by “Wired Clues” Abe

Johnson grass appears,
along the newly paved roads,
spreading rapidly.


          by “Wired Clues” Abe

The toddler misses,
in a warm, tiger costume,
a jetplane passing.


          by “Wired Clues” Abe

Across smooth house floors,
the toddler drives his scooter,
learning of driving.

“Wired Clues” Abe is a poet using Japanese forms united with technology.


The Stele at Tsinghua, After Chen Yinque
          by Li “Web Crease” Du

In the pursuit of learning, a true scholar breaks bonds through
the mundane values—only then can he pursue the truth.
Wang Guowei chose to die, opposed to living life in bonds,
the mind imprisoned, like the waters in inactive ponds.

This is the heart, then, of the matter, spirit’s sacrifice,
for the sake of free thought, outstanding purest artifice.
Sagacious individuals, alive today, or those
who lived in ancient times. O, who can understand these folks?

His suicide was not occasioned by mere grievances,
this independence that he sought, defying even sense.
This ste|le at Tsinghua is but a small reminder of
a man who chose free thought above the revolution’s shove.

The future can’t be known—indeed—and there may come a time,
when his work won’t enjoy pre-eminence, few will know him;
yet such unfettered mind and soul will, in this Universe,
survive millennia to share Earth with Moon, Sun and stars.

Li “Web Crease” Du is a poet of Chinese poetic theory. Wang Guowei (1877-1927) was a Chinese Modernist scholar and poet and Chen Yinque (1890-1969) was a Chinese Modernist linguist and writer. Both were Chinese protest poets. Tsinghua University is located in Beijing.


The Expurgation of Hu Jintao
          by Lu “Reed ABCs” Wei

Ex-president Hu Jintao isn’t on the Internet,
He had been forcibly removed from his C-C-P seat.
He had been sitting next to Xi Jinping, “not feeling well”,
but he’s “much better” now, state media is wont to tell.
Was it due to his health? a Party-orchestrated scene?
Whatever was the case he’s been “erased” though he’s been seen.
But now he’s censored since the incident. This is a fact.
Seventy-nine, and feeling fine: just let it go at that.
Besides he isn’t that important; his time’s come and gone…
with other communists who ‘ve served their purpose. Go along.


Peng Lifa’s View
          by Lu “Reed ABCs” Wei

Peng Lifa, Chinese physicist and dissident disguised
himself as a contruction worker on the Sitong Bridge.
He hung up banners saying “No PCR tests, but food…”
and “…strike dictator traitor Xi Jinjing.” Is he no good?
Peng Lifa also set a fire to catch people’s eyes,
and shouted slogans through a megaphone upon that ledge.
Of course, his banner has been censored by the CCP,
who do not want to see such in the capital Beijing.
Gu Guoping also was held incommunicado too,
for sharing photos that related to Peng Lifa’s view.

Lu “Reed ABCs” Wei is a poet of NewMillennial China.


The Spy
          by Bic Ewel, “Erased”

He was a spy in a department which had little clout,
in short, it was a unit organized, but down and out.
He was a member o’ th’ intelligence community,
but plagued by bureaucratic ennui and jejunity.
He took his present job because he failed life at large.
Inconsequential desk work was his mainstay and his charge.
The information that he passed was rarely idolized;
in fact, one could say it was disregarded, hardly prized.
But he went on despite it all, revealing secrets to
whoever would or could retrieve them from the data stew.

Bic Ewel, “Erased”, is a poet of the purposefully “Disappeared.”


US investigative journalists must also dye.
James Gordon Meek has been redacted by the FBI.


At the Edges of Despair
          by Sri Wele Cebuda

When he sat slowly down, he wasn’t feeling all that great.
He barely was in any mood to pause to meditate.
But still he tried. He lifted up his head and spread his thighs.
He didn’t like where he was at. He closed his outer eyes.
He opened up his inner eye to his discomfort, yes.
He wished he could feel better, blessed with peace and happiness.
He longed for rest, o, free from stress, but sat in agony.
there in that pose, wherein he rose up high, on bended knee.
His pleas for pleasing attitudes were unattended there,
as he sat in that warm air at the edges of despair.


          by Sri Wele Cebuda

He got in an asana pose upon an azure plane.
He turned his head off to the left to view the coloured paint.
It was a panel of a mix of gray and white shaped squared
along with faint and fading red and blue, two circles there.
Nearby a dark red vase was holding pussywillow stems
against the rich brown walls; all ordered and unmessed.
And then he closed his eyes; he dreamed a storm was at his back;
that seemed to shake him in a lusty, gusty gale attack.
He sought tranquility, but everything about him was
tumult and passion, wrapped within a very lively buzz.
O, how could reach any peace when this was his hard state?
O, Lord, there having a hard time, how could he meditate?


The Flex of Padmasana
          by Sri Wele Cebuda

He got into the lotus pose, still in athletic shoes.
He loved the flex of padmasana on a pad that soothes.
He sat up tall, as high as he could go; and it was good,
like as a blooming, growing flower rooted in the mud.
O, grounded in the mundane realm, but rising to new heights,
up through the spine to the divine, nirvana’s sweet delights.
He opened hip joints as he stretched his ankles, groin, and thighs,
the parasympathetic nervous system realized.
He linked up to the cosmic flux, prepared to educate.
O, in that state, mind activated, he could meditate.

Sri Wele Cebuda was a poet of meditation.


Elnaz Rekabi
          by Abdul Serecewi

Elnaz Rekabi, an Iranian rock climber, was
participating in the Climbing Asian Championships
in South Korea, Seoul, without a mandatory scarf.
Her mobile phone and passport seized, she was forced to depart.
The cheering crowds were chanting her arrival in Tehran,
but she was under pressure to explain what she had done.
She made a forced confession once she got back to Iran.
Her family was threatened. if she did not go along.
Authorities confirm she isn’t under house arrest;
No not at all; she simply is at home “in need of rest”.

Abdul Serecewi is a poet of Iran.


More than a dozen people in Shiraz were massacred.
Islamic State claimed they attacked the Shrine of Cheragh Shah.


Not Achilles
          by Ercules Edibwa
          “…but no more like my father/ Than I to Hercules.”
              -William Shakespeare, “Hamlet”

He sat up straight and tall, with gall. O, he was not supine.
Positioning upon a mat, uprose his head and spine.
He wanted to reach higher consciousness, access the Way.
O, if he could, indeed he would. It would round out his day.
Although he didn’t feel that happy—he was serious—
But he was not Achilles, no, at peace, not furious.
He loved to contemplate, to meditate, to ruminate,
a courtier of life whose skill was firmly consummate.
He wanted to reach insights, but without his being scuffed,
yet still connected to the harsh and brutal cosmic flux.
It was important to be strong to see the beautiful.
He longed to have the goodness of the true and dutiful.


          by Aedile Cwerbus

Look where high, shiny Mount Socrate stands in weighty seams,
this woodsman’s labouring beneath the trees near flowing streams,
collecting firewood to fight the cold with pleasant warmth,
for frigid Sabine winters, Thomas, hardy wine in jars.

Permit me, goddess, songs of love, strewn at the same time’s splash,
with burning wars, the cypress and the wild mountain ash.
Crass Casualty will come tomorrow giving pain or gain,
the future of sweet love and youth, of dancing in a train.

Aedile Cwerbus is a poet of Ancient Roma. Here Roman Golden Age poet Horace (65 BC – 8 BC) and British Modernist Thomas Hardy (1840-1928) are invoked.


As green turns gray, capriciously, here on this country ground,
and under gentle night, the hour strikes anew and now.
One guarantees that he will take away the leaping calf.
The traitor lurks around the lovely maiden’s happy laugh.


The Visionary Climatologist
          by Red Was Ice Blue

Two German climate activists threw mashed potatoes at
one of Monet’s “Les Meules à Giverny”—the stored stacks—SPLAT…
The series is a famous one to catch the atmosphere,
across the seasons, light at various times of the year.
Although the subject was mundane—the transience of light—
Monet could show nuanced perceptions of the clime and time.
The series started in September 1890, and
continued for some seven months into a grand display,
of changing weather round one scene, the vision he had planned,
by painting parts of each up to twelve paintings in a day.


The Blue Rider
          by Red Was Iceblue

Out of the horror and violence of the new
century, the Twentieth, came the Blue Rider,
developing, galloping, and jumping into
the World, in flight, colorful—certainly, brighter
too, and more abstract, leaving behind, in the War’s
wake, August Macke, Franz Marc, many a fighter
striving to set, and thereby achieving, a course
wherein the visions seen would make a kind of sense,
whether it be a red deer or a large blue horse
passing by standing people fading into dense
colors. Who knew what trenches they were going to
where poisoned air hovered over barbed-wire fences?

Red Was Iceblue is a poet of Modernism, PostModernism and the NewMillennial painting. The French Realist painter Claude Monet (1840-1926) was one of the founders of Impressionism. “The Blue Rider” was a 1903 painting by Modernist Russian painter Wassily Kandinsky (1866-1944). August Macke (1887-1914) was a German Expressionist painter; Franz Marc (1880-1816) was also a German Expressionist painter and founding member of the Blue Rider.


He swore his oath upon the Bhagvad Gita, as Hindu,
Rishi Sunak will lead UK, at th’ age of 42.


Vital For Autophagy
          by Dr. Weslie Ubeca

Although he knew that sleep was vital for autophagy,
he still was wide awake, eyes closed, o, it was only three.
He lay upon his blanket in the darkness of the night.
He was surrounded by a splash of red and pale white.
He leaned his head upon his pillow in a dreamy state,
but he was anxious there upon that couch, prone and prostrate.
It seemed like as he was uneasy, but he wasn’t hurt.
How could he find sweet, pleasing rest, when he was so alert?
He hoped for bliss, a pause to this, a respite from himself,
but could he take a dozing break if this was how he felt?


Intermittent Fasting
          by Dr. Weslie Ubeca

He thought that intermittent fasting was so good to do,
as well as lowering his carbs, increasing ketones too.
But he thought exercises were another vital thing
to aid in autophagic cleaning and re-cy-cl-ing.
Sit-ups were one of those activities he loved the most,
o, lifting up his head and chest before a static post;
and push-ups, going up and down upon a solid mat,
while lifting up his arms and legs, o, right where he was at;
or finally, the up and down of squats beside the wall.
O, intermittent fasting could be fun, could be a ball.

Dr. Weslie Ubeca is a poet of medicine, but not a medical doctor.


New England and New York are rationing some heating oil,
as stockpiles slump by 70% and prices boil.


An Awful Chore
          by Des Wercebauli

He had to scrub so very hard. It was an awful chore.
He got down on his hands and knees to scour th’ kitchen floor
And yet he had to do it, since he loved to walk on it.
O, barefoot through the passageways, he wanted little grit.
But, woow, who knew how hard he could work cleaning up such dirt.
Right there, he rubbed his rugged rag upon that hardened surf.
He had another cup of coffee with a bit of cream,
and kept it up, the washing, splashing, like as in some dream.
And yet he wished he could be done, and it would stay like this,
o, but Time is a lusty slut, that ever trashes bliss.


Rest from a Chore
          by Des Wercebauli

He went out in the light, and sat upon a wooden bench,
beside a giant, rubber tire—that tall, tired Mensch.
It was so warm, but he was in the shade, so not so hot,
yet still not soft upon that wood, where he, in resting, got.
He took deep breaths, because he had been working in the yard;
and like the surface he sat on, his labour had been hard.
He tried to catch his breath before he’d have to go back out.
to do some more; each horrid chore, like as a fighter’s bout.
Yes, sir, he wished that he could pause in sweet tranquility.
He felt like as he was on life’s treadmill continually…

Des Wercebauli is a poet of work.


On the Hickory Wood Floor
          by Rudi E. Welec, “Abs”

He got upon the black mat on the hickory wood floor,
beside the shelves and red-brick fireplace, beyond the door.
He was prepared to do some exercises where he was,
that slightly bearded, balding man in airy, cheery zub.
His parts engaged all in considerable synergy,
he did his push-ups with a heavy dose of energy.
Although he did not have a tapered waist and washboard abs,
he leaned into his sit-ups, which he did with pumped penache.
He loved to do his workouts, even if he was just one;
for then he could see what it was he verily had done.


Some Boxers
          by Rudi E. Welec, “Abs”

He went to watch some boxers sparring in the boxing ring.
but their performance hardly was what one called spar-kl-ing.
One shoved the other—brother—in to thick, white outer ropes,
attempting to contain his adversary’s longed-for hopes.
And when the bell rang, both went to their corner resting seats,
where they sat breathing hard, their heart beats pounding like a beast’s.
Outside, beyond the window was a windy, winter scene,
but here inside there was such sweating, o, and centering.
Red walls, white ceiling, and a light blue floor surrounded them;
then it was time to start anew with fortitude and phlegm.


The Daring Hunter
          by Rudi E. Welec, “Abs”

The daring hunter longed to bag a wild animal,
as he set forth—his compass north—a furtive Hannibal.
He kept his vision moving, back and forth, his line of sight.
He saw a paw print up ahead, a little to the right.
Beneath the pines, his ess curved spine, moved forward, step by step.
He sought that critter up ahead, at some unknown spot—yep.
O, he would track that wildcat, yes, he would search and probe;
a tiny, shiny silver dewdrop hung upon his lobe.
He had no smile on his lips, he was quite serious.
Yes, he would get that quadruped. He was imperious.


          by Rudi E. Welec, “Abs”
          “In the mountains, there you feel free.”
              —T. S. Eliot, “The Wasteland”

He loved to go out hiking in the mountains. There he felt
alive and free, o, yes, siree, where he could find himself.
He’d wear his tan and hard-soled shoes with loose and thick, black socks.
It was a chance for him, yes, to detox )out-of-thebox(.
He’d march with vim and vigour, walking anywhere he could,
beneath the pure and blue azúre, far from the lake or wood.
For there out in that open air his eyes could open wide,
to see the beauty of the desert, o, on every side,
for he enjoyed the scrub-brush void, the hawk up high above.
Out in the country he felt whole, his soul fullfilled, in love.

Rudi E. Welec is a poet of physical exercise and sport.


Amusement Park Rides
          by Cu Ebide Aswerl

He’d go to the amusement parks to go on thrilling rides,
he loved the pirate ship, the pendulum, and water slides,
the tower drops, the windmill whirls, the roller coaster too,
the ferris wheel going round in airy, azure blue.

He was adventuresome, he liked the fast, breathtaking speeds,
accelerating scramblers and the crazed insanity,
the rotor’s céntrifúgal force, black hole and bumper cars,
the carousel, cliff hanger, and the booster to the stars.

He didn’t know what he was getting…in…to…shock or bliss;
anticipatiing screams, why was he even doing this?
g-forces slamming, o, God, yes, and all the horror felt,
until the freaking out subsides and fear begins to melt.

Cu Ebide Aswerl is a poet of leisure.


On Observing a Statue While Drink Green Tea
          by Carb Deliseuwe

He had a cup of green tea; it was in the afternoon.
He stood up at the window; he could not observe the Moon.
But he could see a sunlit statue, standing up and tall,
a rather narrow arrow soldier, not a general.
Perhaps he was a figure from some accidental war;
o, long ago, a battlefield, where he had been before.
He gazed upon that piece of past as he sipped on his drink.
Winds blew through red oaks and crepe myrtle in that keen scene sink.
He pulled the leather one notch higher, tightening his belt.
He loved the water hotter, but that’s not what he now felt.
He felt the wetness of the tea upon his tongue and lips,
and then he turned to take another look, and turned his hips.

Carb Deliseuwe is a poet of drink.