An Act of Terror, October 31, 2017
by Brice Wade Luse
“The bicycle path/ The parade of wrath…”
—Joe Tessitore

Another Muslim shouting ‘Allahu Akbar’ again;
but there’s no God or Greatness when one hates one’s fellow men.
The grim Uzbeki immigrant, within a rental truck,
plowed through a bike path, killing eight, and then a school bus struck.
He was a fam’ly man who had some children of his own;
a Paterson, New Jersey mosque, his new religious home.
This follower of the Quran, a coward and a fiend,
has killed five Argentinians, who had been childhood friends,
a Belgian mother of two sons, a software engineer,
and from the World Trade Center, a program manager.
Eleven more were injured, counting children on the bus;
no happy ever after for those ripped untimely thus.


Brice Wade Luse is a poet of New York Cuty.


The Taj Mahal
by Waseel Budecir

Its marble-covered bricks turn pink in morning’s hazy dawn,
white in the day, despite pollution, which is never gone,
and golden in the moonlight, when the darkness settles in,
the tourist trap, the Taj Mahal, is daily doused in din.

Some 40,000 visitors come see it every day;
the foreign tourists paying much more than the locals pay.
It took some 20,000 souls, some 20 years to build,
and every worker’s hands were chopped off afterwards—not killed?

Nobody talks about the stink of 80,000 feet,
the fleecing crimes, the traffic jams, and burning in the heat.
No, Agra boasts the love that Shah Jahan had for his wife,
his third one, he named Mizram, in his long and cruel life.


Waseel Budecir is a poet of South Asia.


More Than One Hundred Words
by Dae Wi “Scrub” Lee
in memory of Gosan, Lone Peak

According to Japan’s Asahi, on October 10,
a tunnel at Punggye-ri nuclear test site fell in.
Perhaps a couple hundred people died when this occurred;
but North Korean news reports have not put out a word.

As claimed by South Korea’s Yonhap the collapse took place
deep in Mount Mantap, near the Chinese border, at its base.
Perhaps a hundred trying to attempt a rescue of
another hundred trapped below were also lost above.

Wen Lianxing in Hefei, Anhui, China, noted that
the data from a hundred seismic sites proved it’s a fact
the blast had caused an earthquake, 6.3 in magnitude;
this accident conveyed by Kim Jong-un’s sixth-tested nuke.

Wang Nayan, of the Chinese Nuclear Society,
said, “Taking the roof off…will let out many horrid things…
A hundred kiloton bomb is a…giant bomb indeed…
and North Korea poses a huge threat…” to all the East.

South China’s Morning Post reported if the peak breaks down,
radioactive dust and gas could rise from underground.
Where will our friends be—water, stone, bamboo, pine trees, and moon?
Where will our fishermen be in a hundred days then,Yun?


Dae Wi “Scrub” Lee is a poet of Korea. One of his favourite poets is Yun Seon-do.


Nogi Maresuke Thoughts
by W. “Cured Eel” Sabi

The mountains, rivers, trees and grass have turned cold, desolate.
Within ten li, the smell of blood surrounds the battle’s lot.
My horse, though brave, does not advance; the soldiers do not talk.
Gold sunset lands outside of Fortress Jinzhou; I don’t walk.

It was not easy climbing up Hill Two-Hundred-and-Three.
Men sought their honour; it was hard; and filled with misery.
The mountain changed its shape, now strewn with blood and iron dye.
We now all look in awe upon the place where your souls lie.

A million-strong, on a crusade against barbarians;
the battle and the siege left in a mount of carrion.
I do not want to face those back at home. I am ashamed.
In spite of triumph, few return, and they remain unnamed.


W. “Cured Eel” Sabi is a poet of Japan, particularly on the heroic and the horrible in war; here poems of Nogi Maresuke from the Russo-Japanese War.


Cold Pastoral
by Bilee Wad Curse
for Louise Glück

The sun rises. Its shadow falls
upon the mountains of the moon.
There is no mist. No curlew calls.
They are not missed. There is the sun.
It burns its way through everyone.
Unloved, unkissed, the mind repeats
its fierce integrity. At least
there is the meadow of the mind.

What starts as love becomes neglect,
and then rigidity of form.
Who can live here? Most souls reject
the shocking peace, embrace the storm.
They cannot stand to leave the earth
for such an arid landscape’s scene.
They want the flowers, trees, and birth,
not some dearth setting down hard, mean.

Yet God knows that the sun falls too,
on me, on you, on all. When it
goes out, eternity is due;
and one recalls the infinite.
The granite cities, tall with crime,
seem small beside the river’s flow.
They disappear in fields of time.
Where did they think that they could go?


Bilee Wad Curse is a poet of the mean, the cruelty of the average.