a christmas poem
          by blue cedar wise

as I walk in another world
beneath these noble evergreen trees
I smell christmas in the air

fragrant cedar needles
spiral up through my nostrils
and swirl me up the tree
to where I rest upon a limb, remembering

yours were rich deep odors
like these scents of
fragrant cedar needles
refreshing my senses;
I like the smells of people best

however, it still seems as if
these thin tree limbs I am sitting on
are constantly breaking beneath me

the december air is cold
and in it I breathe the wreathes of of,
dearly thinking of you
who have lived long, and long ago
in the lost lands I dream of

Blue Cedar Wise is a free-verse PostModernist poet of snowflake sensibilities. The phrase “the wreathes of of” was intentional. This free-verse poem shows the influence of two Modernists, E. E. Cummings and Wallace Stevens.


          by “Lice Brews” Ueda

Outside, the morning storm,
inside the newborn warm:
o, striving for the norm.

“Lice Brews” Ueda is a poet of the small.


          by “Clear Dew” Ibuse

The baby’s learning
his consonants and vowels:
Goo goo ga ga jube.

“Clear Dew” Ibuse is a poet of Japanese forms.


          by “Wired Clues” Abe

Keurig coffee cups
and the single serve maker
dropped off at Goodwill.

“Wired Clues” Abe is a poet of Japanese forms and traditions with a modern twist.


That Lucky Lover
          by Cabir Dewe Sule

Along the concrete streets and walks, he walks—that lucky guy—
in love with life beneath the cloudy gray-white-azure sky,
down steps, past fountains, midst ten thousand…people passing by,
a swirl of columns, buildings, tall ones, gilding, rising high,
that crazy wanderer, that lucky lover starts to fly,
as buses, taxis, autos, back seats, axles turn through time—
What does that seeker see within his new-year, inner eye?
ah, stares, and smiles, beside the bridges, on the riverside,
the lights, the barges, heights and arches, sights seen with a sigh,
an elevator climbing to a plaza of the mind.

Cabir Dewe Sule is a poet of IndoEuropean manifestations.


LPG Price Caps Were Raised
          by Alibec Rusedew

In Kazakhstan, emergency and curfew were declared,
when LPG price caps were raised, protesters anger aired.
Street violence occurred throughout the nation’s urban sites;
as well the present governmental cabinet resigned.
The President Tokayev vowed a tough response would come,
as he deposed Nursultan Nazarbayev from his muck.
The presidential palace in Almaty was in flames;
a crowd breached its perimeter and set the place ablaze.
Almaty Airport too was reached, and flights were cancelled there,
while Putin urged all sides to show restraint, avoid despair.

Alibec Rusedew is a poet of Kazakhstan. Almaty is a city in Kazakhstan with a population of around 2,000,000.


Aulus Perseus Flaccus
          by Aedile Cwerbus

Of Volaterre, in Etruria, young Perseus
lived out his life by twenty-eight, his verses, precious, terse,
retouched by Cornutus, by Bassus published in a book,
six artificial pieces, so involved and so obscure,
but for their moral stoicism, entwined piquantly,
alluding to Lucilius and Horace frequently,
and satisfaction of th’ abstruse, presented natural,
how would one know why many found his lines remarkable?


Before This Monitor
          by Aedile Cwerbus

Before this monitor, o, vanity of vanities,
the cares of men—o, what a waste—these veined inanities.
O, who will read your poetry? Next to no one? No man?
O, what a lame conclusion, sir. Polydamas crows on.
Ah, Trojans all. They’d rather hear Lasemi at his trite.
O, anything that he might write they won’t reject as blight.
The standard may be popular, but be your own known norm.
What is the use of asking anybody slighting Rome?
When I consider just how old we have become, and grum,
then I think what’s a saucy Pan, who laughs away the glum?

That hoary head is not a silver crown of glory, no,
nor is that fair, round belly more than but a p/a/unch/y bowl.
That balding pate is not a mirror of the honoured old,
but rather more debauchery, or overmoral mold.
That sour way of life is hardly hardy anyway.
How can one curb such words? Who cares then what those people say?
O, all these poets and these prosets how they court applause.
Footloose and fancy-free they run about so grandiose.
The brilliance of sardonyx is a common theme they kill,
o’er which they quiver at a sliver and can not sit still.

Aedile Cwerbus is a poet of Ancient Roma. Aulus Perseus Flaccus (34-62) was a Silver Age Latin poet of intricate verse. Gaius Lucilius (c. 160 BC – 103 BC) and Horace (65 BC – 8 BC) were Roman satirists. Polydamas was a Trojan in Homer’s Iliad.


The Persistent Poet
          by Bard Eucewelis

He did not wet his lips upon the Hippocrene, although
a Pegasus in neon flashed—gas-station down, below.
And he was slow—the twin peaks of Parnassus never showed,
till after Mount Rainier’s twin peaks in golden sunlight glowed.
He found no busts with crowns of laurel ivy anywhere,
nor bards with holy rites around his songs upon the air.
His songs were like a parrot’s squawk, or some pied magpie’s screech;
the robins there within his reach, avoided human speech.
That Master of the arts, that Great Dispenser of such skills,
supplied but access to a gleam of hope and verbal ills.

Bard Eucewelis is a poet of Ancient Celtic realms.


The Flying Red Horse
          by Reece Ubs Idwal

High above the emerald crown of evergreen trees,
Mount Rainier, the Earth’s milk white breast, firmed in the East;
Mount Olympus, harnessed in golden memories,
Towered with icy iridescence in the West.
And the silver Sound lapped silently between them.
The Sun, resurrected from a dying phoenix,
And sparkling in its nest like a bright oval gem,
Dropped, and splashed scarlet across the sky’s crucifix,
Unleashing from the bloody shells, a flying red horse,
Who shook free the heavy reins of the Peaceful Sea,
And furiously thundered down the sandy shores
Into the starry blue night of Eternity…
Maybe it was but a neon gas station sign,
I’ll still be your Sun forever, as you’ll be mine.

Ubs Reece Idwal is a poet of the Pacific Northwest. His first memory of life was the flashing red horse in the Seattle skyline at the age of three.


New Year’s Eve Fireworks
          by Red Was Iceblue

Ah, it was New Year’s Eve, and watching fireworks out back:
the bright displays—spectacular—out in the midnight black.
Ignited, as the lift-charge was propelled into the sky,
the concentrated heat and gas sent upwards, o, so high.
The metal salts burned silvery and gold in whirling arcs,
titanium, zirconium, magnesium—star sparks,
aluminum and sodium, ah, scarlet lithium,
the blue and orange, copper, calcium and strontium.
The incandescence, luminescence, o, so beautiful.
Who does not love to gaze upon that spreading, lucent pull?

Red Was Iceblue is a poet of chemical colour.


The powerful James Webb Space Telescope took off to space
from ESA’s launch base in French Guiana, Christmas Day.
100 times more sensitive than th’ Hubble Telescope;
to change our understanding of the Cosmos is its hope.


That Golden Sun
          by I. E. Sbase Weruld

I love and hate that golden Sun that shines nearby in Space,
its beauty, warmth and power, our sole bit of Cosmic grace.
And yet its countenance is nuclear and dangerous,
carcinogenic too, to look on, deleterious.
I love its brilliant colours and its rainbow-making light,
and how it takes away the dark and Universal Night.
Yet, I abhor its horrid horoscope and zodiac,
foretelling Hell and Hades in each second of its fact.
I’m thankful for its hydrogen turned into helium,
but that is why, despite amor, I still have odium.

Mister I. E. Sbase Weruld is a poet of the Cosmos.


TruckStop Topping
          by Bruc “Diesel” Awe

He had been driving all day long. He longed to have a rest.
He parked his truck at the truck stop, a place to pause, assess.
There was a brick shed next to where he’d parked his semi truck;
and he went over to its welcome shade. He was in luck.
The birds were singing in the trees, so beautiful the sky.
He stood there in blue jeans and watch, and watched them, overfly.
He sucked the pith out of the air. He filled up his whole chest.
He slapped his side; he was alive; the breeze’s breath abreast.
He wished he could stay for forever, but he had to go.
And so he headed back to his job, and the open road.


The Exhausted Mechanic
          by Bruc “Diesel” Awe

He sat down at the shop upon a tire, tired, yes.
He was exhausted—that mechanic—tan, and wet with sweat.
His pants were black as were his gloves. His lap contained a tool.
He wasn’t all that happy—kinda crappy was his mood.
So flushed, he shoved his back against the silver metal vent.
He felt that he could use himself some venting—that hard gent.
His gaze was brutal—almost feudal—in its horrid stare.
He looked like as a fighter might, his knuckles hard and bare.
His rugged face, the ugly place; it seemed to be some hell;
but could he find some inner peace some day, if just a spell.

Bruc “Diesel” Awe is a poet of transportation.


A for-ty-mi-le stretch along I-95 was blocked
from Richmond to DC, both ways, the traffic in gridlock,
a jack-knifed semi-truck, snowfall, and dropping temp’ratures;
with many outraged motorists and food deliverers.
Because of the new infrastructure law—bipartisan—
VP K. Harris thought the US on the move again;
though Tim Kaine spent more than a day stuck in the traffic mess,
and further south, near Lynchburg, Amtrak passengers were vexed.


Ping Pong
          by Rudi E. Welec, “Abs”

It was a game of ping pong on the table coloured blue.
Two men with paddles, back and forth, they hit the ball anew.
The referee in black, between them called each point accrued,
if it was smooth, or rough, no matter how it went, or rude.
Their paddles held in readiness; the server took his aim.
That tattooed man in glasses slammed that table, tough, not lame.
The other bearded dude, with paddle firmly in his hand,
prepared to make a hit as well, to follow his command.
And so the table tennis two attempted, o, to win,
each rubber-sheeted racket blast or celluloid orb spin.


Another Day
          by Rudi E. Welec, “Abs”

It was another day down at the gym and working out,
amidst beige walls and gray machines, so bare and knockabout.
A mensch kneeled on a bench to do some heavy-lifting pumps,
a push and shove without much love, arm muscles, heaves and humps.
He did his best to boost his chest; he could not sit and rest.
Each time he came down to the gym he felt it was a test.
All body parts were working hard to stretch and exercise.
He thought it was important to keep healthy, fit and wise.
He longed to keep his figure svelte, to keep his belt-size taut.
And that is how he thought about it, sweaty, though, and hot.


No Fun in the Gym
          by Rudi E. Welec, “Abs”

It was another dude who came out to the working gym.
He wasn’t having any fun; o, agony was him.
He grasped the black edge of the bench; he squinted all his face,
from clenched-up forehead, eyes and eye brows, grimace with no grace.
O, one could see why he was there; his waist and weight were large.
Indeed he felt like as a pilot-driven, river barge.
He longed to have a trainer who could tell him what to do,
to help him with his situation, blast his butt from view.
But all that he could do was carry on with drive and drill,
amidst beige walls and barren stalls. O, how he needed will.


          by Rudi E. Welec, “Abs”

He kept on running, gunning for the race’s final goal.
Left-right, left-right, left-right, left-right. But, o, he had to go.
He tried to hold his place, to keep his pace up with the crowd,
that all around him, ran as well, abundantly endowed.
Robust, nonplussed, in lusty dust, and lit crepuscular,
his stride continued, leggy, sinewed, lanky, muscular.
He had to keep his motion up, emotion strong and full,
Despite the negative, he had to see the beautiful.
It wasn’t easy. It was hard. And yet he had to run,
until he reached his final stage—at last—and he was done.

Rudi E. Welec, “Abs” is a poet of sport.


The Lounging Lizard
          by Bud “Weasel” Rice

He longed to grasp that passing locust—there upon the sand—
that lazing lizard, grazing wizard, wanting to command…
that fast grasshopper, clicking cricket. He would like to pounce.
Each tender fellow unaware would give an added bounce.
He bade his time—that wrinkly mime—so leathery and gray.
He’d love to grab some insect grub. He’d simply sit…and weigh.
O, seize that day, Horáce would say, and gratify that need,
the yen to live, that yearn to git, so vital to life’s greed.
He sat there waiting and anticipating an attack,
to snap one tarrying a sec, dare turning head or back.

Bud “Weasel” Rice is a poet of Animalia.