by Cur A. Wildebees
Across vast sub-Saharan Africa,
from Senegal to Sudan, walks the kob.
The long and grassy northern savannah
is haunted by this white-eared antelope.
And though not one of them is purple, green,
or yellow with blue rings, their or’nge-red backs
and undersides, which are quite white when seen,
are prefect colors for them; these aren’t lacks.
The rings around their eyes are white like eggs.
No beaded ceintures gird their hairy forms.
No socks of lace adorn their black-striped legs.
No hats are needed for their short-ringed horns.
They’re fine just as they are. They don’t require
to dream of tigers in red weather, sir.
Cur A. Wildebees is a poet of Africa.
W. Israel Ebecud
If your banked river turns to blood, and frogs o’errun the land,
then that is bad, that is not good, it’s not in your command.
If lice take over, and the flies are buzzing all about,
o, that is nasty, it’s not nice, it fills one’s mind with doubt.
If murrain does infect the cattle, boils and blains the folk,
then epidemic plagues attack, black leprosy’s unyolked.
If ha:i:l devastates the earth and locusts swarm the crops,
then growing plants for eating well will come to a full stop.
If darkness overtakes you, and your first-born children die,
I recommend you take your leave and waive a long good-bye.
W. Israel Ebecud is a poet of Israel.
The Grand Old Way
by Lu “Reed ABCs” Wei
The Chinese are imperial, as ruthless as can be;
perhaps they can lead planet Earth in this new century.
Though many make a big deal of its great economy;
because it may be Earth’s top one by 2033;
that shouldn’t come as a surprise; its population is
more than twice times the size of Germany, Japan, US.
The Chinese misappropriate republics, companies;
it’s nothing new upon Earth’s stage; they lie, they cheat, they steal.
And though they censor people who don’t follow what they say;
perhaps their tyranny will light Earth to the grand old way.
Ending Poverty—the Chinese Way
by Lu “Reed ABCs” Wei
To halt big-city-ills disease, Shanghai will check its growth,
and limit population—25,000,000 at most.
Construction lands available shall not exceed th’ amount
of 3200 kilometres squared at top count.
In six core districts the officials want to limit folks,
though migrant workers and the city’s poor will suffer most.
This follows on the heels of knocking Beijing’s numbers down;
in winter’s cold the tens of thousands being chased out now.
As Guo Degang points out, there’ll be no blind eye to the poor.
Once gone, the poverty will drop; there won’t be any more.
On the Casualties of Tiananmen Square
by Lu “Reed ABCs” Wei
The Chinese Communists announced in 1989
three dozen personel had died, 200 folks, in kind;
but Western estimates back then ranged to 1000 deaths,
in the Tiananmen Square pro-democracy protests.
But now perhaps those numbers were deflated in the press,
according to a secret cable recently released.
United Kingdom documents suggest another sum,
from Alan Donald, once a member of officialdom.
He thought the number was more than ten thousand lives there killed.
And now, ambassador, one wonders, how much blood was spilled?
Lu “Reed ABCs” Wei is a poet of China.
Vice Marshal Hwang Pyong-so
by Dae Wi “Scrub” Lee
Because he had an impure attitude toward Kim Jong-un,
it seems Vice Marshal Hwang Pyong-so has vanished from the sun.
Because he has been missing for two months, the rumours spread;
there’s speculation he’s been executed—Is he dead?.
If Hwang was kicked out of the Workers’ Party, it would mean
the end of his political career in the green.
Last seen October 13, doesn’t mean that he’s been purged.
Perhaps a reprimand was apropos, and not a dirge.
But the belief that Hwang’s been executed still runs deep;
Kim has killed others simply yawning or fall-
Dae Wi “Scrub” Lee is a poet of Korea.
by Daw Buricselee
He got into the padmasana, there upon the mat.
He bent his knees and stretched his legs, aware where he was at.
He lifted up his spirit’s spine, from hips up to his head.
He closed his eyes, but opened up his mind; it was wide-spread.
He dreamed of hills, high, rugged, rough, they rose up to the sky.
He longed to see life waterfalling with his inner eye.
He felt his brown-and-white-striped tee shirt, keeping him contained,
so he would not fly off…but still new height could be attained.
His knees were braced. His legs were firm. His neck stretched in the air.
His elbows bent, he was content, as if he wasn’t there.
Daw Buricselee is a poet of southeastern Asia.
Lines on Jan III Sobieski, Christmas Eve 2017
by Ludiew E. Sarceb
A day before the Battle of Khotyn, King Michael died,
but Sobieski lived and fought to victory in stride.
He then was crowned the king of Poland-Lithuania,
and fought to halt the Ottoman’s bloodthirsty mania.
He picked up battle axes, the dragoon and the hussar.
His Polish forces took back Bratslav, Mogalev and Bar.
He brought in cannon and fresh tactics for th’ artillery,
and formed a new alliance with the Austrian elite.
He fortified Lwôw and Krakôw, thinking they were next
in line to fall before the Turkish, murderous offense.
But it was at Vienna that the savage Turks attacked,
unleashing cruel, sadistic slaughter, massacre, in fact.
Near breaching of the walls, no time for any kind of peace,
the allies launched on 12 September 1683;
some seventy-six-thousand troops attacked the Turkish force,
about three-hundred-thousand soldiers on their deadly course.
From Kahlenburg Hill, Sobieski charged into the fray
and broke the Ottoman line/
and Turks fled in disarray.
The Lion Lechistan became the Knight of Christendom,
civilization’s savior, champion of officialdom.
The common people kissed his hands, his fingers, feet, and clothes.
His military prowess too, in estimation rose.
Three short months later, Sobieski marched triumphantly
in through the ancient Gate of Florian on Christmas Eve;
whereas the Grand Vizier Kara Mustafa made his way
to strangulation with a silk cord, Christmas in Belgrade.
Ludiew E. Sarceb is a poet of Poland, and its history, including the Battles of Khotyn (Хотин) and Vienna.
This Grand Republic
by Usa W. Celebride
The vitriol continues; mass hysteria fumes on;
the people rage like lunatics; they cannot stand the Dawn.
They only can accept one point of view to touch their minds;
they rush to find safe places they can hide behind their Blinds.
Insanity predominates; the people scream and yell;
they long to make reality a vision of their Hell.
They love mouthpieces who will send them to a frenzied state;
they love their social media, its mad Two Minutes Hate.
The people shout out loud, like crazed and whirling dervishes.
One hopes this grand republic shall not perish from the Earth.
Usa W. Celebride is a poet of the United States of America and its rich pagent of life.
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