Go Bravely Forth
          I. E. Sbace Weruld

It’s frightening to be so high up in the air,
                                    up in the stratosphere,
to hear so many voices striving to be heard.
It is electrofying frying,
       invigorating flying, but I fear
this power too. It is too much, like a large bird,
or plane, above the mountains, soaring o’er the World,
while Earth
       itself is turning through the universe, onward.
Accept, o, heart, this cursed destiny unfurled.
O keep encouraged, like Knight Don Quixote was,
or Captain Kirk, that bold, brave Space Age traveler
                                                                 and musketeer.
Fare well, fair wealth. Go forth, like great Odysseus.
Go on, though it be where no man has gone before,
through th’ rosy fingered dawning of Aquarius.

I. E. Sbace Weruld is a poet of the Universe.


The Owl
          by E. Birdcaws Eule

Of order Strigiformes, a nocturnal bird
of prey, the solitary owl, with big, broad head,
sits upright, vigilant to what he’s seen and heard.
His gawking, forward-facing eyes keep him in stead,
prepare him for the fish and smaller mammals he
is seeking to attack. At dawn he makes his bed.
He wisely gives no hoot for an anomaly,
but checks it out if it’s significant for him.
Although a loner, Strigidae’s his family.
He parks his arse in trees, and likes the dark and dim.
He calls to whom he wants to talk, when he’s assured
his cover won’t be blown, his talons on a limb.

E. Birdcaws Eule is a poet of the birds.


Anecdote of the Bard
          by Cadwel E. Bruise

He did not give of bird or bush,
like something in Connecticut
that sat within the traffic rush
behind the concrete etiquette.

For though he had been given birth
in Reading, Pennsylvania,
and went to Harvard’s ivied girth
and thence attended New York Law,

he ended up in Hartford’s grip
and worked for an insurance group
through two world wars and one big dip
to keep his kitchen filled with soup.


The Paddy Wagon Came
          by Cadwel E. Bruise

The paddy wagon came to pick the men up off the streets,
repoorted by the varied cops upon their varied beats.
The scraggly men were rounded up and picked up one by one,
each quite a struggle to subdue. O, it was hardly fun.
Some fought arrest as if that were life’s most important thing;
some got a rest, but only after they were made to sing.
They sighed, they yelled, they cursed, rebelled; but all were pacified;
although they felt as though they had been screwed and crucified.
Though some were new at this, most of the others were repeats.
The paddy wagon came to pick the men up off the streets.

Cadwel E. Bruise is a poet of New England.


An Everyday Black Man
          by Lebudias Crewe

I’ve met a lot of people in my life,
but very few do I recall as well
as this one guy from long ago, whom I’ve
remembered; for he pulled me out of hell.
Back then one night I fell into a dark
and slimy hole. Oh, I was floundering…
My situation was so grim and stark
I could have drowned; I found no boundary…
But he held out a pole, this quiet man,
while I was thrashing in that gritty brine;
he was an African American
whose help I first declined. But he was kind;
while I was sinking fast, he made me grab
that pole, and pulled me out, of there, thank God.
And though I’ve never seen him since that time,
oh, every day I’m thankful that he nabbed
my body from that grime, and wish that I
could now repay his perfect help in kind.

Lebudias Crewe is a poet of the grand.


The Extra
          by Cawb Edius Reel

He was an extra in the movie, an unknown,
who was not even listed, o, as having been…
there in his scene. But he stood out to me, alone
of all the cast, although he didn’t say a thing,
an actor of the highest form, sheer excellence.
He just stood there amidst the action and the din;
and though he wasn’t credited, he still impressed.
While all around him whirled, he stood there calm—that stud;
and yet one easily could see that he oozed zest.
He wasn’t given any recognition, but
I saw what he was trying to perfect and hone
a fine display of all his talent in his—Cut!

Cawb Edius Reel is a poet of film.


García Márquez (1928-2014)
          Cesar Dwe Uribe

The handsomest drowned man came in from th’ azure sea.
His hair was flat and black, his body, brown and bare.
His eyes were dark as caverns, deep and shadowy.
There was a piece of seaweed dangling from his ear.
The year was 2014, time for him to go.
He sat upon the water’s surf, as if he were
a merman. We were amazed he had such soul.
We longed to be with him, there, floating at his side.
It was his puissant honesty that had a hold
on us. His torso twisted in the floating tide.
We watched his gaze as he turned to eternity,
and wondered if we too were ready for the ride.

Cesar Dwe Uribe is a poet of southern North America and northern South America.


The Brazil National Museum Fire: September 2, 2018
          by Luc Ebrewe Dias

Not much remains. The National Museum of Brazil
was gutted recently by fire, in a raging spill.
The smoky, charred exterior, though standing, held within
the little that was left, the rubble piles, an aisled bin.
Researchers now are cataloging what they stilll find there,
amidst the smouldering of ash that permeates the air.
The building has been sealed off; crash barriers enclose,
as do Quinta da Boa Vista centenary groves.
Outside the statues gaze upon the world they survey,
the nice view interrupted by aromas of malaise.

Luc Ebrewe Dias is a poet of Brazil, who has much to learn about Brazilian poetry. Amongst the following poets, his favourite poet is Olavo Bilac: Gregório de Matos (1636-1696), Santa Rita Durão (1722-1784), Cláudio Mauel da Costa (1729-1789), Basílio da Gama (1740-1795), Alvarenga Peixoto (1744-1792), Tomás António Gonzaga (1744-1810), Antônio Gonçalves Teixeira e Sousa (1812-1861), Joaquin Manuel de Macedo (1820-1882), Gonçalves Dias (1823-1864), Álvares de Azevedo (1831-1852), Junqueira Freire (1832-1855), Casimiro de Abreu (1839-1860), Tobias Barreto (1839-1889), Joaquim Maria Machado (1839-1908), Castro Alves (1847-1871), Sílvio Romero (1851-1914), Raimundo Correia (1859-1911), João de Cruz e Sousa (1861-1898), Olavo Bilac (1865-1918), Adolpho Caminha (1867-1897), Alphonsus de Guimaraens (1870-1921), Mário de Alencar (1872-1925), Manuel Bandeira (1886-1968), Cora Coralina (1889-1985), Oswald de Andrade (1890-1954), Menotti Del Picchia (1892-1988), Ronald de Carvalho (1893-1935), Mario de Andrade (1893-1945), Jorge de Lima (1893-1953), Cassiano Ricardo (1895-1974), Raul Bopp (1898-1984), Cecília Meireles (1901-1964), Murilo Mendes (1901-1975), Carlos Drummond de Andrade (1902-1987), Carlota de Carmago Nascimento (Loty) (1904-1974), Mário Quintana (1906-1994), Vinicias de Moraes (1913-1980), Manoel de Barros (1916-2014), João Cabral de Melo Neto (1920-1999), José Paulo Paes (1926-1998), Décio Pignatari (1927-2012), Haroldo de Campos (1929-2003), Hilda Hilst (1930-2004), Feirrera Gullar (1930-2016), Roberto Piva (1937-2010), Waly Salomão (1943-2003), Torquato Neto (1944-1972), Paolo Leminski (1944-1989), Ana Cristina Cesar (1952-1983), Philadelpho Menezes (1960-2000).


          by Lars U. Ice Bedew

It was 1843, he was born—Edvard Grieg—
It was Bergen, Norway on a lovely day in Spring.
His first music teacher was, at age six, his mother.
He met violinist Bull when he was just fifteen.
Next he studied in Leibzig, Germany, for a time.
He disliked the discipline, yet still he got good grades.
He survived life-threatening, lung disease, seventeen,
going on to twenty-four, he wed Nina Hagerup.
Next year Edvard Grieg composed Piano Concerto,
while on a minor holiday that he took to Denmark.
Then his only daughter died, Al-ex-an…dra…he cried.
Yet went on to write the music for his Peer Gynt Suite.
At sixty-four he passed away, that Fall day, thousands mourned.
He’d discharged his final words: “Well, if it must be so.”

Lars U. Ice Bedew is a poet of Scandanavia.


The Funeral March of a Marionette
          by U. Carew Delibes

The Funeral March of a Marionette is
by Charles Gounod. The marionette’s broken—dead—
right off. The funeral procession starts off; it’s
D-minor. Mummers’ murmurs of regret are heard.
They are comical in the central section’s scene,
and quaint. Participants pause for tidbits, are fed.
Delightful musical refreshments flourish in
D-major. It is like a tasty bagatelle,
an appetizer—good, but hardly nourishing.
Then, on they travel in their inappreciable hell,
like puppets on parade in happy negligence,
D-minor, and back to the house wherein they dwell.

U. Carew Delibes is a poet and musical critic of France.


Pappus (fl. 320 AD)
          by Euclidrew Base

O, he observed the Sun’s eclipse in Alexandria,
the 18th of October in 320 AD. Ah…
And that is nearly all I know of lofty Pappus’ life,
amidst the falling eddies of the ending Grecian strife.
O, he explored the classic curve of Greek geometry,
encyclopaedic in his synagogic synergy.
He thought on lots of writers, Euclid, Apollonius,
as well as Archimedes, and great Eratosthenes.
O, he expained the difference between analysis,
retracing knowledge, and the sought for, golden synthesis.
What most impresses is his range, his strength and clarity,
collected confidence and poised originality.
He was a mountain of a man, transcending centuries,
a mighty mathematic mind of mental venturing.


On Geometric Curves
          by Euclidrew Base

He felt as if he’d come upon cissoids of Zahradnik,
as if he’d bumped into two curves and given pole glad-thick,
the locus of some points that was the strophoid of a curve,
o, with respect to pole and fixed point, so right angular.
This strophoid rolling up his logocyclic foliate,
a cubic curve and moving vector, o, coordinate.
The focus of the ivy-shaped, cissoidal, vacuum-packed,
of Dioctes, De Sluze’s conchoid, or Zahradnik’s fact.
He felt like he had come upon a treasure-trove’s bright pools,
so beautiful, like as a pirate’s booty’s gleaming jew’ls.

Euclidrew Base is a poet of mathematics. Karel Zahradnik (1848-1916) was a Czech mathematician, Diocles (c. 240 BC-c. 180 BC) was a Greek geometer, and René de Sluze (1622-1685) a Benelux mathematician.


A Tan Landscape
          by Eswer El Cubadi

In the old town of Fez, Morocco, one may view
the Mulai Idriss Mosque, so sacred that the street
located at its entrance is forbidden to
nonMuslims; tolerance is not welcome in this heat.
As well, one may discover vats, from up on high,
where one may see where hides are treated, bare feet,
the holes of lime and pigeon shit, and those of dye,
appearing like a painter’s palette, gold, red, pink,
in brown and white, a most extr’ordinary sigh:
the labor difficult, I wonder of the stink,
centuries-old technology, beneath the blue,
recorded far away on paper and with ink.

Eswer El Cubadi is a poet of North Africa.


The African Watering Hole
          by Cur A. Wildebees

The animals come down to the watering hole
to drink. For them it is a natural impulse.
It is as if they’re led by an invisible
chain, tugging on their life-force source, that pulls and pulls
until they come to drink and drink that gorgeous draw.
To get there they will go to such lengths, raging bulls,
out of their minds with brazenness, to quench their thirsts.
They come from miles around to drop their lips into
that brew, and slurp up all they can in frenzied bursts.
It is as if that roundish pool is their top goal,
their foremost destination, absolutely first.

Cur A. Wildebees is a poet of African animals.


The Genie
          by Saudi Becrewel

He was a genie who appeared when one rubbed on
a lamp. He rose up out of dry Arabia.
He shimmered, glimmered, in the brilliant light of dawn
with bald head, bulbous nose, and thick-set labia.
Dressed all in black, a golden earring in his ear,
he seemed a great magician, or, then, maybe a
mirage. If he could grant my wishes, he’d endear
himself to me. I tried to grab his legs; but I
could not; for though he seemed so real, near,
he was as insubstantial as a piece of sky.
I saw his mighty muscles covering his brawn;
but all he did for me was turn my wishing on.

Saudi Becrewel is a poet of Saudi Arabia. Can Saudi Arabia actually turn Qatar into an island?


Edmund Hillary (1919-2008)
          by Eric Awl De Beus

He was the first to reach the topmost point of Earth—
Mount Everest in th’ Himalayan Mountain Range—
new Zealander and climber Edmund Hillary,
along with Sherpa mountaineer Tenzing Norgay
He’d practiced on much lower peaks, such as Mount Cook,
before he stood upon that height. And that would change
his life forever. He found out that he was cool
for his persistence, wondering what was the deal.
The dude had managed merely to pull up his bulk
down from the bottom of the World—feet, toes and heels,
legs, butt, back, abs, arms, chest, delts, neck, and head—th’roughly—
up to the World’s top with calm and peaceful zeal.

Eric Awl De Beus is a poet of New Zealand.


          A View of Bangkok
          by Daw Buricselee
          “Bangkok is third in tourists after London and Paris.”
              —Claude I. S. Weber

It is a place where tears dry fast—Bangkok—Krung Thep—
It’s not a place one would expect to find sweet peace
or love. Food stalls, skyscrapers, traffic jams, young pep,
perhaps, where motorbikes or taxis never cease,
white, yellow, pink, et cetera… But peace, or love,
along Chao Phraya River? Stress, yes, or sex, please,
and even or’nge-robed Buddhists, blue-jeaned guys, and tough
muay Thai boxers, overlooking Lumphini Park,
tart cocktails in high-rises, sprawling, climbing up
above flushed-shiny-neon-shrine flash in the dark.
On Sukhumvid, you better watch your pants, your step,
lest you fall down, flesh wounds, lest you become a mark.

Daw Buricselee is a poet of Thailand.


No Phoenix
          by Li “Web Crease” Du

No phoenix frolicked on the Terrace at Jinling,
when there Li Bai had been exiled from Chang’an.
Now in the southern capital out east, Nanjing,
where Sun’s bright rays, were raised to peace out west, Xi’an,
Wu Palace is replaced by splendid, built-up sites,
if not as gorgeous as the towers of Hong Kong,
still beautiful to see, so scintillating, bright;
although I’ve heard dark clouds obscure their brilliant skies.
My mind drifts out to space. Once T’ang was bathed in light.
Here wild geese above the climbing buildings fly,
as yellow cranes are busy flapping metal wings.
One thousand years the aimless clouds go by. Good bye.

Li “Web Crease” Du is a poet of ancient and modern China.


The Shadow of Masuji Ibuse
          by “Clear Dew” Ibuse

He threw away his youth into the gutter of
Waseda’s ghetto, like a salamander trapped
beneath the water in a cave, Aoki above,
Homei below, a trout who swam past a coy carp.
Then the Great Kanto Earthquake hit Tokyo
in 1923, and fire-flames enwrapped
the city, so he took the train home to Kamo
and comfort from his family. When he went back
to Tokyo’s despair, Tanaka Kotaro
was there to find him work, find him a wife, and drink
beneath plum blossoms in the night, a goose, in love,
he frees, before the coming wars and rain blinked black.

“Clear Dew” Ibuse is a poet of Japan.