by “Clear Dew” Ibuse
Cause and effect:
the baby turns the faucet—
“Clear Dew” Ibuse is a poet of Japanese poetic forms, like the haiku, or the katuata (side poem).
by “Wired Clues” Abe
In the freezing day,
workers are de-icing cars.
Venus, star-like, shines.
by “Wired Clues” Abe
Russian shells rain down,
on a children’s hospital,
“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.
Ads from CGTN are running now on Facebook’s pane,
supporting Putin’s war and his invasion of Ukraine.
There have been many groups and individuals that Facebook has banished over the years; but not CGTN, the China Global TV Network controlled by the Chinese Communist Party.
by Sri Wele Cebuda
He got into the lotus pose upon the shiny couch,
a leathery and poofy one, the colour—orange-brown.
He spread his legs out to each side, his knees were bent and flat;
his inner eye was open wide there where he firmly sat.
His head was raised, as was his spine, beside gray wooden walls.
He meditated on the cosmos, planets, solar balls.
He longed to lift off from the launch pad, prepped for rocket trips.
He dreamed of distant moon shots, though he was still on his hips.
He looked off to the left and back; perhaps he could see Earth,
another Adam, worth more or less than but one man’s girth,
so beautiful to see, the tattooed skies beyond the barce,
the duel in between the wide and narrow rides of March.
Sri Wele Cebuda is a poet of meditation. Adamah means earth in Hebrew.
Oil Prices Rise
by Bruc “Diesel” Awe
As Putin’s vicious war continues, oil prices rise
across this turning Globe—Australia to the British Isles,
from Canada to Denmark, from El Salvador to France,
from Greece to Haiti, India, Japan and Kazakhstan,
from Libya to Mexico, Nepal, Oman, Peru,
from Qatar and Rwanda, to Sri Lanka, Tuvalu,
from Uruguay to Vietnam…to Yemen, Zambia:
the price of gas is gamboling along, gone gambient.
Bruc “Diesel” Awe is a poet of transportation. According to Beau Lecsi Werd, gambient is a neologism.
A Russian 3M-54 Kalíbr hit the air,
on March the 1st, & s-o-a-r-i-n-g o’er Kharkiv, strUCK Freedom Square:
Hail in Kharkiv
Within the city limits of Kharkiv, the bursting hail,
as big as grapes, goes dancing down apartment, walk and rail.
It’s spry and full of pranks, the Devil’s cavalry is near;
it splatters, clatters, on the pavement. Putin’s war is here.
The traffic cop attempts to hide his head with heed and hood;
the missiles barely miss him, as the priest cries out in blood.
There goes some children running. Will they ever get away?
How many thousands have escaped? How many ceased today?
Schools, churches, shops, and hospitals…what is not being bombed?
Yevgeny Yevtushenko, no one here is being calmed.
The Ukrainian Citizens
by Radice Lebewsu
The sky was high, while he was low down on the concrete stair,
a lovely azure with a golden solar disc in air.
He did not dare go there, but heeded missiles whistling past,
the spray of bullets in the street, arrayed, o, bristling, fast.
He placed his hand against the concrete walls surrounding him.
Here in this bunker he remained, unsure, astounded, grim.
He looked like as an animal, trapped in black camouflage.
His forehead and his neck were wrinkled, rounding his round jaw.
He thought of hordes upon their horses riding cross the Steppe.
How long would he remain down there upon those concrete steps?
Civilian casualties continue, hundreds pile up;
but someone has to haul them off, and then them somewhere put.
A man, who has no time to think of happiness, or loves,
black-bearded, sweaty and disheveled, wearing thick black gloves,
picks up another listless body left upon the street.
Although he gladly does this chore, his face is hard, and beat.
Though strong, he seems a bit unsteady, so, not casual.
But is this that unusual that’s so unnatural?
He carts the body from the fight, right-angled and awry,
to take him to his final resting place beneath the sky.
Though he was dressed in white, from top to bott, he didn’t seem
to be a doctor, lying flat there in his bombed out dream.
He didn’t even seem to be a soldier who’d been shot,
for he was in athletic shoes, gray, green, white, black, so shod.
Was he inside a fitness center recently hit hard?
Was smoke arising from the gym equipment twisted, charred?
The cap upon his head was blue and gold with white background,
his shirt shrunk tight, his pants aright, his head was facing down.
How many deaths would come from this harsh war which he beheld;
but only for one long and dreadful moment, shelled and shelved.
The Ukrainian Soldier
by Radice Lebewsu
He lay upon the ground, the soldier in his camo pants;
but he was still alive, his head atilt, with flopped dogtags.
Above his camo pants, he wore a thin black covering,
and over him one saw a vulture-hawk was hovering.
His eyes, like slits, were looking back at what was bothering.
Had he been shot? hit by some rifleman, there faultering?
He grabbed a strap, and pulled it snap. The agony remained.
O, how he wished he could be taken from his angst and pain.
One hardly noticed his buzz cut or wrinkled torso’s twist,
presented with his open wound, wound up above his fist.
Radice Lebewsu is a poet of Ukraine. Yevgeny Yevtushenko (1933-2017) was a PostModern Russian poet. According Beau Lecsi Were, bott is a trunc.
Igor Kolykhaev, the mayor of Kherson has asked
the Russian soldiers in the city not to shoot enmasse,
to let some crews pick up the bodies lying in the street,
those on the concrete sidewalks or beside the old oak trees.
by Radice Lebewsu
When he had died, he longed to be interred in his Ukraine,
high on a mound, where one could see the grand, vast steppe’s terrain,
where one could see the wheatland and Dnieper’s steep-cliffed shore,
where one could see its delta spread and hear its mighty roar,
where foes’ blood flows, beneath the yellow sun and light-blue sky,
where hills and fertile fields lie, from which he’d have to fly,
where God enthroned abides in His ethereal abode,
where he would pray until that day he knew naught of his God,
where the Ukrainians could break the chains of tyranny,
where from the foeman’s evil blood they one day could be free,
where in a grand new family, Ukrainians abrim,
would not forget Shevchenko’s words, and would remember him.
Radice Lebewsu is a poet of Ukraine. Kobzar Taras Shevchenko (1814-1861) was a Romantic Ukrainian poet.
The Russian Soldier
by Alecsei Burdew
I saw him in a pic, immobile, black boots caked with dirt.
His eyes were closed to everything; it looked like he was hurt.
Dressed all in camo, top to bottom, th’ only other things
were a wrist band, and, on his finger, sparkling silver ring.
But there he was, like as a pig beneath the soaring shells.
He grabbed his camo pants so tight, like as he was in hell.
Beyond the pale, sandy earth, green grasses grew up high,
and, in the wind, blew all about, this fattened, nearby guy.
There was no water here, but only slaughter’s hotter reach.
If only he could leave behind this hard, anhydrous beach.
It was a place that could be beautiful another time;
but now, o, Lord, it was the setting of a cruel crime…
Alecsei Burdew is a poet of Russia.
As Putin’s forces, like a cancer, eat away Ukraine,
more than two-million refugees have exited its p(l)ain.
As Putin’s soldiers struggle to deNazify Ukraine,
the German Socialists can now surveil the AfD.
Is there a gap between the mandates and the data shown,
between official statements and what really now is k(now)n?
From the DC Archives Forum
Dr. Weslie Ubeca
Among the millions fighting the injustice of the World,
was frontline doctor activist Simone Melissa Gold,
who since she challenged the covíd prevention strategy,
and took her megaphone into tyrannical DC,
on January 5th and 6th of 2021,
she was placed at the top o’ th’ FBIs most wanted list.
Some twenty agents, later, with their gunz, broke down her door,
as if they were a score of NKVD communists.
Before Judge Cooper, she confirmed she would cooperate
with government investigators of such raging hate!
still thinking that the “vaccines” were ex-per-i-men-tal and
were biologic agents, as did co-defendant Strand.
Dr. Weslie Ubeca is a poet of medical information, and is not a doctor of medicine. John Strand is communications director for America’s Frontline Doctors, arrested on January 13, 2021, for participation in the Insurrection protests. Gold was arrested January 18, 2021.
The Russian propagandists, backed up by the CCP,
claim Biden/Fauci biolabs are in Ukraine. We’ll see.
Victoria Nuland told Marco Rubio it’s true;
but were they weaponized, like possibly the Wuhan flu?
Despite six-million covid deaths, the Chinese Communists,
still have not paid for what they’ve made, their gain-of-function pist.
According to Beau Lecsi Werd, pist is a track or footprint of a horseman on the ground he goes over.
As people’s rights are being trampled on in Washington,
like those of single father Lucas Denney—for so long—
across America, some truckers have come to DC;
but there is little hope they can blockade the misery.
To See Such Sacrifice
by Brad Lee Suciewe
As Biden looks around the World to deal with oil’s price,
he’s overlooking possible United States supplies.
He dreams of trading with dictators in the Middle East,
Iran, and Ven’zuelan crooks to face the Russian Beast;
but he will not unleash America’s own enterprise.
The Chinese and the Russians laugh to see such sacrifice.
Brad Lee Suciewe is a poet of business. As per AAA (on 3/10/22), top average prices for regular gas/gallon in the US are (1) California, $5.69, (2) Nevada, $4.87, (3) Hawaii, $4.81, (4) Oregon $4.72, (5) Washington, $4.70, (6) Alaska, $4.68, (7) Illinois, $4.57, (8) DC, $4.50), (9) Connecticut, $4.47, (10) New York, $4.46 [Massachusetts @ $4.35]; and the lowest prices are Kansas, $3.81, Oklahoma, $3.85, Missouri, $3.85, North Dakota, $3.89, Arkansas, $3.90, Nebraska, $3. 91, Iowa, $3.92, South Dakota, $3.94, Colorado, $3.95, Minnesota, $3.95, Mississippi, $3.99, and Texas, $4.00. Prices are so volatile they change radically every day.
by Carb Deliseuwe
He loved tart berries, black and blue, raw straws and dull red ras’:
their tastes quite sweet, a joy to eat, a jazzy razzmatazz.
And then with cream on top, they are not easy to resist;
an antioxidant supply—o, do not say, Desist!
So juicy fresh, such luscious flesh, fine wonders of the plants.
They are one of those rarest things that Mother Nature grants.
They brighten up the morning with an energy drink’s blast,
with caffeine, taurine, laughing, roaring, like jets roaring past.
Carb Deliseuwe is a poet of food and drink.
Fishin’ For Some Croppie
by Busawide Creel
He went out fishin’ for some croppie—not sold in the stores—
that North American freshwater sunfish he adored.
The genus name Pomoxis, meaning a sharp covering,
yes, anglers love it, when they cast their baits, o, over it,
there hovering on water, with their hooks down in the lake,
opercular bones, spiny gill protection’s brittle quake.
He thought of pictures he had seen, those boyhood images,
on meek, slow-flowing creeks near rural peaceful villages.
He wished that he could be there in the springtime of his life,
away from all the vitriol, the violence and strife.
Busawide Creel is a poet of fish.
Amidst the Horrid
by I. Warble Seduce
Amidst the horrid, one can find, if but occasion’lly,
kind individuals, if only one waits patiently,
within the darkness, o, between the movies and the walls,
between the starkness of the swirling waltzes and the stalls,
between the gorgeous barques embarked and raging waterfalls,
between the ark of life afloat and wretched reining squalls.
There one can find the beauty of one moem’s precious clicks,
despite the rapes, the Rue-Morgue apes, and deadly missile kicks,
one can find people who you love, and who love you as well,
amidst the horrid and the torrid squalls of cosmic hell.
Mr. I. Warble Seduce is a poet of love.