by Dae Wi “Scrub” Lee

Korea’s recent history has not been very good;
and part of that is who is in their closest neigbourhood:
from 1910 to 1945, the Japanese,
and after that the puppeteers, the Russians and Chinese.
Americans had freed the nation, but the land was split
along the 38th, into the free and communist.
In 1950, Kim Jong Sun attacked the southern stand.
and pushed them to the corner in the region of Pusan.
Supported both by Mao and Stalin, his troops did quite well,
until MacArthur landed at Inchon and flanked the quell.

The war was truly horrible; my father told me so;
he was a medic stationed with marines in that hell-hole.
Ten-thousands died on either side, amidst the maimed and gore;
the deaths were far beyond the numbers of the Trojan War.
Though millions died, there never was a victory at all;
a hoped-for treaty never came, from that fierce, bloody squall.
When Eisenhower was elected, he pressed armistice,
along the 38th, into the free and communist.
When Donald Trump came in to office that was how it stood;
Korea’s recent history has not been very good.

In 1958, America supplied the South
with Honest-Johns and Matadors, to keep invaders out.
Since then the North has tried to come up with deterrence too;
they built a network underground. They weren’t sure what to do.
In 1991, Bush then removed all of the nukes;
but B-1 bombers, on the coast, continued still to cruise.
By 2017, the North had managed to possess
a nuke within their arsenal to threaten the US.
So Donald Trump and Rocketman began engaging in
trash-talking, when harsh boycotts started causing much chagrin.

But now detente between Kim Jong Un and Moon Jae-in seems,
like there could be, just possibly, peace treaties in their schemes.
And on a spring day, at the corner of the cease-fire line,
perhaps someone will see white shepherd’s purse near planted pine;
and just beyond the cease-fire line, perhaps someone will laugh;
perhaps someone will see white brier rose along this path.
Perhaps someone has walked along the riverbanks and said,
he had forgotten sounds of petals underneath foot steps.
Perhaps someone will bury deep inside a hurting heart;
perhaps someone will go away, and feelings will depart.

Dae Wi “Scrub” Lee is a poet of the Korean peninsula. He wishes he could “scrub” away all the pain of over sixty years; but he knows it can’t be done; the best that can happen is one simply moves on, lives. Oh, dad, I won’t forget.


Mount Kilauea
          by Cruse Wadibele
          “In short, get the hell outa there!”
              —Ewa Lei Ucdrebs

Mount Kilauea on Hawaii has for thiry years
continuously been erupting gold-red magma flares;
but recently the lava levels have been rising more,
inflating up, like a balloon, backed up from down below.
Then last week at Pu’u O’o, the crater’s bottom dropped
and molten rock shot up from the volcano from that clog.
When that occurred, from deep inside the Earth, it had to go;
a 6.9 temblor was triggered; flames destroyed a road;
and soon three dozen structures fell toward Leilani Estates
and more than 1500 souls had to evacuate.

Cruse Wadibele is a poet of Hawaii. Of the main islands, Hawaii (185, 079), Oahu (953,207), Maui (144,444), Kauai (66,921), Molokai (7,345), and Lanai (3,135), the one he has returned to and spent the most time on is Kauai.


The World Split in Seven
          by Lee R. Ubicwedas

If Earth were split in seven equal peopled areas,
it would break in these severed varied territorias:
four Asian groups, Southeast, South Central, Central, and Northeast,
the whole of Africa, all Europe and the Middle East;
and last Australia put with North and South America.
It seems the time has come to change the classic boardgame “Risk”.
Each section has about a billion people in its tire:
Which map projection should be used—Mercator? Hobo-Dyer?
It doesn’t really matter which projection might be used;
the people on this spheroid planet are together fused.

R. Lee Ubicwedas is a poet of the Universal.


The Nation of iCamera
          by Esca Webuilder

The nation of iCamera, in which I find myself,
is filled with people on their iPhones, chatting elf to elf.
They listen to their iTunes, high up in the wide iClouds,
and play upon their iPads when their iPods are in shrouds.
They click upon their icons, when they’re drinking juice with ice,
when they’re not syncing each to each per iOS device.
They like a lot of things, like taking selfies—I-me-mine;
while checking up on iWatches, so they can tell the time.
They cruise the Spiderweb upon iMacs—electrified—
o, each and every eye a part of the whole uniMind.

An intimate of Usa W. Celebride, Esca Webuilder is a poet of social mediacrity.


Composed in Argyle, on the Morning of May 4, 2018
          by Crise de Abu Wel
          for Friar Richard Libby

The evening primrose, pink and white, in spreading groups of blooms,
beneath blue Texan skies, arises—heavenly the view.
See myriads while driving down the concrete corridors,
so lively, lovely, one believes one’s entered heaven’s doors.
How came they here, these godly forms, like spirit ghosts, alive,
invasive beauty in the air, that here in Earth’s dirt thrive?
Red-tailed hawks approach the silver jets that cross above,
while whistling whippoorwills below compete with morning doves.
O, to be in bluebonnet land when May has just touched down,
on freeways of Elysium, o, here, in Texas—now.

Crise de Abu Wel is a poet of Catholicism.


Cyclopean Love
          by Ercules Edibwa

There is no medicine for love. Nicias, there’s no salve.
Why even the Pierian maids cannot save that valve.
Why even those loved by the nine can’t solve that quandary.
Physician, know, thyself, that love has not a boundary.
He with one eye, barbaric Cyclops, once below a time,
loved milk-white Galatea, wretched scum-bag from the slime.
His love was not of roses, apples, or soft locks of hair;
for he was smitten with a frenzy raging on despair.
His sheep would wander from green pastures, straying all about,
while he would sigh, love-wracked, beside the shore, day in, day out.

Ercules Edibwa is a poet of anient Greece, one of his favourite poets is Theocritus.


To No One
          by Aedile Cwerbus

To me no tears are due, nor for my funeral to be.
Cur, you may ask me why: Nobody liked my poetry.
Instead I live with Ennius, and others of his ilk.
You cannot make a silk purse from a sow’s ears or its milk.
Here in this age, no friend, nor foe, could give me worthy meed,
not wealthy Scipio, nor comic Naevius indeed.
Immortals do not cry for mortals; no, but if they did,
I’d mourn the Goddesses of song, and weep for Eris’ kid;
so when I am delivered up into dark Orcus’ home,
I could remind him none spoke Latin when I was in Rome.


Hispania Was There
          by Aedile Cwerbus

There were times when Italians counted on the provinces
for more than merely emperors and other offences.
When Roman works were fading some, Hispania was there
to keep the fire lit, to fan the flames of lit’rature.
Quintilian kept oratory glorious and high,
along with Seneca the Elder’s “Controversiae”;
his philosophic son kept Roman tragedy alive,
and short-lived, grandson Lucan let the telling phrase survive;
too, Martial pressed the epigram in service of his wit;
and all of these picked up the torch and ran with it, and lit.

Aedile is a poet of ancient Rome. He is a fan of both Republic and Silver Age poetry.


William Barnes
          by Basil Drew Eceu

He was the Dorset bard who sang of Linden Lea and life,
of maids and cows, of boys and boughs, of husband, home, and wife.
He worked as a Dorchester clerk, the autodidacter,
who opened schools and taught his rules to parish children there,
where Thomas Hardy would drop in to ask him varied things,
and later Tennyson and Hopkins picking up their wings.
Ordained, he then became the rector of Saint Peter’s Church;
at Winterbourne Came till his death is where he kept his perch.
A sunprint of him in a rich chair holding a thick book,
shows a gray-bearded man with a down-off and homeward look.

Basil Drew Eceu is a poet of Romantic and Victorian attitudes.


The Langlands Program
          by Euclidrew Base

Back in the 1960s, Robert Langlands came up with
ideas tying up some varied areas of math,
like number theory, polynomial equations and
solutions, symmetries, and things like that, on the one hand,
with harmonic analysis, how complex signals posed,
could into finer, element’ry ones be decomposed.
Langlands saw a large class of problems in one area,
like symmetries of Galois groups, could be translated, ah,
into some questions in harmonical analysis,
like sine and cosine functions, modular forms on the disc.

Euclidrew Base is a poet of mathematics. Langlands is noted for his conjectures conneccting representation theory and automorphic forms to Galois groups, for which he recived the Abel Prize in 2018.


A Man Was in an Elevator
          by Sirc de Wee Balu
          “In Tasks so bold, can Little Men engage,
          and in soft Bosoms, dwells such Mighty Rage?”
              —Alexander Pope, “The Rape of the Lock”

A man was in an elevator; he was asked which floor.
He answered, “Ladies’ lingerie.” Just that and nothing more.
Some laughed; but not the gender-studies prof within that car.
She filed a complaint about the joke. He’d gone too far.
How could he dare—the brute misogynist—speak out like that?
And then he had the gall to call her frivolous, in fact.
The ISA agreed. He must apologize to her.
But so far he’s refused. O, no, on that he won’t demur.
Misogyny, misanthropy—a suit is threatening:
the lightning flashes, thunder roars, above the mezzanine.

Sirc de Wee Balu is a poet and entertainer, whose name comes from the small archeological site of Balu, attributed to the Indus Valley Civilization. It is located 22 kilometres from Kaithal, Haryana, in India.