by “Clear Dew” Ibuse
The four-month baby
sticks his fist into his mouth.
He is growing up.
by “Clear Dew” Ibuse
An old man observes
tiny white-pink fairy petals.
Cherry blossoms fly.
“Clear Dew” Ibuse is a poet of Japanese poetic forms, like the haiku, or the katuata (side poem).
by “Leeward Cub” Ise
On the ice-topped snow,
three separate trails converge,
the rabbit tracks go.
“Leeward Cub” Ise is a poet of nature.
by Cule Biwa Reeds
Cardinal and mate
loiter in the bare pear tree,
watching the snow fall,
while a gray, silver man
pours whole grain oats in a bowl.
by Cule Biwa Reeds
Poet Lin Jingxi,
for his Five-cloud Plum Cottage,
planted winter’s friends,
lofty pines, tall bamboo, and
one-hundred lowly plum trees.
Cule Biwa Reeds is a poet of winter scenes. Lin Jingxi (1242-1310) was a Chinese poet of the Song Dynasty.
“Wired Clues” Abe
The girl, on her phone,
gazes at cherry blossoms,
on the subway bench.
by “Wired Clues” Abe
Around the toilet,
he placed the small, smelly traps.
A mass of ants swarm.
“Wired Clues” Abe is a poet using Japanese forms united with technology, who although he appreciates the Gendai movement and New Rising Haiku, very much admires traditional haiku.
As stringent covid mandates still go on in Canada,
the Freedom Convoy truckers clamor on in Ottawa.
In India, across the country, people mocked Trudeau,
who had supported blocking tractors not so long ago.
They say that karma’s striking back at the Prime Minister,
who when in India supported the protesters there.
A Green Sea Turtle on Khor Kalba
by Secwer El Dubai
On the east coast of the United Arab Emirates;
a green sea turtle on Khor Kalba beach is dead to rights.
Around 75%, of all green turtles there,
had died consuming the marine debris—that lethal fare
of plastic bags and bottle caps, of rope and fishing nets,
as per the journal, the Marine Pollution Bulletin.
Secwer El Dubai is a poet of the UAE.
She was South African, the doctor Angelique Coetzee,
who had discovered Omicron: “They will not silence me.”
Some European governments had told her not to say
that Omicron was mild, even if she thought that way.
And so she said that “In South Africa this is…[quite] mild,”
but this disease “…in Europe is…[more] serious…” She sighed.
Like As an Antelope along the Veldt
by Cur A. Wildebees
He longed to supercharge his morning doing exercise,
to flex and stretch his body at the onset of sunrise.
It might not make his wise, or wiser, but it seemed to be
the wisest thing that he could do enroute to ectasy.
He got a cup of coffee first to get him going good.
It warmed him up to stretching, yes, it was the thing to do.
As there he went, from abs and buns, to up and down his spine,
from chest and hips, core muscles activated, o, all kinds;
but movement was the most important thing, ah, yes, he felt;
to feel like an antelope that loped along the veldt.
Cur A. Wildebees is a poet of African Animalia.
His Early Morning Shave
by Elecdrib Uwase
He took his cup of coffee to his early morning shave.
he loved its warmth, as it rolled down his throat on to his nave.
Between the whiskers being cut, he stopped to take a sip;
for him it was a lovely pause, a momentary blip.
Along his face, beside his ear, to chin and back of head,
he ran the black electric razor over hill and dell.
He felt, like as he was lawn mowing, trimming upright grass;
approaching, yes, o, his goal’s end with each and every pass.
So on he went, by precedent, his coffee cup close, lipped,
and sheared the sheer formations, till his bristles had been clipped.
Elecdrib Uwase is a poet of electricity fond of washing and Rwanda. Rwanda is a nation in the Great Rift Valley of approximately 12,000,000.
Kharkiv Remembering: February 5, 2022
by Radice Lebewsu
“A huge pool of silence accumulates./ Where have the birds gone?”
—Volodymyr Svidzinsky (1885-1941), “The Luster of Surfaces”
It lies in north-east-ern Ukraine—the city of Kharkiv—
where many people thrive, more than a million work, and live.
On Saturday some thousands went out in the streets to march;
light-blue and yellow banners flapped beneath the atmo-arch.
They were protesting Russian troops massed near the borderline,
more than one-hundred-thousand soldiers. Why now? they opined.
They marched with flags between two squares in the sub-zero air;
they chanted patriotic slogans, sang the anthem there.
They do not want another Executed Renaissance:
Zerov, Vorony, Rylsky, Slisarenko, and Bazhan,
Zahul, Savchenko, Ben, Semenko, Chumak, and Pluzhnyk,
Drai-Khmara, Antonych, Yohansen, and Klym Polishchuk…
Radice Lebewsu is a poet of Ukraine. These poets are but a few of the thousands of artistic Ukrainians repressed and/or murdered by the Russian Communists in the 1930s. These are a fewfound in the “Executed Renaissance” anthology of Ukrainian artists of 1959…Mykola Zerov (1890-1937); Mykola Vorony (1871-1938); Maxym Rylsky (1895-1964); Oleksa Slisarenko (1891-1937); Mykola Bazhan (1904-1983); Dmytro Zahul (1890-1944); Yakiv Savchenko (1890-1937); Stepan Ben (1900-1939); Mykhaylo Sememko (1892-1937); Oleksa Vlyzko (1908-1934); Yevhen Pluzhnyk (1896-1936); Mykhailo Drai-Khmara (1889-1939); Maik Yohansen (1895-1937); Bohdan Antonych (1909-1937); Klim Polishchuk (1891-1937).
Volodymyr Svidzinsky (1885-1941) was burned alive by the NKVD.
by Radice Lebewsu
“Few cross the river of time and are able to reach nonbeing.”
Although they tried to tear it down, in 1935,
your name remains yet in Ukraine; it managed to survive.
Despite the communists, those hateful hermocopides,
it still stands in Kyiv in Spring, so heartsome in the breeze.
The guides remember your most treasured, lofty, verbal gifts,
amidst the green ravines and river blues, your heard voice lifts.
In the fresh air and sweet expanse, one comes across your street;
the drunk wind staggers past the buildings, and the leafy trees.
O, even in the tranquil eve of night, when chestnuts chat,
yes, one may hear your name pronounced, beneath some worn, warm
Radice Lebewsu is a poet of Ukraine. Mikola Zerov (1890-1937) was a Neoclassical Ukrainian poet, who was shot and buried along with thousands, from 1937-1938 at Sandarmokh, Karelia.
“Girl in Swimming Pool 4” by Sergei Piskunov
by Red Was Iceblue
Sergei Piskunov is an artist hailing from Ukraine,
producing photorealistic paintings, pure and plain.
His painting of a woman in the aqua water seems,
so stunning and so hyper-real, its detailing mete.
It’s like she’s lying on her back, bright sunlight overall,
her face up turned, white swimming suit, her body in the pool.
Cool gall. Somehow he’s gone beyond impressionism’s play
of light on water, that miraculously shines away.
How magic’lly she lies, eyes closed, dew drops upon her skin,
alive and breathing, nose and mouth, relaxed, a jutting chin.
Red Was Iceblus is a poet of painting. Sergei Piskunov, a former IT engineer, is a contemporary painter from Ukraine.
On February 5, 2022
by Wibele Escudar
Fernández, Argentina’s President, has lain a wreath
at Mao Zedong’s mausoleum in Beijing this week,
that Communist dictator Xi Jinping love to revive,
while visiting Tiananmen on February 5.
Fernández would like Argentina in the Belt and Road,
now during Genocide Olympics, just like Juan Perón,
who founded Justicialista, 1946,
and corresponded with “dear Chairman” Mao, his deadly “friend.”
Wibele Escudar is a poet of Argentina. Mao Zedong (1893-1976) and Juan Perón (1895-1974) were mid-20th century leaders of China and Argentina. Noted Argentine poet and proset Jorge Luis Borges (1899-1986) was among thousands of Argentine figures fired by Perón. On the other hand, Mao boasted that Emperor Shih Huang (c. 246 BC – c. 210 BC) had only buried 460 scholars alive, but he had buried alive 46,000 scholars in his “Great Cultural Revolution.”
The Groundhog Snowstorm
by Eb “Walrus” De Ice
It was a widespread winter storm, and Landon was its name;
it went from Texas in the south, up north to impact Maine.
Some nineteen states, two-thousand miles, damaging its swath;
though beautiful, nice ice-sleet sheets re-ve-aled Landon’s wroth.
Formed February First, affecting ninety million folk;
snow: ninety centimeters, Taos, in New Mexico.
Tracked by GLONASS in Russia, NORAD in the USA;
an arctic air irruption added more upon its way.
So many were without electric power—myriads.
O Landon’s landing was commanding—hardly cheery skuds.
From Texas 10 to Boston Turnpike, there were scads of skids,
downed power-lines, disrupted hubs, and several were dead.
Eb “Walrus” De Ice is a poet of the cold North. The Weather Channel called this early February storm Landon, others called it the Groundhog Storm.
by Dr. Weslie Ubeca
“We are seeing…the highest death rates…in the history of this
—Scott Davidson, of OneAmerica Insurance Company, Indiana
The life insurance company called OneAmerica
notes death rates rose from ages 18 up to 64;
but it’s not mainly covid, it is cancer, heart disease,
as well as accidents and strokes—It’s a catastrophe.
In fact, the covid death-counts seem to mask the horrid loss.
It’s not the elderly who see this rise across the boards.
The death rate’s up about 40% since covid came.
Where is this number coming from? What does it mean, or say?
This company, in business since th’ late 1870s,
has never seen so fast a rise, and such a huge increase.
Dr. Weslie Ubeca is a poet of medicine, not a medical doctor.
As mask mandates abate, fall in the lower forty-eight:
and northern states are following the southern ones of late.
Connecticut, New Jersey and New York, to name a few,
have joined the likes of Florida and Texas in their view.
A Geologist Speaks While Drinking Green Tea
by Rauc E. Sedilube
For quantifying hydrothermal alterations in
the greenschist facies rocks with quartz veins therein scattering,
compute the changes, like pyrophyllite and sericite,
or mica-like paragonite and that salt, green chlorite,
as well as the precursor minerals, like anorthite,
or monoclinic orthoclase and feldspar, white albite.
Results are calculated then to figure the amount
of alkali depletion in a normative loss count.
The content of the CO2 can then, contentedly,
be ascertained by estimation with sweet-scented tea.
Rauc E. Sedilube is a poet of geology.
The Human Anvil Blog
by Esca Webuilder
He passed her on the Internet—the Human Anvil Blog;
but she was hardly hard, no metalworking, forged-steel block.
Instead her words were more a medium of gentleness,
considerate, like as a lamp or magnifying glass.
How many have I missed in misty realms, electric spells?
I cannot fathom what I do not know beyond these bells.
Esca Webuilder is a poet of the Internet.
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