by R. Lee Ubicwedas
I saw him standing—not commanding—gray fleece jacket on.
He stood there in the morning light, o, at the crack of dawn.
The full moon golden in the sky, so beautiful to see.
He gazed upon its ruggedness shine pale brilliantly.
His supple spine amidst the pines, up tall above the ground.
His shoulders, back and out, the train track empty, not a sound.
His day-old beard and uncombed hair gave him a scruffy look.
The temp’rature at fifty-two; he felt a little cool.
He turned off to the right to focus on a winding line,
a dark road there between the hills that curved without a sign.
O, ready to embark upon a trip to who knows where,
his gray fleece jacket on, and zipped, out in the open air.
R. Lee Ubicwedas is a poet of exploration.
by “Clear Dew” Ibusa
The baby wonders,
Who is that man in the hat?
after drinking milk.
by “Clear Dew” Ibusa
The baby obSErvES,
aft a month of poos and pees,
dark and light degrees.
“Clear Dew” Ibusa is a poet of Japanese poetic forms, like free-verse haiku.
by Seaweed Lubric
He lives in shallow, tropic waters—th’ orange-gold sea-horse.
Instead of fish-like sca-les, he has bony plates perforce.
He loves to hang about sea grass, mangroves and coral reefs.
Chromatophores help him blend in to where he likes to feed.
He wraps his tail round the plants to keep from whooshing out.
He likes crustaceans—very tiny—he sucks through his snout.
He swims, if rather poorly, with the fin upon his back;
and little fins about his head steer him along his track;
each year one-hundred-fifty-million harvested for some—
in TCM, as well as fillers for aquariums.
Seaweed Lubric is a poet of nature. TCM is an acronym for traditional Chinese medicine.
The EU Parliament told Taiwan it is not alone,
despite Chinese airforce incursions in October flown.
by Ed C. U. “Bear” Lewis
It was acute—the situation—o, that he was in—
his shirt and socks too tight, dog-tags too loud, his mood, chagrin.
Dressed all in black for night-time camo—facing stormy skies—
reacting to the slightest sound’s surprising stimuli.
What was that noise? He looked behind him in the undergrowth.
O, who was that there coming up in darkest combat throbe?
He stood as still and quiet as he could, his sense, alert.
He didn’t want to be caught in some trap where he’d be hurt.
He kept his wit, incisively prepared for what might come,
with icy, knifelike reasoning, his heart a pounding thrum.
O, harrowing, that narrowing, on arrowed wing and flight
that could hit him at any second in his light-less plight.
Ed C. U. “Bear” Lewis is a poet of military equipment.
by Sri Wele Cebuda
He got into utkatasana on the t-i-l-e floor.
He bent his knees and squatted down beside the open door.
He focused on his hips, o, reaching down and back, as if…
he were about to sit upon the flat edge of some clift.
He brought his weight into the heels of his steady feet.
His knees were pointing forward, straight. He turned his head to see ‘t—
the world all around that airy seat up in the sky,
where whirled, like a bird on high, he gazed, with his third eye.
His shoulders back, he arched his spine, while staring at the wall,
and breathed, while reaching to the ceiling of the f-r-e-e-turn All,
his lower body strengthening, his upper back stretched out,
invigourating, energizing, and lengthening his Tout.
Sri Wele Cebuda is a poet and yogi bear.
Joe Biden’s 85-car motorcade to see the Pope
fits right in with his Green New De-al. Yes, we all must COPe.
The Green Elite
by Eber L. Aucsidew
The eco-hypocrites are out in force in private jets,
at COP26 in Glasgow, Scotland’s conference.
The eco-hypocrites whirl round—a massive centrifuge—
professing to fight climate change, their carbon footprints HUGE.
Emissions from Earth’s global aviation is no laugh,
since only one percent of Earthlings generates one half.
Among the notables are Biden, Kerry and Macron,
Prince Charles and Camilla, Greta Thunberg and Trudeau,
Obama, Modi, Gates, Jeff Bezos, Johnson, can be seen;
the only requisite is access to a bunch of green.
Eber L. Aucsidew is a poet of air and water, hence intrigued by the work of Ancient Greek Milesians Thales (c. 620 BC – c. 546 BC) and Anaximenes (c. 586 BC – c. 526 BC).
While methane is quite difficult to measure and detect,
addressing methane leaks is fairly easy to correct.
One atom carbon, with four hydrogen, makes methane’s ess,
the sim-plest alkane and con-sti-tu-ent of nat’ral gas.
More than one-hundred nations pledge to cut what they emit…
by 2030, dropping it by thirty, yes, percent.
The socialist who leads Bolivia as President,
Luis Arce, has criticized the climate change event,
as a “re-colonizing” process in its hate for coal,
imposing new green deals on the World as a whole.
by Ibewa del Sucre
Laguna Colorado, in southwest Bolivia,
in the Eduardo Avaroa National Reserve,
looks bleak, like landscapes maybe seen in the Hadean Age,
before life came perhaps in the Eoarchean stage;
this shallow lake, on th’ Altiplano in the Andes range,
so open, beautiful and spare, myst-eerie-us and strange.
Here one can find in its saltwater—James’ flamingos wade—
pale pink and white, bright carmine streaks on neck and back, decked
They dine on carotine, red algae, filtering salines,
such diatoms at the lake’s edge their favourite cuisine.
Ibewa del Sucre is a poet of the Andes. James’s flamingo was thought extinct, until in 1956 a small flock was discovered in a remote location. The Hadean eon was from about 4.6 billion years ago to about 4 billion years ago. The Eoarchean age was from about 4 billion years ago to 3.6 billion years ago.
“Every Breath You Take”
by Educable Wires
He started writing in Jamaica—Ian Fleming’s desk—
on Goldeneye estate—o, yeh—Oracabessa sked.
He woke up in the night—Sting did—that line was in his mind,
trochaic trimeters that dropped as terse as turpentine.
O “every breath you take”…and “every move you make” through to
its final, thudding, hard conclusion—“I’ll be watching you.”
The tune generic—just an aggregate of varied airs;
the words—Big-Brother-esque, so ominous and sinister.
What kind of love song is it? 99% Proof Rock.
Led Zeppelin linked by words in sync, “D’yer Mak’er” common stock.
Educable Wires is a poet of rock. PostModernist English Led Zeppelin was one of the top album-oriented musical acts of the 1970s, with songs like “Stairway to Heaven”. PostModernist Engliah Sting, first with Police, and later, solo, was one of the top selling acts during his time, with songs like “Every Breath You Take” (1983), one of the most played songs on the radio (according to BMI), supplanting the 22-year reign (1996-2018) of “You’ve Lost That Lovin’ Feelin’” by the Righteous Brothers, in 2019. Jamaica (D’yer Mak’r) is a Caribbean nation of around 2,700,000. Oracabessa is a town in norther Jamaica of around 4,000.
by Dic Asburee Wel
He tears his tessellations from the tapestry of time,
condensed in rubricks of the Bible, metrick flecks, and rhyme.
Like HD, he prefers the miniature, the lanky, terse,
but, unlike her, he keeps away from polishing free verse.
He follows imagistes in emphasizing clarity,
while striving aft a kind of New York City verity.
He likes the limerick, haiku, and couplets, frisky, clean;
and like Jack Sprat he likes no fat preferring crispy lean.
His taste is Catholic, his topics, newsy, not diffuse,
his verbal balance, steady, ready, heady and foot loose.
Dic Asburee Wel is a poet and literary critic of NYC.
by Walice de Beers
Life short, art long, and fleeting, o, is opportunity.
Experience is treacherous, and judgment difficile.
One spends one’s whole life studying the Wor(l)d, but cannot ken
the merest 1% of 1% of 1%.
Who are these individuals, beset by aches and pain,
supposing they know what it is they flee—this earthly gain—
this strange concoction filled with agony and ecstasy,
where is so much to learn as well as such stupidity?
Cupidity it is to seek escape velocity,
where there is still so much to stomach, ride out to the C.
Walice de Beers is a poet of the Magi nation.
A Lesson from Platonov
by Caud Sewer Bile
Some say there are two sexes, male/female are the two.
How could there be two genders—quite a few count quite a few?
Some say there only is one race—that is, the human race.
Can’t a(nthro)pologists count three or four on certain days?
Some say that communism is a kind of slavery.
But don’t the communists themselves desire they were free?
Some say the US is beset by the G-Mafiat.
But aren’t the people here a sort of socialistic Mob?
The Big Lie is that there was fraud in 2020’s vote.
How could it be that there was fraud by dumping or by tote?
Some say the Insurrection was not deadly. Can’t they see?
On January 6th Ms. Babbitt died by the police.
Caud Sewer Bile is a poet of DC Comics and Crooks who love justice and do mercy, but rarely do justice and love mercy, i. e., fairness first, niceness second. Andrei Platonov (1899-1951) was a Russian Modernist proset and poet.
by Carb Deliseuwe
He stood up at the window, eating breakfast from a bowl,
blueberries and bananas with some cream upon the whole,
both tart and mushy, luscious, start-ling, in its passing taste,
before its transferred to the body and its waiting waist.
He stood up at the window, looking out onto its scape,
so beautiful the lovely lawns, beyond the opened drapes,
the scenery spectacular, from scene to shining seen,
unnecessary, ordinary, wanting more than needs.
He stood up at the window, happy just to be right there,
at home…with this, o, yes, in bliss, but barely only fair.
Garnet Sweet Potatoes
by Carb Deliseuwe
I saw him eating garnet sweet potatoes, orange yams,
topped off with small marshmallows, creamy white and slightly browned.
So warm and grand—O, Samarkand!—he slowly tasted them,
that syrupy concoction, cloying, succulent, profound.
He stood in dogtags at the counter of the dark café,
but he was so content there eating, gob-bl-ing away.
It lifted up his spirit just to have this luscious treat;
yet after one great serving, ready still for more to eat.
What would it do within his body?—this he wished he knew;
but dipped in fun, continuing to fork this flushed fondue.
by Carb Deliseuwe
My SON gave me a NOS to see what it would do to me.
I slowly drank that drink of high performance energy.
That carbonated citric water was refreshing, sweet,
with way more B-six and B-twelve than one would daily need.
The canned concoction too contained guarana and taurine,
as well as some inositol, much sugar and caffeine.
It did not seem to be that different from Seven-Up,
I didn’t fe-el that my mental focus was abrupt.
Perhaps a little calmer, clearer, my thirst slaked with zing,
no jolt, or bolt, but more, as if I were awakening.
Carb Deliseuwe is a poet of food and drink.
The Baseball Player
by Rudi E. Welec, “Abs”
“On a field, azure, the letter A, argent”
—Scarle U. Webide
He saw the baseball player in his dark blue/scarlet cap,
the large white A upon the front, the strap upon the back.
Amidst the brilliant lighting of the game—the players tense—
the high socks and the uniforms, in blacks, blues, whites and reds.
The shiny stars of lights and cameras, the large, flat field,
ecstatic instants and dynamic motions players wield.
The baseball player, up at bat, prepared to hit the pitch,
the catcher ready to receive its—slam—puts out his mitt.
But there it goes—a homer, riding o’er the open air,
like as a mighty hit that will not quit till it gits there.
Rudi E. Welec, “Abs”, is a poet of sport, Scarle U. Webide, a mixed-up writer familiar with heraldry. The Atlanta Braves won the 2021 World Series against the Houston Astros this week.