by “Clear Dew” Ibuse
Across northern skies,
a long, dark array of clouds:
a tsunami storm.
“Clear Dew” Ibuse is a poet of Japanese poetic forms.
The Starfish Thrower
by Seaweed Lubric
There was a man who used to go out to the sea to write.
He walked upon the beach each morning in the early light.
A storm once passed and he could see starfish across the sand,
that stretched in both directions all along that sandy strand.
And then he noticed coming closer one small walking boy,
occasionally bending down to grasp and toss—ahoy.
The old man asked, “What are you doing?” and the lad replied,
“The tide has trapped them on the beach. If they don’t leave they’ll die.”
The old man said, “There must be tens of thousands lying here.
You will not make all that much difference, my son, I fear.”
But that young boy continued on beneath the blazing Sun,
and heaved one, saying, “It has made a diff’rence to that one.”
Seaweed Lubric is a poet of sea life. This anecdote has been adapted from Postmodern American naturalist Loren Eisley (1907-1977). He remembers reading, when he was a freshman in college, Loren Eisley’s “The Immense Journey”, which life indeed continues to be.
by “Wired Clues” Abe
A night of pain,
ants in the bathroom.
“Wired Clues” Abe is a poet of Japanese forms and traditions.
The Waves of Words
by Sea Curlew Bide
The waves of words continue rolling with the lunar tides,
where rides the dolphin, shark and whale, and the shipping guides.
They glide across the screen, beneath the stars, almost unseen,
with electronic navigation, GPS marines.
They hit the beaches’ reaches at their continental shelves,
or dikes and level levees, as in lowly Netherlands.
There framed in fragments, sentences, and other flowing forms,
they stream across the Globe, enrobed in prose or rosy poems.
They’re going through the countless seas and oceans of the World,
that cover more than seventy percent of planet Earth,
they span communications as they run along their ways,
the waves of words, those streams of letters, symbols, signs and phrase.
Sea Curlew Bide is a poet of the tides.
A Picture of Order
by E “Blue Screw” Dai
He felt like as the teacher come from Tokyo and school,
collecting insects, as in Abe’s “Woman of the Dunes,”
and finding at the bottom of a ladder made of rope,
a house he must sweep clean each day—to cope with little hope.
Each day he has to sweep his floors, they keep collecting dirt;
while drinking water, come what may, he has to ever work.
It never ends, day after day, while he remains in place;
it is a chore that he must not abhor, but must embrace.
And so, he goes about his duty, like a new recruit,
in basic training who’s maintaining boots, suits, neat and true.
by E “Blue Screw” Dai
“If charnel houses and our graves must send
Those that we bury back, our monuments
Shall be the maws of kites.”
—William Shakespeare, Macbeth, III, iv
“They are taking Boxer to the knackers.”
—George Orwell, Animal Farm
It may not have been muck beside the den where he was at,
nor garbage in the bog, nor eerie, airy fumes, in fact;
it simply might have been the scavengers in dusky light,
a myriad of crows that took the swamp into the sky.
That trashy marsh, that ashy hearth—Was this the truth of life,
which did not fit in charnel house or neat, linguistic file?
Was it a ground for criminals, condemned to feed the crows,
with heads for food, appearing from the darkness of repose,
attracted to us, as they terrified us with their view,
then disappearing manufactured into tubes of glue.
E “Blue Screw” Dai is a poet of surreality, including nightmares of Kōbō Abe. Kōbō Abe (1924-1993) was a PostModernist Japanese writer, whose favourite writers included, inter alia, Dostoyevsky, Heidegger, Kafka, Nietzsche, and Poe.
A North Korean Parachutist
by Dae Wi “Scrub” Lee
A North Korean soldier clad in super-tight, blue suit
stood in a group of fighter pilots for a photo-shoot.
Kim Jong Un in the centre wore a dark suit for the pic
amidst green olive uniforms and one guy shiny, slick.
Was he a rocketman, a DPRK cannonball,
a superhero, or a ramjet-ace phenomenal?
In fact, he was a parachutist in that picture’s line
in Pyongyang, North Korea, merely one of twenty-nine,
who made a demonstration flight at the beginning of
a weapons systems exhibition ceremonial.
Dae Wi “Scrub” Lee is a poet of Korea. Communist North Korea is enduring another deadly famine due to a covid blockade, Chinese trade halt, UN sanctions, and its heavy investment in military equipment and advances.
A Colorado Bull Elk
by Bud “Weasel” Rice
An elk—600 pounds—stuck with a ti-re round its neck,
for over two years in the Colorado wilderness,
was fi-nal-ly hit with a tranquilizer gun this week,
and dropped onto the forest floor, at the park-rangers’ feet.
The officers attempted cutting through the ti-re, but
it wouldn’t budge with ste-el in the bead; it would not cut.
Pine needles, dirt, and thick debris, about ten pounds in weight,
could not come off; and so they chopped the antlers on display.
Just one more case of wildlife tangled up in man-made stuff,
tomato cages, chicken feeders, furniture and such.
Bud “Weasel” Rice is a poet of wildlife. Each year, deer, elk, moose, bear, and other large mammals get entangled in human technology, from cyclone fences to soccer nets and playground accoutrement.
In Virabhadrasana II
by Sri Wele Cebuda
In Virabhadrasana II, his limbs spread out and long,
he stood up tall—dynamic’lly—aligned, aware and strong,
not as a strawman in the wind, but solid and secure,
like as a warrior readied for a battle, bold and sure.
Upon his feet, his body weight there sank into his stand,
prepared to act and face attack, o, at the hour’s command,
his hips and pelvis, opened, balanced, deepening his lunge,
as if he were disposed—on guard—to take the jungle plunge.
His undulating ball-and-socket joints, in war’s morass,
rolled smoothly with his hamstrings, glutes, and iliopsoas,
his ribcage lifted, breast and shoulders, centering the troops,
released pectorals and the intercostal muscle groups.
His arms extended from each other, gazing to the right,
his shoulder blades then broadened; he was keen of mind and sight,
sartorius, biceps, and sternocleidomastoid stretched,
as well as the rectús abdominis below the chest.
O, viral warrior, badass friend, who poses on a breath,
made from the wrath of Shiva, to exact revenge and death,
as like great Virabhadra’s stance, commanding and askance,
destroying evil and delusion, likewise ignorance.
Sri Wele Cebuda is a poet of India. Shiva is one-third of the trinity of the Hindu dharma, the first yogi.
Maria Ressa and Dmitry Muratov received
the Nobel Peace Prize for their work in keeping the press free:
in her case, in the Philippines, and Russia, in his case;
both advocating for a free-speech press that is fact-based.
The Freedom of the Press (to Write False Narrative and Censor What It Wants)
by Caud Sewer Bile
Throughout the warehouse one could hear no rolling faithfulness,
mechanical, maniacal, no minting printing press,
but just the sound of digital newspapers pouring forth,
what corporate old media wants for its latest morph.
They are not looking for the truth; it’s power that they seek.
They are not trying to be good; they like dishonesty.
They long for virtue signaling, without morality.
They do like forcing others to believe what they believe.
Mechanical, maniacal, the minting printing rolled;
the corporate old media has sold its soul for gold.
Caud Sewer Bile is a poet of the press.
A Funky, Joky, Biting, Deni-Grating Slogan’s Thrum
by Cu Ebide Aswerl
At Talladega Superspeedway, racer Brandon Brown
had just completed his laps in the NASCAR race, and won;
and afterwards he had an interview before the crowd,
when all at once they started shouting something short and loud.
The interviewer said they chanted “Let’s go, Brandon”—yeah;
but it was something else relating to the President.
The phrase the sport’s announcer had pretended that they said
appeared on social media—and then took off, and sped.
A song by Loza Alexander showed up on TikTok
and garnered myriads of likes for his dynamic mock.
Some planes, too, pulled some banners, joining in the frenzied fun,
a funky, jokey, biting, deni-grating slogan’s thrum.
Cu Ebide Aswerl is a poet of craziness. Brandon Brown is a NewMillennial stock car driver.
by Esca Webuilder
In March 2014, cybercriminals attacked;
the Yahoo site and its accounts assiduously whacked.
They gained a gate—500,000,000 users at that time—
thus making it, one of the largest ever cyber crimes.
In March of 2017, arrested at his home,
located in Ancaster, Canada, K. Baratov,
who had been hired by two Russians from the FSB,
pro hackers D. Dokuchaev and partner I. Sushchin.
In May of 2018, he was sentenced to five years,
and fined more than two-million bucks for his help in the b-reach.
Esca Webuilder is a poet of the Internet.
by Dr. Weslie Ubeca
Diazepam, first marketed as Valium, once was
one of the largest-selling medications in the World,
designed by Leo Sternbach back in 1959,
its tranquilizing icing, though enticing, not divine.
Diazepam, like as a Pan, can treat anxiety,
and yet, its champagne glass can be misused thru dopamine.
It can cause some confusion and ataxia attacks,
as well as falls, collapsing, dropping down, o, through the cracks.
Acute aspects, inducing altered states of consciousness,
involving stimulation’s dangers from its dosages,
can send one to emergency department visitings
along with other nonmed-used benzódiazepines.
Dr. Weslie Ubeca is a poet of drugs. The roman à clef “Valley of the Dolls” by PostModern American novelist Jacqueline Susann (1918-1973) was a noted work discussing the usage of “dolls”, amphetamines and barbiturates, now largely replaced by benzodiazepines and Z-drugs.
PostModern American chemist Leo Sternbach (1908-2005) is credited with the discovery of chlordiazepoxide, diazepam, flurazepam, nitrazepam, flunitrazepam, clonazepam, and trimethaphan. With Moses Goldberg (1905-1964), he also developed a method for synthesizing biotin, vitamin B7.
At the Threshold
by R. Lee Ubicwedas
He stood there at the threshold of a brand new venturing.
The door was open to a hope, o, well worth entering.
How beautiful its realms appeared—reality unveiled.
How wonderful it was, o, yeah, all senses were assailed.
He felt like as a flexed explorer centering his eye
upon the treasures and the pleasures of an open sky,
breathtaking and awakening, such breaking, flashing views—
new Hell, new Heaven and new Earth endeavouring to fuse.
O, all Creation in elation, each and every part,
all thews and sinews, breath and breadth—the beating of the heart,
the pumping breast, the out-pressed chest, the energy and quest,
the mass and vigour, thumping rigour, psyche, spirit, zest.
by R. Lee Ubicwedas
O, dreamy-eyed, he would abide, beside the window’s frame,
as he gazed out into the sky, up at the Solar Flame,
that sphere of plasma, heated to an incandescent height,
bright glowing-white, prismatic colours, in a brilliant light,
mass nuclear reactions, subatomic particles,
a great profusion of vast energies in startling arcs,
the most important source for life upon this sea-braced Orb,
surrounded by sweet nitrogen and oxygen and more.
O, dreamy-eyed, he stood astride this turning, azure Globe,
this sparkling strobe, revolving orb, in whirled surge and blow.
R. Lee Ubicwedas is a poet of ubiquity.
Another Cup of Coffee
by Carb Deliseuwe
He stood up at attention; he was drinking coffee with
a bit of pith, some creamer, o, he liked it full and thick.
O, yeh, it made him fe-el good; it perked him up, so he’d
be ready for a hard workout, for dense intensity.
He loved the smooth, warm liquid flowing down his goatie throat,
like as a Pan in rustic lands—Arcadian, remote.
He loved to sip its rich, brown taste, when it was nice and hot.
O, he would savour its flush flavour. He could drink a pot.
He loved its lush cocktail of adrenalin—so great—
as well as happy dopamine and luscious glutamate,
especi’lly that amino-acid’s neurotransmit zing,
supporting the gut-brain connection, activating spring.
Carb Deliseuwe is a poet of food and drink. Pan is a member of the Ancient Greek pantheon.