by Li “Web Crease” Du

Above the sea it sits—the city glittering—Shanghai—
bisected by the Huangpu River—riveting at night—
a treasure chest of lights: white, scarlet, gold and blue,
reflected in the water, shining, ebony and new,
skyscraping towers, brilliant buildings, rising to the stars,
beneath the flowing rows and rows of vehicles and cars,
the gleaming dreams of money, fountains, orange, purple, green,
the World’s capital in steel, glass, and silver sheen,
like as a diamond diadem, in jewelry encased,
sapphires, rubies, emeralds—fire gems in bracelets draped.


Andrew Craig Brunson
          by Çelebi Ürwëdas

He’d been imprisoned in a Turkish cell for two long years
for “terrorist activity”, and “trumped-up spying fears”.
But it was all a lie, and caused a diplomatic spat.
Some sanctions were imposed; th’ economy had tanked in fact.
So Erdogan got caught in his hostage diplomacy,
by falsely charging Pastor Brunson for conspiracy.

He finally allowed him to be freed, although there were
still more Americans and others stuck in Turkey’s weir.
What had he gone through—Pastor Brunson—in that horrid place?
his organs targeted—mind, heart, and lungs, strength under grace.
He kept his faith for all those months through all that wretchedness,
and in the White House meeting also blessed the President.

Çelebi Ürwëdas is a poet of Turkey.


After Pierre Sonnerat
          by Cur A. Wildebees

Indri, I hear it, a cry over the trees of
that mysterious forgotten island of the moon,
Madagascar, rising to a shrillness above
Bartok, an eeriness after the afternoon,
passing like us into feeling, being, spirit—
ghost-like sounds from the relatives of the baboon.
o, behold it—that sound. O, hear it. O, hear it.
O, hear how it rises over the forest—
that eerie howl. O, and I am so near it;
but how I want to flee, emerge from that chorus,
to embrace instead only my darling, my love,
to escape those dark chords of Vergil and Horace.

Cur A. Wildebees is a poet of African animals.


Beside the Cyclops’ Lodge
          by Ercules Edibwa

I saw him sitting in the city, tight black tee-shirt on.
He also wore a baseball cap, though backwards, bill hung down.
He looked like he was waiting, wading in a wading pool,
his muscles taut, though not o’erwrought, not like a motley fool.
But why was he at that cool place with vacant countenance,
appearing like he had abundant patience, but did not.
His left leg bouncing automatic, right leg staid, secure;
the smell of apple vinegar was wafting through the air.
Where was he going to? Where had he been before this pause?
Perhaps he’d accident’lly stopped beside the Cyclops’ lodge.

Ercules Edibwa is a poet of Grecian sensibilities.


A Thing of Beauty Is a Joy
          by Bieder C. Weslau

A thing of beauty is a joy, if but a little while;
a momentary passion vanishes into a smile.
But, too, an agony that hits one hard is heard no more
long after it’s endured the push of rushing crush or bore.
Out on the track, the race is but a spread of tennis shoes.
The precious seconds fly past one, although one win or lose.
How far can one outstretch the time when beauty comes to one?
O, even love, that gorgeous thing, is ever on the run.
And when at last one will sit down, hands resting on one’s thighs,
that too will end as well before the closing of one’s eyes.


The Ever Ready Man
          by Bieder C. Weslau
          “It’s a jungle out there.”
              —Randy Newman

He was a man who wanted to be ready all the time.
Sometimes he even wore black army boots to bed at night.
He never knew when he might be attacked by ghoul or thief.
What if some tough might come to rough him up when in his sleep?
But he himself, at times, seemed ghoulish, even zombiesque;
his eyes glowed wildly but vacant, never did they rest.
Although he fretted over who might be the next in line
to shake him from his slumber or upset his sweet sublime—
some bearded ogre, or some orc, who’d break into his bask—
they never jarred his peace, or ever came to steal his cask.
And so he fretted all the time for that which never came,
and if he never would’ve done, it would’ve been the same.

Bieder C. Weslau is a poet of Biedermeier sensibilities. One of his favourite poets is Eduard Friedrich Mörike. “It’s a Jungle Out There” was the theme song of the TV series “Monk” about the OCD private detective.


The Paintings of Leonid Afremov
        by Red Was Iceblue

The brilliant paintings of Leonid Afremov,
the city settings, filled with colour, rainbow hues,
the scenes of tree-lined streets, reflective lights, remote,
greens, yellows, oranges, reds, violets and blues,
that scatter like balloons, confetti, beautiful,
bright firework displays, and glittering—such views—
a happy birthday party made real and suitable,
the promise of Franz Marc made tangible anew,
the joie de vivre, Raoul Dufy and Marc Chagall,
the energy of Paris, shimmering and true,
a feast of love à la Pierre-Auguste Renoir,
a freedom seen in an immovable remove.

Red Was Iceblue is a poet of painting. Leonid Afremov is a NeoImpressionist painter of the present age.


Shahnour Vaghinag Aznavourian (1924-2018)
          by U. Carew Delibes
          pour Darius Belewec

He sang more from his heart than from his ample vocal cords—
the French-Armenian chanson-artiste Charles Aznavour.
He wrote songs he derived from sonnets of Racine, Corneille,
each song, of hundreds that he wrote, itself a little play.
He toured with Edith Piaf, who was glad to sponsor him,
though worried he might go too far in empathy and vim.
He acted in Truffaut’s “Piano Player” and “Tin Drum”;
in “Ararat,” the Turkish genocide was in his thrum.
He went across the World. At Les Invalides, they played
“Emmenez-moi” at his memorial. Repose en paix.

Darius Belewec is a poet of Armenia. “Emmenez-moi”, in French, means “take me along” o, all over the world. It is a song of longing for other places. In his youth, one of his favourite songs was one by Charles Aznavour, translated into English “Yesterday, When I Was Young,” and sung by Roy Clark. Pierre Corneille (1606-1684) and Jean Racine (1639-1699) were, along with Molière (1622-1673), great French dramatists of the 17th century. Édith Piaf (1915-1963) was a noted French chanteuse. François Truffaut (1932-1984) was a director and one of the founders of the French New Wave. “The Tin Drum, (Der Blechtrommel) was a film adapted from a Günter Grass (1927-2015) novel.


Émile Borel (1871-1956)
          by Euclidrew Base

I saw him balanced in between the future and the past.
I wondered just how long he’d stand there. How long would he last?
Could mapping be the essence found in functionality?
O, should a pointwise correspondence be a measure’s key?

If a closed set of points upon a line be covered by
a set of intervals so each point somewhere is inside
one of the intervals, does there exists a number that
is finite with this property of covering this act?

Is any set that is obtained from closed and open sets
upon the re-als by re-pea-ted application steps
of intersections, unions, operations of this kind,
mea-sur-a-ble within this sense, a mapping of the mind?

I gazed in awe, as he stood there, upon a single leg,
this brave and focused cuss, this predecessor of Lebesgue,
there standing at the dawn, game theory strategy unveiled,
divining sums for some divergent series he assailed.

Euclidrew Base is a poet of mathematics. Émile Borel is a French mathematician.


Fernando Albán Salazar (1962-2018)
          by Lud Wes Caribee

Apparently he jumped from the tenth story to his death;
devout and godly Catholic Fernando Albán left.
Dictator Nicolas Maduro, who’d emprisoned him,
declared his death was really nothing but a human whim.
According to offcials in Maduro’s government,
th’ imprisoned opposition figure had leapt to his death.
Authoritative sources, representing the regime,
insist all should respect his suicide, and let it be.
Arrested Friday, dead on Monday, in SEBIN’s commands;
there will no longer be a loving laying on of hands.

Lud Wes Caribee is a poet of the Caribbean.


I Am What I Am
          by Swirleecue Dab

I’m a transparent, bioluminescent eye
that sees all, but is also nothing. Currents of
the Universal Being circulate through my
invisibility. Ralph Waldo Emerson
is not my name. I’m part and particle of God,
but not the sixth or seventh human sensory
perception. Scientists can’t find me, so I’m awed,
the lover of immortal beauty uncontained.
I love the forest and the wilderness unshod.
I am the paramour of sunshine and the rain.
At times I think I’m lovely and divine; then I
am gone, and vanish down a swirling, whirling drain.

Swirleecue Dab is a poet of the swirling cosmos, a NeoVorticist.


New Gnosticism
          by Bard Eucewelis

New Gnosticism is Old Heresy writ large,
where knowledge climbs about upon no ledge at all,
and leaps into the crypto-crystalline sky-marge,
hierophanizing pure divinity itself.
Here in this broken world, the demiurge awakes,
becoming in an instant, vast and epical;
while its initiates begin to incantate
and find illumination, wisdom, and design.
New Gnosticism faces grand, ecstatic scapes,
the cosmic intakes of transfigured light aligned
to visionary fields of challenge, change and charge,
there touching the reality of the divine.

Bard Eucewelis is a poet of Celtic sensibilities. Where is Peter O’Leary?


Near Cairns
          by Walibee Scrude

Cairns is the gateway to the Great Barrier Reef,
and access point to the Atherton Tablelands,
where elevations cool the tropical-like heat
and lush rainforests grow above the burning sands.
Here platypuses walk and swim near waterfalls;
and brown koala bears in eucalyptus stands
ignore the kangaroos and wallabies and calls
from colourful, spectacular, bright plumaged birds.
Here thriving happily amidst marsupials,
the Towering Cathedral Figtrees, flowers, ferns,
all on a ridge that juts up some four thousand feet;
Bruce highway’s terminal of what can be discerned.


Michael Dransfield (1948-1973)
          by Walibee Scrude

And it was over—life—before you even knew ‘t;
misdiagnosed and done for, you became some ash,
a little plaque, a brief, misplaced case history,
and lots of poems you won’t get to see them bash.
The morning sun floods down the street; it isn’t you,
here at the salt edge of Pacific Ocean trash.
The gods did not attend your funeral. It’s true.
I hadn’t heard of you, one more damned poet gone
down under, jumping through life, like some kangaroo—
no rue—at dawn. I yawn, and pause to think upon
the mystery of mood, the ministry of moot.
“Man…tills the field and lies beneath,” wrote Tennyson.

Walibee Scrude is a poet of Australia.