by Seer Ablicudew
“…but I cannot believe the story…”
I saw him rising on the far horizon, like the Sun,
the Phoenix, golden-scarlet, with a great and grand wing span.
He was so beautiful, like as a brilliant solar flame;
out of the ashes of his going, coming once again.
This firebird came from Arabia to Helios,
transported then to Egypt and the Temple of Eos.
Ah, there he is in awesome splendor rendered into myth,
the gods surrounding him with whims of math and hymnal theme.
A brand new era of compassion, linked to consciousness,
communication lacking censorship and cautiousness,
beyond tech-corporations and the media they use
to burn us to oblivion with darkness and abuse.
Seer Ablicudew is a shaman of fire and ash. Herodotus (c. 484 BC – c. 425 BC) is the father of histor-ical inquir-y. This dodeca draws on Herodotus and peripherally on Kingley L. Dennis.
by “Clear Dew” Ibuse
He gazes in awe—
a cataract of colour—
by “Clear Dew” Ibuse
Lightning and thunder,
the rain is pouring down hard.
The grass gets a bath.
by “Clear Dew” Ibuse
Day after day, rain
runs down rushing to the drain
and cleaning the plain.
by “Clear Dew” Ibuse
The lawn mower goes.
He edges, cuts grass, and blows
clips neatly away.
“Clear Dew” Ibuse is a poet of Japanese forms in English, especially the traditional haiku, which reached its height in the 17th -19th centuries.
by “Wired Clues” Abe
and 10,000 deaths.
“Wired Clues” Abe is a NewMillennial haiku poet.
Malaysia scrambled jets to intercept the Chinese planes—
sixteen, in fact—that nearly violated its air-space.
Y-20s and IL-76s—3D parallax—
in tactical formation off the coast of Sarawak.
His Morning Opening
by Eric Aul De Beus
The salutation to the Sun is where the man began.
The Sun was shining overhead; the man stretched out his span.
Upon the mat he gat into bhujangasana pose,
the cobra, yes, his hands beneath his shoulders as he rose.
And when he reached as far as he could go, extended so.
he took advantage of his opened lungs, and breathed deep, o.
He slowly lowered torso, vertebra by vertebra,
then put his hands behind his back in unsupported awe.
He brought his arms down to his sides, his head down to the mat,
and there in quiet contemplation thought of this and that.
He next stretched out his chin and placed his fists beneath his chest.
He lifted each, both of his legs, best as he could from rest.
Here was the focused locust, o, so far from lotus bloom,
as still as any insect as he panned across the room.
Eyes zoomed about the window, light-gray walls, both high and low,
as he, a narrow arrow, moved into the curving bow.
dhanurasana, ankles grasped, until the shaft’s released,
and through the air he flies so straight, so firm, from west to east,
on heady course, palakasana, flows into the plank,
as if he were upon a wooden deck, so lean and lank.
The lovely sea, a pale teal, with sails, distant hills,
waves out beyond the rough, bleached boards and beaches, sandy s-t-ill.
The tattoos on his arms a match to clothes upon his back,
his head shaved close, his eyes face down, beside the railing black.
Nearby a crow is perched; it sits atop rectangle rails;
as in a Hitchcock movie in a Californian air.
The man held his position there in horizontal length,
attempting to build up his strength, his health, his will, his legs;
and he held on with all he had, the sky high over him,
a Queequeg from the South Seas in the New Millennium.
Eric Aul De Beus is a poet of New Zealand and Pacific Islanders. Not completely a film editor, he thinks Alfred Hitchcock (1899-1980) was the greatest film director of the 20th century, the allusion here is to The Birds (1963). Queequeg was the Pacific Islander in Melville’s Moby Dick.
A State of Nothingness
by Sri Wele Cebuda
Why don’t you focus on just what you mean to say, he said.
His tan work-boots with black tops, neat and trim, he had not shed.
He lifted up his left foot, sta-bl-ing his ta-ble slant.
O, yeah, he felt secure where he was…at…significant…
He yearned; he yenned; he learned; he kenned; he steadied knees and hips.
He did not want to move; he wanted there to be no slips.
O, yeah, his meditation was quite likely to endure.
The furniture was white and pure, the sky outside azure.
He’d reached a state of nothingness, though something was still there.
O, yeah, he felt like as a bird…suspended…in the air.
Peaceful Ecstasy (at the Bed’s Edge)
by Sri Wele Cebuda
He got in an asana pose upon the king-sized bed;
beneath his seat of cool, white sheets—a soft, but lofty edge.
His shoulders spread, he raised his head, and stretched his legs out wide.
Though he was going nowhere, soon he had a peaceful stride.
As space-time curved around him, like a paired parentheses,
he felt like as he was within a quiet ecstasy.
The scene was beautiful, o, yeah, the focus fine and clear.
Content, at interdiction, ah, nirvana seemed so near.
His spine stretched out, o, man, no doubt, the OM within his mouth;
expanded chest, in total rest, he loved this lovely thou…ght.
Meditasis in Stasis
by Sri Wele Cebuda
He was so hot, but still he got in an asana pose.
Upon the dark divan he sat, like as a budding rose.
All flushed, he shed his overshirt, his running shorts and shoes.
He wanted meditasis prepped, profound, pure and profuse.
A cataract of colours crashed into his inner eye.
He felt like as a blossom rising up into the sky.
Although he was so high, he yenned to go much higher yet.
He yenned to reach a perfect peace, if he could get there—yeah.
Unfixed, he flexed; the cosmic flux whirled though his mind and soul;
it was like as he was within a turning, burning hole.
He looked ab-out to ID stuff that he could comprehend:
the ticking clock, in space-time, docked right at the rainbow’s bend;
the little lamp, lit gold and camped beside the back-dropped wall,
its light there falling on the hall-like room-scape overall;
the console-sofa table, versatile and functional,
off to the side, resides, and rides there uncompunctual;
the dropping drapes, unwavering within the mancave room,
unclosed behind, the moody blind, aloft, aloof, illumed;
the tall, black candle holder and the small, green palmate plant,
on each side of the panting antics of the fan and mant.
He yearned and yenned there to ascend into a brand new view
a lovely vision of the beautiful, the good and true,
to leave behind both human kind and cruelty accrued,
way better than the best, o, blessed, with being…truly good.
Sri Wele Cebuda is a poet of India and yoga. According to Beau Lecsi Werd, metatasis is the state of meditation, blurning is a blurring, burning learning, a mant is a chant or rant beginning with the sound OM or O, man. Although more than 340,000 deaths have been reported in India so far, some say the number of deaths may be as high as 1,500,000.
by Crise de Abu Wel
“It is easier for a camel to go through the eye of a needle
than for someone who is rich to enter the kingdom of God.”
Redemption—there was none for him—no matter what he did.
The manifold complexities of life made this part grim.
What hope was there for one who never found the narrow way?
although he could find, at the store, rye bread with caraway.
Redemption—he could do his best—but he was fallible.
O, he was falli-ng all the time; he was too malleable.
And all around him others too succumbed to the mob-scene.
The manifold complexities of life made this hob-bling.
Redemption—wasn’t possible, especi’lly for the rich,
who dwelt within a deeper hole and finely furnished ditch.
Crise de Abu Wel is a poet of the persecuted, particularly the Christians in Western Asia.
Young Fyodor Dostoyevsky
by Alecsei Badeew
Philosopher, short story writer, noted novelist,
he was a 19th century, preme Russian Realist.
His father was a doctor for the poor; his fa-mi-ly
lived on the hospital grounds pleasantly if with disease.
His parents introduced him to a literary slough,
from Homer through Cervantes, up to Gogol and the new.
His mother died of TB; he was fifteen years of age,
and sent to military school, where he felt out of place.
“Monk Photius” looked awkward in his shako and knapsack;
at seventeen, his father died, then came his first attack…
of e-pi-lep-sy which would hound him his entire life;
but he pressed on with his exams, despite this strife, his plight.
Once a cadet, he worked as a lieutenant engineer,
translated, took up gam-bl-ing, and started his career.
His first work—”Poor Folk”—brought him some success. Belinsky said,
it was a “social novel”—Russia’s first that he had read.
Next came “The Double”—parody of Gogol’s “Overcoat”,
according to the synesthete Vladimir Nabokov.
He entered Petrashevsky’s Circle, socialistic pool,
which led to his arrest with them—death sentence for the group.
On the day that the firing squad prepared to shoot them down,
the order by the Tsar was stayed and they could stay around:
he spent four years in a Siberian /h/a/r/s/h/ prison camp.
“House of the Dead” put such like on the literary map.
Alecsei Badeew is a poet of Russia. In his mind, Fyodor Dostoyevsky (1821-1881) is one of the greatest writers of World literature; and his favourite novel is “The Brothers Karamazov”. It is Dostoyevsky’s broad reading and the depths that he plumbs that so impresses Badeew. This poem looks only at the first years up to 1854—before his major novels!
Io Canto di Cantor
by Euclidrew Base
“Aus dem Paradies, das Cantor uns geschaffen,
soll uns niemand vertreiben können.”
Among the realms of math, religion, and philosophy,
Georg Cantor believed in actual infinity.
He stressed the intersection in between all three of these
against the unbelievers’ little faith and less belief.
His theory of transfinite numbers met intransigence
from Kronecker and Poincaré, and other indigents.
He proved that reals were more more numerous than naturals.
and set set theory into cardinals and ordinals,
by using Hebrew aleph and the Greek omega too,
and in this New Millennium, notation still in use.
He also put forth the continuum hypothesis,
and solved uniqueness of a function by trig series—yes.
Euclidrew Base is a poet of mathematics. Leo Kronecker (1823-1891), Georg Cantor (1845-1918), Henri Poincaré (1854-1912), and David Hilbert (1862-1943) were noted German and French mathematicians. The quote from Hilbert—“from this paradise created for us by Cantor, no one shall expel us.”
Jacinto de Evia Gonzáles
by Ibewa de Sucre
Jacinto, o, de Evia, a poet and a priest,
lived 1629 until th’ end of the century.
He wrote erotic poems in the style of Góngora,
and wrought a book, bouquet of flowers, in his garden plot.
Collected, cultivated, cut concise upon the page,
he left behind a fresh direction for the coming age;
and Ecuador could now adore new odours in its lit,
a dream of sky originating from sweet Guayaquil,
there near the Andes at th’ equator rounding planet Earth,
both elegy and carol, of a lovely growth and girth.
Jacinto de Evia Gonzáles was a 17th century poet of what is today Ecuador.
Around the Edges of Gabriele D’Annunzio
by Ibewa del Sucre
“Brother of Ingots—Ah, Peru”
In Modernist Peru, the founder of the avant-garde,
Colónida’s own Pedro Pinto—Abraham Valdelomar.
Like Charles Baudelaire, he made aware to fellow countrymen
th’ importance of the poseur and the market’s mucky fen.
El Conde de Lemos wrote out a column filled with words.
In Rome he wrote—El Caballero Carmelo—Yes, sir!
Peru is Lima, the Jirón, o, de la Unión,
but who’s Palais Concert? he asked. He answered, Es soy yo!
When in the Army, he wrote chronicles about the war
disputed borders found between Peru and Ecuador.
O, but how beautiful—when his soul lived upon the Earth!
approximately valued at some fifty soles worth.
Ibewa del Sucre is a poet of northwestern South America. Guayaquil is the largest city and port of Ecuador, about 2,700,000. Two writers who deeply influenced his works were French PostRomantic/Realist Charles Baudelaire (1821-1867) and Italian Modernist Gabriele D’Annunzio (1863-1938). Lima is the capital and largest city of Peru, about 9,600,000.
The Election in Peru
by Ibewa del Sucre
The far-left candidate Castillo held a tiny lead
upon the rightist Fujimori, who will not yet cede.
As in the USA, the country is divided so,
between destroyers and creators, new or status quo.
Some want tradition, some eradication; it is so
that each election ruins good things as it tries to grow,
that each election brings forth bad things as it takes its place
in the great scheme of Everything en masse, in time, in space.
Fraud accusations swarmed about, as in the USA;
but deadlier, the Wuhan plague now plagues Peru today.
Ibewa del Sucre is a poet of northwest South America. The death toll in Peru is estimated at over 180,000 deaths, making it, according to Johns Hopkins data, the country with the worst death rate per capita in the World. Peru’s population is approximately 32,000,000.
At the Bar Stool
by Cale Budweiser
He stood up at the bar, so he could get a stiff, hard drink.
He felt like as he was beside a spouting fountain’s spring.
With each sweet sip between his lips, he felt so good and set.
each glass so right, ah, slightly tight, he felt so nice, o, yeah.
It felt so fine, and fun, though he’d not done a single thing
but drink to health and wealth, his very essence tin-gl-ing.
He didn’t gaze upon the picture hanging on the wall.
He didn’t stare out through the open drapes; it was no draw.
He didn’t think about the news or dwell upon the olds.
He simply gave himself up to the gorgeous green and golds.
Cale Budweiser is a poet of beautiful, bronze booze. According to Beau Lecsi Werd, sprink is a condensation of sprinkle and spring.
by Brace Dwile Use
“I sound my barbaric yawp over the roofs of the World.”
He was a roofer in tan work boots, taking a short break.
He stretched his shoulders back. He wanted to assuage an ache.
Was that a can of sealant made of polyurethane,
acrylic, silicone or rubber, to keep out the rain?
Was it industrial grade, safe, and easy to apply?
He moved his left foot up for balance there beneath blue sky.
Was this roof-coating eco-friendly, weatherproof enough?
He was so hot, yet attitude and tone were cool and tough.
Was it UV resistant, flexible, low maintenance?
He focused on his fortitude. There was no daintiness.
He would not slip upon that slant. He did not dare to squirm.
O, there beneath the beating Sun, he knew he must be firm.
Brace Dwile Use is a poet of carpenters and carpentry, a close acquaintance of Des Wercebauli. In this poem, he draws on one of his former college professors, Elizabeth Bishop (1911-1979).
Come Join…this Whirling World!
by Educable Wires
“Seasons don’t fear the Reaper…”
—Blue Oyster Cult
O, do not worry what the future brings to you today.
O, do not fret about tomorrow, or, yes, yesterday.
All will come crashing down and smash into oblivion.
How strange it is—this whirling World—that we are living in.
O, do not agonize o’er prophecy and augury.
O, do not dread the dead. Live on in sure uncertainty.
Come join this Sun-scorched, turning, burning, churning Earth—this Globe!
now orbiting the Sun, like as a swirling, twirling strobe.
O, do not fear the Reaper. All of time will come and go.
Don’t be afraid, for when it’s done and gone we will not know.
I did not understand back then what they were saying, no.
How strange it is to be in this eternal vertigo.
Educable Wires is a poet of rock. This dodeca flashback comes from a concert he saw long, long ago.
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