That Celestial Country
          by Cesar Dwe Uribe
          for Luigi Fontanella

That place that I have been, all of my life, trying
to get to, down these arteries of the soul,
filled with trials, ordeals, struggles, hopes, and crying,
remains across that sea, a near, yet distant, goal.
That place appears so different inside a boat
than from this shore where I and Don Quixote stroll.
He sighs for Maconda. I patrol the moat.
That we shall e’er escape this air I do not think.
That place I long to reach, that city high afloat
in azure, shimmering, bright white, pure gold and pink,
around which scatter seabirds, cumulus, flying,
as in a vision, beckons even while I sink.

Cesar Dwe Uribe is a poet of Latin America. Maconda is a town in the fiction of García Márquez. Luigi Fontanella is New Millennial Italian poet. The setting for this bilding is on the coast.


A Floral Lullaby
          by Ubs Reece Idwal

Around the edges of our yard, the purple foxgloves show;
they can’t wait to escape the gloom to blossom, bloom and grow;
but they have such a little chance before the larger trees
will tower over them and leave them far from light or breeze.
They want to get out of the dark; they long to rise up tall;
though they are often in the dark; by fir trees they are small.
When every now and then a fir or alder tree falls down,
an opportunity occurs for them to come around.
Oh, they are ever waiting in the wings prepared to rise;
and that is how the foxglove plant can manage to survive.

Ubs Reece Idwal is a poet of the Pacific Northwest. The above is an early tennos.


Footnote to a Supreme Reality
          by Esiad L. Werecub

Hi, arrow, flying up to meet the eagle’s feet
in flight, how are you going to complete your trip?
Up in the high air, oh, will you hit eagle meat,
or will you fall back down to earth without a grip?

O’er there at Syracuse, Hiero I once reigned
and strove for power through alliance, friend and ship,
whom Aeschylus, Simonides, and Pindar gained
for patron in the great 470s BC.

That tyrant won the battle of Cumae against
Etruria and Carthage. That is history.
Hey, pointed shaft, you missed your mark. I guess I’ll eat
a chicken TV dinner, far from Sicily.

Esiad L. Werecub is a wolfish pup of the Mediterranean, Olympian spawn and early sighter of Pegasus.


At the Demarcation Line
          by Dae Wi “Scrub” Lee

On Friday, Kim Jong Un and Moon Jae-in signed an accord
there at the DMZ; it seems, both nations were on board.
Kim was the first dictator from the North to step upon
the South Korean territory since the War began.
They shook hands at the concrete curb, the demarcation calm,
that marked the border at the village truce of Panmunjom.
There were good words from many folks, from Trump to Xi Jinping,
but winning words aren’t actions, wishing’s not reality.
Fine, formal dinners and tree planting do not make a peace;
true innocence and quiet love is what will make war cease.

Dae Wi “Scrub” Lee is a poet of the Korean peninsula.


A New Dark Age
          by Esca Webuilder

A new Dark Age descends upon a witless mindlessness
that permeates the Intenet with its unthinking cess,
that loves censorious fault-finding, carping viciousness,
believing that disparaging is better than to bless.

The new inanity that goo-twit, faceless mobs express
when they descry those they don’t like and foolishly regress
into stupidity and trivial antithesis;
like vile ogres in their hate, opposing, they oppress.

Deriding objectivity and worthy righteousness,
they fight the light of meritocracy without finesse.
It is a mindless lunacy, an inept senselessness,
a brainless dullness verging on profound unconsciousness.

Esca Webuilder is a poet of social media. “Braindead zombies despise individual achievement…” is a quote of his that has brought him into conflict with the offspring of Gog and Magog, El Ogog.


Johann Carl Friedrich Gauss
          by Euclidrew Base

He showed a polygon of seventeen sides could be drawn
by compass and straight edge, and other primes like it, so on.
He honed the method of least squares connecting it then to
both probability and normal distribution too.
He proved the precept of quadratic reciprocity,
the theorema aureum of arithmeticy.
He plowed the Algebraic Fundamental Theorem’s fields
and stressed the need at least for one root in among its yields.
In Disquisitiones Arithmeticae, he pressed
the concepts of the residue class and congruences.
He jotted the prime number theorem on a log book back;
amazingly unmentioned on his trail-blazing track.
He used a method that’s still used for tracking satellites,
and sighted new-found Ceres there on next-year’s New Year’s night,
his Theoria Motus giving readers a clear guide
for carrying out computations of an orbit’s ride.
He spent time working on the perturbations out in space
and new approaches to numerical analysis,
as well as series infinite and error theory’s base,
surveying, measuring, and geodesic palaces.
He published nothing on the postulate on parallels,
convinced there could be nonEuclidean Bolyaic hells.
He focused on geomagnetic issues of his time
and followed recently discovered Neptune’s data mine.
He trained astronomers and kept observatory notes;
while traveling along down varied mental asymptotes.
He kept good secrets, like elliptic functions to himself,
for fear the shouts of the Boetians would upset his shelf.
He was known as the Princeps mathematicorum Faust,
who did not sell his soul, no, Johann Carl Friedrich Gauss

Euclidrew Base is a poet of mathematics, and Gauss is one of his favourite mathematicians.


Arad: April 30, 2018
          by W. Israel Ebecud

Today Israeli leader Netanyahu has unfurled
100,000 documents: “Iran lied to the World.”
Iran has had a secret nuclear plan called Arad,
and schemed to make Hiroshima-sized bombs, ballistic-clad.
And even after an agreement to destroy such plans,
Iran preserved their data-cache, and that sought to expand.
Yet what is even more amazing, brazen, I would say,
is that Mossad got all the files that were on display.
That staggering intelligence coup deep inside Iran—
Who helped, and how much did it take to get those nuke-bomb plans?

W. Israel Ebecud is a poet of Israel, and among his favourite writings in Hebrew are איוב, משלי, תהלים.


The Banning of Peppa Pig
          by Lu “Reed ABCs” Wei

Authorities in China have banned pinkish Peppa Pig;
the cartoon piglet character was getting way too big.
It was becoming an icon of the shihueren kids,
those undereducated Chinese youngsters on the skids.
The popularity of Peppa Pig, like Winnie Pooh,
was threatening the firm, tight-fisted communistic stew.
Both must be banned; they’re propaganda; they must both be stopped;
such spoofing is subversive, and as such they should be blocked.
As well all ref’rences to Kim Jong-un must not be heard;
avoid the phrase, yo, “Fatty” when it’s followed by “the Third.”


Criminalization of Defamation
          by Lu “Reed ABCs” Wei

And now it is the law in China; it won’t be allowed.
Denial of heroic action can’t be disavowed.
Specific penalties aren’t specified; but they are there;
for punishment awaits those vile criminals who dare.
The law bans criticism of the folklore that surrounds
the 1949 dictatorship of Chairman Mao.
A present-day historian who probed the Langya Five;
for doubting that it had occurred had to apologize.
Those critical of Mao are silenced, maybe they are sacked;
but if you don’t accept the lies you will be attacked.


Cruise Missiles in South China Sea
          by Lu “Reed ABCs” Wei

Red China has installed cruise missiles in South China Sea,
another excellent example of sincerity.
Of course, Chinese officials would not comment on their isles;
imperialism requires nods and lies and smiles.
Who cares what Vietnam, the Philippines, and Taiwan think;
Brunei, Malaysia, Indonesia: ev’rybody blinks.
Surface-to-air and anti-ship defensive missile are
required for aggressive nations in the area.
It seems one belt, one road, applies to traffic on the sea,
another excellent example of Sinocracy.

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


Ravenna, After Herman Hesse
          by Alberdi Ucwese

I’ve not been in Ravenna; it is not a small, dead town.
Although I’ve read of it in books, I have not walked around.
A thousand-year’s weight sits in churches; birds hop on the grass;
mosaics don the monumental walls, somebody laughs.
One-hundred-fifty-thousand move about its streets and stores;
each listens and reflects, in noon or night, old songs it scores.
Off from the mausoleums and the baptistery rooms,
there’s pizzas, piadina, salad, pasta and ragout.
Beyond basilicas and chapels, even Dante’s tomb,
there’s red wines sparkling, fresh fish caught, beneath an airy blue.

Alberdi Ucwese is a poet of Italy.