Back then life seemed complex and so mechanical somehow.
I came to learn that water there, along the riverside,
was chlorinated, alum spruced, with polymers in stride.
I later learned there was removal of particulates,
like iron, copper, manganese, some lead and arsenic.
I knew this was important, but I didn’t feel the need
to know about its function then, or care about its deeds;
and yet of all the things I didn’t learn when I was young
that probably was more important understanding some.
So this is why, now when I’m older, I am writing this,
a poem on a mental image of that which I missed.
Educable Wires ia a poet of technical education.
As Derek Chauvin’s verdict came in, guilty on all counts,
some celebrated victory, while others shared their doubts;
since crime is rising everywhere across the USA,
from at the southern border up north to DC today.
Collap…Sing, Perishing Republic
by Caud Sewer Bile
The USA is printing cash, and spending it as fast.
The price of gas is rising, as outrageous bills are passed.
The US debt is rising and inflation’s on the way,
and fast approaching is an economic judgment day.
The crisis at the border means that Wu flu’s coming in.
including the Brazilian strain. What will the US win?
Already the US has got more deaths than anyone.
Does that ensure the USA will stay at number one?
But that’s not all the USA is winning at this time;
increases are across the board in drugs, disease and crime.
In corporate news media, the bullshit is so deep,
it seems that truth is slowly being murdered in its sleep.
Methinks I hear a spirit-voice cry out from shore to shore.
“Demonic Rats have murdered sleep. This land shall sleep no more.”
Poor country, where each minute does a newer grief announce;
some fear the US has become a shithole nation now..
Caud Sewer Bile is a poet of the American Swamp.
Leo Zoutewelle (1935-2921)
by Sir Bac de Leuew
He was a man of great humility and simple grace,
a rarity, particularly in this time and place.
He came to poetry so carefully and cautiously,
collecting seashells at the edge of its colossal sea.
Lo, he embarked upon his raft with courage, craft and heart.
He sailed a wave with feeling, the main secret of his art.
He left his Holland for a journey to another land,
like those Dutch seamen famed of old, intrepid in command.
Eternal learner who surveyed the lands he came to see,
reminding us at moments of his generosity.
Forgive this plain, pathetic po-em, this restrained homage,
gratuitous, in gratitude, Great, Lion, Bon voyage.
Sir Bac de Leuew is a poet of the Netherlands.
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