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Wise Words with Bruce Wise


          by “Lice Brews” Ueda

Outhouse, shit and flies;
hot sun on hard dirt, drab dust:
the baseball field.

“Lice Brews” Ueda is a haiku writer. He remembers in his youth playing baseball games in the summer.


Words from the Twitter World
          by Esca Webuilder

Neil deGrasse Tyson, celebrity scientist, wrote:
“In the past 48hrs, the USA horrifically lost 34 people to mass shootings. On average, across any 48hrs, we also lose 500 to medical errors, 300 to the flu, 250 to suicide, 200 to car accidents, and 40 to homicide via handgun. Often our emotions respond more to spectacle than to data.

So many answered him, including Irene Tien MD:
“In 2018, the fed govt spent $145M on medical errors, $340M on influenza, $147M on suicide, $597M on car accidents, and >$1B on the opioid crisis. From 2004-2015, a measly $22M on gun violence. These are stats, not emotions.

I once heard Mr. Tyson say the thing that worries him most in the Universe is how fast the Universe is expanding, so much so, that in the future, Earthlings will only be able to see the Milky Way.

Esca Webuilder is a poet and prose writer of the Internet. In the USA, the CDC estimates 49,000 deaths due to opioids in 2018. USA Today tracked 271 mass killings (4 or more) from 2006-2017: 1,358 deaths. Note that Mr. Tyson listed numbers of deaths, while Ms. Tien noted amounts of money spent. Emotionally charged words in the two tweets include “horrifically” and “measly”.


Mass Shooters
          by Slade W. U. Bierce

Mass shooters are not all the same, no two of them alike,
but there are sev-ral char-ac-ter-is-tics they share in kind.
They have experienced some childhood trauma in their lives,
abuse, neglect, and/or perhaps parental suicide.
Just prior to this they’ve experienced a crisis in
job status, a relationship, or something deep within.
They also seem to be intrigued by shootings of the past,
such shootings come in clusters, socially contagious gas.
And finally, they find the means to carry out their plans;
for them, revenge requires weapons for their vengeful ends.

Slade W. U. Bierce is a poet of hard realities.These four characteristics come from an LA Times op-ed by Jillian Peterson and James Densely, which studied mass shootings since 1966.


UN Report
          by Dae Wi “Scrub” Lee

The government of North Korea generated funds
to pay for mass-destruction weapons, nuclear-armed tons.
They stole from banks and cryptocurrency exchanges by
sophisticated, widespread, and clandestine cyber crime.
The North Korean UN mission group did not respond
to the UN report submitted last week thereupon.
The article says seventeen, the nation-states they trashed,
and through the realms of cyberspace they laundered stolen cash.
Two billion US dollars was what they got for their ends,
their diabolical blackmailing Earth and peaceful lands.

Dae Wi “Scrub” Lee is a poet of Korea.


          by Aw “Curbside” Lee

It sits right to the north of Hong Kong, massive, grand in scale;
but in the 1970s was rural, poor and pale.
In 1980 it was made an economic zone,
and then the place took off, into the atmosphere full-blown.
Some 13,000,000 people live and work in Shenzhen now,
though some say 20,000,000 closer to the true amount.
Its cityscape, resulting from its rapid growth and rise,
has now become a global, tech-hub of enormous size.
In World stats, it’s now third busiest container port,
competing with the likes of Shanghai and with Singapore.

Aw “Curbside” Lee is a poet of industrial China.


India Sheds Special Status for Kashmir
          by Waseel Budecir

On Monday, India revoked the status of Kashmir;
the special status it possessed will simply disappear.
And in addition Modi’s government will lift the ban
on purchasing of properties; non-residents now can.

The Pakistanis have condemned this action, saying that
it is a violation of the UN charter’s pact.
For nearly thirty years, Kashmir has had an armed revolt,
with myriads of people killed; yet, this is still a jolt.

Kashmiri leaders were arrested; Internet was dropped;
the public movement was restricted; telephones were stopped.
The streets of Srinigar were largely empty at this time;
deployment of security ensured there’d be no crime.

Waseel Budecir is a poet of South Central Asia.


The Lotus Eater
          by Badri Suwecele

He fell into a dreamy state, which he could not escape,
as though he was both fast asleep yet also still awake.
He felt so groggy and so drowsy, he began to droop
into a trance that left him sapped, afloat like sailing sloop.
How could he be both wide awake and still so sleepy too?
What state of consciousness was this that he had come to view?
He felt in equilibrium, not going anywhere;
it was as if his mind itself was turning in to air.
He tried to conjugate this verb of future present past.
He hoped that he would soon wake up, or fall asleep at last.

Badri Suwecele is a poet of meditation.


Iraq-Lebanon Soccer Match
          by Abdul Serecewi

The national Iraqi soccer team beat Lebanon.
It was the first competetive match in a long, long time:
score, one to zero, in Kerbala, but was not sublime
to Shi-ite clerics, who disliked the show before the throng.
The opening had dance and music tastefully displayed,
except for one lone Lebanese who played the violin.
She wore no headscarf on her head, no cloth upon her arms
and then she played an instrument. O, she had gone too far.
Joelle Saade, fully dressed, performed before the crowd,
but it was cleric blow-back that was thunderous and loud.

Abdul Serecewi is a poet of the Southwest Asia.


          by Erisbawdle Cue
          “Thou almost makest me waver in my faith
          To hold opinion with Pythagoras
          That souls of animals infise themselves
          Into the trunks of men.”
              —William Shakespeare, “Merchant of Venice”

Pythagoras may have left us some wisdom that survives,
and yet he claimed to recollect details of former lives.
He claimed he once had been cucumber, growing long and green,
and also that he once had been a slimy, sleek sardine.
If such was true, which hardly seems that possible to me,
then he lucked out/ reincarnation ended happily.
Despite his thought I still enjoy cucumbers sliced and diced,
as well as small sardines in oil, silvery and spiced.
Who knows what mighty intellect I may have eaten up?
Such tasty morsels keeping me alive to dine and sup.

Erisbawdle Cue is a poet of philosophy, particularly ancient Greek philosophy.


In Alicante on Mount Benacantil
          by Edwe Bleca Ruís

In Alicante on Mount Benacantil’s rugged rock,
above the city stands the Castle Santa Bárbara.
From there one sees below the blue Mediterranean,
so bright beneath the white-puffed clouds and brilliant, blazing Sun.
From there one sees the port, the docks that stretch out straight and broad,
the beach of Postiguet, the wavy, palm-lined esplanade,
the ornate Casas Carbonell and Consistorial
the Edificio Gran Sol, rectangular and tall,
the arcing, misty, sparkling fountain in Luceros Square,
and less pretentious, quiet cornered Monjas Santa Faz.


Alicante Trams
          by Edwe Bleca Ruís
          “Kumquat-colored trolleys ding as they trundle/ Passengers…”
              —Sylvia Plath

To use the Alicante Trams you must use a machine,
to swipe a card or buy your tickets; there’s no in between.
To open doors, you have to press the buttons that you see,
as well as for requesting stops; it’s a necessity.

Signs overhead tell the next destination coming up;
and likewise there’s a map that you can check, with all the stops.
Three main lines leave Luceros Square without much urgency,
but there’s a handle you can pull in an emergency.

The trams are white and orange, shiny even underground.
They do not ding, while motoring their grunting, humming sound.
Trams groan when they begin their trips, trains drone along, brakes squeak.
Postmodern transport’s a mechanical cacophony.

They are dependable, they move with regularity.
For moving many they’re a model of efficiency.
They make their way day after day in drizzle or sun’s glow.
They honk, they screech, they trudge along, they carry tons of soul.

Edwe Bleca Ruís is a poet of Spain. Alicante is a city of southeastern Spain.


The Flying French Man
          by Claude I. S Weber

The French inventor Franky Zapata has crossed the sea,
at th’ English Channel, to be more precise, specific’lly,
he did it on jet power, on a suped-up hoverboard,
and zoomed across the Dover Strait—for twenty minutes soared.
He took off from Sangatte, outside Calais, in northwest France,
and stopped half way upon a boat, refueling his back pack.
He made the thirty-five kilometers to Britain’s coast,
Saint Margaret’s Bay shimmering, receiving him afloat.
Some people came to cheer him off, some others saw him land,
a tiny black speck on a flyboard in the sky—yet grand.

Claude I. S. Weber is a poet of France.


Rembrandt’s Samson Putting Forth his Riddle at the Wedding Feast: 1638
          by Cees Walerd Bui

In Rembrandt’s Samson Putting Forth his Riddle at
the Wedding Feast, his bride-to-be, a Philistine,
is seated on a dais, in a gold glow that
lights the surrounding darkness. Timeless, still, she’s seen
face fore; a group of ladies fidget at her right.
Conversing at her left is Samson; he’s speaking,
face turned left, to a group of men, his dress gold-bright:
“Out of the eater came forth meat; out of the strong
came something sweet.” If they can bring th’ answer to light
in seven days, he’ll give them garments; but if not
they will repay in kind. Here is a bold Rembrandt,
the warmer tones of red and yellow coming on.


Thunderstorm Over Dordrecht, by Aelbert Cuyp
          by Cees Walerd Bui

The vast sky stretches high up over buildings and
occasionally trees of moderate height on
the far horizon. Jagged lightning holds command
and crackles forth th’ electrical phenomenon
that travels down sky’s thoroughfare above Dordrecht,
the brilliant gold against the smoky-black cloud-spawn.
Below, three windmills turn. The cows, seen in perspect,
are calm, content; they do not overcompensate,
react immoderately, nor jerk or act berzerk,
to flashing lightning bolts. They simply rest sedate.
There’s no new thing that they will come to understand;
not much will change; there’s nothing they anticipate.


Dutch Still Life
          Cees Walerd Bui

The motel room is quiet now; a radiance
of sunlight filters through diaphanous curtains.
There is a certain beauty in its fading dance
across the beige and tan, soft, warm, wood furniture.
The center piece is a rectangular bed.
An auburn lamp stands at its head. In the corner,
is crumpled in a mass, a pale dun coverlet.
Upon the bright, white sheets, a brown body reclines.
Its head lies on a pillow, arms are extended
out back along the back. A thin silver chain lines
the neck. The head is tilted left, with a stiff stance.
A pistol, black and shiny, has been left behind.

Cees Walerd Bui is a poet of the Netherlands. Bildings [sic] of two Dutch masterpieces are followed by a New Millennial scene. Rembrandt (1606-1669) and Aelbert Cuyp (1620-1691) were both part of Holland’s golden age in painting.


Eudoxus’ Theory of Proportions
          by Euclidrew Base

The magnitudes are said to be in the same ratio,
the first is to the second and the third is to the fourth,
if equimultiples whatever of the first and third
and equimultiples of second to the fourth occur,
and both of them alike exceed, are equal, or are less,
then latter equimultiples have correspondences.
The subtlety and efficacy of Eudoxus’ thought
is marvelous beyond the arithmetic uses sought;
for far from obvious, he too compared both cubes and spheres,
as well as other shapes and incommensurable surds.

Euclidrew Base is a poet of mathematics and mathematicians. Eudoxus (c. 408-390 BC – c. 355-337 BC) was one of the major mathematicians of the ancient world. I read somewhere that he walked seven miles daily for half a year to listen to Plato’s lectures. If true, I would have done that too.


There in Louisiana
          by Cause Bewilder

I, too, have seen there in Louisiana an oak tree,
that stood alone, with moss hung down from branches, dark and green.
In fact, I’ve seen ten-thousand trees, all growing up and tall,
the myriads arising, o, so high and natural.

And I broke off no twig to take back to the Metroplex,
nor did those grand oak groves remind me ever once of sex.
I was not interested in some curiosity,
but just enjoyed trees towering, not some monstrosity.

Though I once lived in the Pacific Northwest, all the same,
Louisiana’s oaks impress me in the heat or rain.
I do not think of friends each time I see those trees again,
but when I see them rising high, anew I’m glad I came.

Cause Bewilder is a poet of the South. This dodeca is an argument with Walt Whitman.


Dealey Plaza
          “Wild” E. S. Bucaree

Not far off from I-35E, Dealey Plaza sits,
the Grassy Knoll, and Texas Book Depository hits.
Between Commerce and Elm, the cross of Main and Houston Streets,
plots out another tragedy that history repeats.
Those days are gone John Kennedy breathed his last breath of air,
and cru’l Lee Harvey Oswald shot his bullets of despair.
One sees the bright white Bryan Pergola across the scene,
along with grassy lawns about, a pale, scruffy green.
But still it lingers in the city as a memory
before skyscrapers rising in the brand new century.

“Wild” E. S. Bucaree is a poet of Texas.


The Mower
          by Caleb Wuri Seed

I saw him mowing past crepe myrtle, just beyond the fence.
He pushed his mower ever forward through grass thick and dense.
He wore a green cap on his head; his shirt was bright and red,
the beard upon his face was scra-ggl-y, but coiffured yet.
O forth and back, o, back and forth, he traveled in his lines,
the swaths he cut were wide and orderly, so straight in kind.
He paused but once to take his cap off of his shiny pate,
and swept his forehead with his arm, the shirt sleeve wiped the sweat.
And then he finished up, the mower off, the engine stopped,
and took off to his next gig’s task; this one was done and dropped.

Caleb Wuri Seed is a poet of gardening and agriculture.


          by Calsu Berde Iwe

On a window sill,
a cat closely observes as
a man mows his lawn.

Calsu Berde Iwe is a haiku writer of cats.


          by Rudi E. Welec, “Abs”

With the fast pace of modern life, each person needs some time
to take a break, relax and rest, connect to the sublime.
Massage is a good way for that; it helps to get relief
from pain, to lower stress, blood pressure and anxiety.
Professional massage can be obtained when at a spa,
or one can hire a therapist to give one a massage.
But there are other ways that cost less money, time and such,
a more affordable and user-friendly “loving touch”,
like the vibrating chair, where one can in one’s privacy
sit back and fall into its arms in utter ecstasy.

Rudi E. Welec, “Abs” is a poet of the body.


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Wise Words with Bruce Wise


2019 OK
          by I. E. Sbace Weruld
          “It could have destroyed an entire city.”
              —Urbawel Cidese

A small, four-hundred-twenty-seven-foot-wide asteroid
passed less than forty-seven-thousand miles near to Earth.
As 2019 OK came out of the cosmic void,
because of solar glare, the scientists were unaware.
Relieved from Rome to Perth, from Rio to Ontario,
that Earth had missed an Armageddon-like scenario,
that had been barreling in our direction very fast,
o, more than fifty-thousand-miles-per-hour as it passed.
Though smaller than the rock that hit near modern Mexico
and wiped out all the dinosaurs, it could have packed a blow.

I. E. Sbace Weruld is a poet of the Cosmos. 66,000,000 years ago it was a massive 6-mile-wide rock that wiped out the dinosaurs.


Alternate Science
          by Scubie Dew Lear

She still insists the dragonflies destroyed the dinosaurs.
Weren’t they around before the dinosaurs died out? They soar.

Scubie Dew Lear is a poet given to ghost and UFO sightings. Haunted by his past, he is fond of cryptics, conspiracies, and spirits. He has been influenced by figures as diverse as Arthur Gordon Pym and J. Alfred Prufrock. Rural Nevadans near Area 51 are bracing for the worst.


The Steel Minnows of China
          by Lu “Reed ABCs” Wei

Small Chinese steel minnows sidestep the pollution rules
by boosting steel output, sneaking how much they pollute.
Because of that, the cities, like Tangshan and Handan are
among the toxic worst in smoggy quality of air.
Environment enforcement has been lax compared to the
much tougher standards larger companies have had to face.

As such the minnows are increasing their production sums,
thus driving iron-ore costs up along with greater scum.
The pace is growing, some small minnows dog emission tests,
by turning off equipment that inspectors don’t assess,
misplacing sensors that inspectors simply do not catch,
or ramping up the night-work pace inspectors don’t inspect.

Lu “Reed ABCs” Wei is a poet of China. Tangshan is one of the top ten ports of China, with about 3,200,000 in its built-up city, and Handan has about 2, 900,000 in its built up city; the populations are 2010 approximations.


The Tiger Population
          by Bud “Weasel” Rice
          “What immortal hand or eye dare frame thy fearful symmetry?”
              —William Blake, “The Tyger”

The tiger population has been rising once again,
in India where there are 70% of them.
From just two-thousand-and-two-hundred, 2014’s score,
in five years, they’ve increased more than some seven hundred more.
This is a good thing, not without its drawbacks all the same;
there are more problems; after all, the tigers are not tame.
Too many tigers in too few reserves mean there will be
hostilities, since people don’t enjoy their company.
Still, Modi, the prime minister, has teamed up with Bear Gryll,
and they’ll be trekking to the wilderness in “Man and Wild”.

Bud “Weasel” Rice is a poet of nature, and in particular Mammalia.


Alexei Navalny Hospitalized and “Released” Back to Jail
          by Alecsei Durbew
          “It matters how one treats one’s political opponents.”
              —Erisbawdle Cue

With wrinkled forehead, standing by the banners in the streets;
his crime was he had dared to face the tribe of “crooks and thieves”.
Arrested in a sweep of opposition candidates,
Navalny, 43, was put in prison by police,
for calling for a protest for eliminating names
from an upcoming vote. It seems his face is now in flames.

He’s suffering from some reacting painful allergy,
the kind one gets when one’s been burned, a splash done chemic’lly.
Severe the swelling of his face, the redness of his skin;
the cause unclear, the hospital not saying anything.
Both of his eyes had swollen up the size of ping pong balls.
He thinks that he was poisoned sitting in his prison walls.

Alecsei Durbew is a poet of Russia. The quote is from Alexei Navalny, who called the United Russia Party, Партия жуликов и воров, the “party of crooks and thieves”.


In an American Prison Cell
          by Bilee Wad Curse
          “Once caught the criminal is treated like an animal.”
              —Bic Uwel, “Erased”

It now appears that Jeffrey Epstein was found injured in
his Metropolitan Correction Center prison cell.
Though some suggest a suicide-attempt had been in place,
some thought the injuries too mild for that to be the case.
The lawyer of three women who had been caught up within
the Jeffrey Epstein trafficking, thinks some will do him in.
In fact, he thinks he will be murdered, he has too much dirt
on rich and famous friends, who’d like to do more than just hurt.
However, CNN reported Epstein said that he
was beaten up, the source uncited. Truth—where can it be?

Bilee Wad Curse is a poet of crime.


Trees in Ethiopia
          by Luwi Recs Abede

On Monday, Ethiopians went on a planting spree—
more than 350,000,000 seedlings to be trees.
“Go out and make your mark,” said Abiy Ahmed in a post;
in just twelve hours, they had made a record of the most.

With less than 4% woodlands in Ethiopia,
down from 30% one hundred-twenty years ago,
and now 2.6 billion planted, this is vital for
a nation of 100,000,000 relatively poor.

To plant one-trillion trees, Swiss scientists this year have said
is the best way to slow down global warming’s burning dread.
Those growing trees could suck up seven-fifty-billion tons
heat-trapping carbon di-ox-ide, to cool us from the Sun.

Luwi Recs Abede is a poet of Ethiopia, whose main language is Amharic with over 20,000,000 speakers. One of Abede’s favourite Ethiopian writers was the poet and playwright Tsegaya Gebre-Medhin (1936-2006), who in addition to Amharic also studied Ge’ez, the ancient language of the Church, and English. According to the Swiss scientists, 1,000,000,000,000 trees would suck up as much carbon pollution as humans have spewed in the last 25 years. British ecologist Thomas Crowther is the chief scientific advisor to the UN’s Trillion Tree Campaign.


In Frankfort, Germany
          by Uwe Carl Diebes

In Frankfort, Germany, a woman and eight-year-old son
were pushed before high-speed train by an Eritrean man.
The child died, the mother lived, the killer was detained;
however, still the horror of that vicious act remained.

Th’ assailant grabbed the woman and her child forcefully
and then threw them on th’ rail track before the I-C-E.
And then he tried to grab another person, but he failed.
Is remedy for all that pain and angst just being jailed?

The chilling incident has sparked debate in Germany,
rekindling the cons o’ th’ open border policy.
The terrible scene at the station left onlookers shocked.
They will not soon forget such horrid viciousness unfrocked.

Uwe Carl Diebes is a poet of Germany. The I-C-E is the intercity express. When he lived in Germany, he really liked using the trains; they were efficient, on-time, and safe. He is sad for the family and friends of the mother and son, and the people of Frankfurt.


La Puerta de Europa
          by Raúl de Cwesibe
          “Architecture is the arrangement of space for excitement.”
              —Philip Johnson

La Puerta de Europa, also known
as Torres KIO, are the first inclined
skyscrapers of the world. Driving on
Paseo de la Castellana finds
one feeling like one’s going forward to
the future—really—even though amid
the present: lines, roads, buildings, silver, blue,
and pale azure skies above Madrid.
Materials include glass, stainless steel,
with charcoal mullions, in red metal clad.
A dark reflective curtain will reveal
it marks the business district’s north end, and
one can see Calatrava’s obelisk
beneath the unrelenting solar disk.

Raúl de Cwesibe es un poeta de España.


On Puccini’s Gianni Schicchi
          by Waldi Berceuse

There’s much I like about Puccini’s opera,
his lively, one-act Gianni Schicchi lunacy,
that toys with real verismo in its potpourri
by using caustic comment and buffoonery.
It’s spirited commedia dell’ arte farce
entwined along with sweet sentimentality:
its modern tone enchanting, even as it jars,
its striking beauty mixed with coarse brutality.
Like motley Harlequin himself, Puccini takes
a bit of Dante out of hell, and Florence too!
a presto pasta topped off with a sauce he makes
out of Rossini, Verdi, Wagner—derirng-do!
all served up with some sliced-up, modern dissonance.
Oh my dear Papa—scintillating assonance!

Waldi Berceuse is a poet and music critic. For him, the most emotionally satisfying songs he has ever herd are arias of Puccini; and although he enjoyed watching the above short opera, it definitely is not his favourite Puccini opera. The above sonnet is not an English sonnet because its lines are hexameters.


Gold Robbery in Brazil
          by Luc Ebrewe Dios

Eight criminals disguised as federal police made off
with what? It’s very big, it’s shaped in bars, the colour gold!
worth thirty-million dollars, at the Guarulhos Airport,
Sao Paulo’s International, in three brief minutes short.
In balaclavas clad, they forced the cargo personnel
to load up their disguised truck bed; those thieves were versatile.
Load what? Big bars of gold! some seven-hundred kilograms.
It was a plan that could not possibly…fail—Watch the cams!
And yet arrests are being made. And will they find the gold?
Ah, Time will tell. In fact, perhaps, it’s been already told.

Luc Ebrewe Dias is a poet of Brazil. Of the arrests so far, one was a man who worked at the airport and had said he went along with the robbery after his family had been kidnapped. Dias’ favourite heist movie is “Caccia alla volpe” directed by Vittorio De Sica.


The U.S. Federal Reserve
          by Brad Lee Suciew

The 1910 cabal that met at Jekyll Island was
set up to make the Federal Reserve, a real set up.
It operates without the oversight of government,
twelve banks set up in 1914, dominating debt.
Created back in 1913; Wilson signed the law;
the FOMC meets in DC now eight times a year.
A board of governors of seven, who enjoy the vote,
with regional bank presidents whose occupancies float.
This bank cartel, decides how much in interest to charge,
this week a quarter point less, the first drop in many years.

Brad Lee Suciew is a poet of finance and commerce. The FOMC stands for the Federal Open Market Committee. The cut means interest rates are set to float between 2% and 2.25%.


Young J. P. Morgan’s Early Education
          Cadwel E. Bruise

Young J. P. Morgan’s early education was diverse;
it opened up his mind to a much larger universe.
Post schooling in Connecticut, to Boston English High;
he studied math for entrance to an economic life.
Rheumatic fever left him in such pain he could not walk,
and so was sent to the Azores for convalescing calm.
He stayed a year, and then returned to Boston English High,
and graduated there, continuing t’ improve his mind.
He then went to Vevey in Switzerland to study French,
and next to Göttingen to be a German-speaking Mensch,
where he got his degree—Art History—was there his path,
while at the Sillig Institute, Vevey, he studied math.
His formal education at that time was then complete,
and he went off to London banking, clerking for his keep.

Cadwel E. Bruise is a poet of New England. J. P. Morgan, Sr. (1937-1913), born in Connecticut, was one of America’s most famous bankers, particularly at the beginning of the 20th century when he helped finance and establish companies, like General Electric, U. S. Steel and American Harvester. One wonders if he was one of those at the Jekyll Island cabal of 1910, though the secrecy was such, there were no records of him being there.


Grant Wood: Self Portrait
          by Red Was Iceblue

He stares in glasses, slightly to the right,
his near rectangular face filling up
the painting. We are as much in his sight
as he’s in ours—peering, leering—Yup.
His gaze is penetrating, from within
his chubby head, cherubic, rubicund,
indented upper lip and low cleft chin,
faint nasolabial folds, cheeks rotund.
Behind: below, are indicators of
his Iowa, the gently rolling hills,
a quilted carpetting of farms; above,
bright, gold-white sky, and one tall, thin windmill’s
projected, derrick weather-vane, on edge,
past fair, combed hair, dark, vee-neck shirt, his hedge.


Composed upon a Sunlit Chair
          by Red Was Iceblue
          “Heavenly Hurt, it gives us—”
              —Emily Dickinson

A sunlit chair by Michael John Hunt sits
in light, inside a house with open door.
It’s at a foyer corner—shadowed bits
upon the greenish wall and wooden floor.
One almost could envision Emily
Elizabeth, appearing, Dickinson,
in white, a prisoner of family,
locked up in talk with Thomas Higginson.
Outside one sees the sky, a tree, the grass,
a walk and water, blue and glittering.
There, too, one could imagine she would pass
between the moment and its filtering.
There are so many possibilities.
Why is it—beauty—makes one ill at ease?

Red Was Iceblue is a poet of Modern, Postmodern and New Millennial art. The self portrait of Grant Wood (1891-1942), painter of rural American Midwest scene, was executed in 1932. Grant Wood’s most famous painting was the iconic American Gothic of 1930. Michael John Hunt is a contemporary English painter of still lifes and intimate interiors. He creates his pictures with layered acrylics and glazes, and like the 17th century Dutch masters, the surfaces in his paintings are pristine.


A Waterfall in Xanadu
          by Eber L. Aucsidew

The waterfall was streaming down the rolling hills.
Faint, steamy clouds arose beside its many spills.
I longed to drink its water, follow down its rills.
For me, there could not be, I think, much greater thrills.
Such beauty in the world leaves one hot with chills.
Such loveliness helps one to face the harshest wills.
Such pretty peace helps one to face the hardest ills.
How can there be a waterfall that so fulfills?
But if I could get on one of its many sills,
I think those slopes so slippery with wet, white quills,
that I would fall forever down. Its edged shape kills.
And yet I wish I could pause where it lulls and mills,
because each flush along its way sweet love instills.
It is a shining series of divine untils.
Its gorgeous furrows leave one pink around the gills.
The glittering of drops, the shimmering, clear trills,
are like the scattering of crystal daffodils
in rainbowed arcs above divine and sunlit villes,
or gleaming silver flecks on radiator grills.
If I could hold it, keeping but its frothy frills,
with that alone, I know I’d be in heaven still.

Eber L. Aucsidew is a poet of air and water. The above poem is a qasida.


The Pompous Toad
          by E. Dawber Sluice

The pompous toad sits in his bog, and croaks the whole day long.
In deep, hoarse sounds he breaks into a cacophonic song.
His voice is richer than the caw of black crows in the trees;
he does not doubt his splendid bass superior to these.
His gutteral and froggy squawk outbests the catfish glug.
His rhythmic tones are grander than the gurgle from a jug.
The chicken’s cluck, the duck’s quack-quack, they can’t compare to his
most wonderful, majestic cough, his wheezing, raspy whiz.
All nature should take note of him. O, yes, he thinks so too.
His music is remarkable from any point of view.

E. Dawber Sluice is a poet of the bog.


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Wise Words with Bruce Wise


          by Ibe Ware Desu, LC

Outside the window,
the Milky Way stars reach to
the next galaxy.

Ibe Ware Desu, LC (Lieutenant Commander), is a poet of Japan. Here he is thinking of a Shiki haiku.


The Portal
          by Slider Cubeawe

He flutter kicks along the long length of the swimming pool;
he plows right through the water, it’s refreshing, splashing, cool.
His abs are tightening; he’s drooling just a little bit;
his arms propel him forward, as his heels rise and dip.
His feet go back and forth, his thighs approach his abs, o, wow!
like as he’s shoving off to points beyond the here and now.
It is as if he’s been transported to another world;
into another realm it seems his body has been hurled.
His legs flip up, his legs drop down, he’s in a worm hole’s chute.
Submerged, he reemerges to fresh air. O, what a beaut!

Slider Cubeawe is a poet of alternate universes. He thinks the space he is in is filled with cubes, and he is in one of those cubes now. He sees cubes in front of him, behind him, above him, below him, and to the left and right of him. He realizes that this tesselation of 3D space, however, is only one of among an infinity of spaces. Swiss mathematican Ludwig Schläfli (1814-1895) was one of the key figures in the development of higher dimensional spaces. His favourite puzzles of the moment are sudokus, which he likes to do when he is on a jet plane or in the back yard with his cat.


On the Einstein-Rosen Bridge
          by I. E. Sbace Weruld

Each tried to keep his balance on the Einstein-Rosen Bridge,
each hoping for a place to pause, a momentary ridge.
But in that turning tunnel, like a funnel in the wind,
they could not help but twist and gyrate, pirouette and spin.
They tried to keep together, but the force pushed them apart.
They tried to hold each other up, but then fell off the chart.
First, Slider Cubeawe was stretched out, as far as he could go;
then “Weird” Ace Blues reached to the limit of what he could know;
and Cal Wes Ubideer came to his ultimate extreme;
three musketeers all falling in through space-time in a dream.

I. E. Sbace Weruld is a poet of the continually astounding elements of science. The Chandrayaan mooncraft launched this week, and is heading for the far side of the moon.


          by “Wired Clues” Abe

The cat grabs the mouse:
squeak-squeak, squeak-squeak, squeak-squeak-squeak.
It’s his little toy.


          by “Wired Clues” Abe

The weed whacker hits
the grasses by the wood fence.
The frog jumps away.


          by “Wired Clues” Abe

Beneath the cat palm,
to taste a frond, cat paws reach:
vomit on the carpet.

“Wired Clues” Abe is a poet of Japanese forms with an English mind-set.


The Loiterers
          by Eric Awl De Beus

In Wellington, New Zealand, two blue penguins have been nabbed
in their pursuit of searching for a “natch’ral” habitat.
O, they weren’t grabbed, no, but with salmon, they were lured away
from sushi stall at busy station at the break of day.
Each waddling bird was guided to a cardboard carry box,
and later were returned back to the water past the docks.
Kororā, noted for their bluish colour and small size,
are an endangered species, but remain quite happy guys.
The loiterers were booked and carried off by the police;
the city could breathe easier; they had restored the peace.

Eric Awl De Beus is a poet of New Zealand.


The Silver-Crested Cockatoos
          by E. Birdcaws Eule
          “the green freedom of a cockatoo”
              —Wallace Stevens, “Sunday Morning”

The silver-crested cockatoos on telephonic lines,
swing back and forth, and sometimes flip around and round two times.
They chew on outdoor furniture, and door and window frames,
attacking anything in site that fits within their aims,
like solar water-heaters, television antennae,
no satellite dish is protected from their vileness.
They’ll strip the silicon sealant from plate-glass window panes,
attacking even the electric cabling tarpaulins.
They are destructive creatures, and their squawk is loud and irks.
No Sunday morning in Connecticut can catch these jerks.

E. Birdcaws Eule is a poet of birds. According to Birdee Euclaws, “Cockatoos like tearing up things: newspapers, poetry books, and the wooden tables they lie on.”


Jakarta’s Sinking
          by Budi Eas Celewr

It sits on swampy lands with thirteen rivers running through,
the capital and largest site in Indonesia too,
Jakarta has its share of problems that it has to face,
and more than most because it’s a large populated place.
Its rapid urban growth puts it just after Tokyo,
as the Earth’s second most agglomerated imbroglio.
With grid-locked traffic and conjestion it is hard to drive;
as well, its ecologic breakdown means that plants can’t thrive.
But worst of all, the city’s sinking lower all the time;
too much ground water’s pumped, and floods rise due to changing clime.

Budi Eas Celewr is a poet of Indonesia. Jakarta is a city of over 10,000,000, but the agglomeration Jabodetabek (Jakarta, Bogor, Depok, Tangarang and Bekasi) contained over 30,000,000 in 2010.


The Portent
          by Aedile Cwerbus

He gazed up to the heavens searching for some kind of sign,
an omen that could tell him when his future soon would shine.
He dreamed that Jupiter appeared above, like as a king,
protecting him, but also forcing him to do His thing.
But he would not ignore the sign, as did Caligula,
who was assassinated the next day malignantly.
Instead he offered up a cup to toast the mighty god,
and voiced his heartfelt gratitude he’d come unto his bod.
One must be wary of important portents when they come,
accepting them with openness, or end up as a bum.


To Somnus
          by Aedile Cwerbus

What is the accusation, o, young god, what have I done,
that you deny me here, within despair and all alone,
at the edge of eternity, sweet peace, your treasure, Sleep,
that enters even prowling beasts, and centers, o, so deep?
the pleasant flowers, o, for hours, nodding to your depths;
it’s said that some times raging seas, their roars are formed and spent.
But why am I, like oceanic waves and heavy seas,
left here alone upon this lap of land in misery?
The moon in seven visits has seen me, my wild eyes,
awake and staring at the seven stars of morning’s rise.
The moon at twilight and at sunrise watches and awaits
the banishing, the vanishing, distress anticipates.
O, in compassion, spray thy dews from thy unwielding whip.
O, bring me strength and power to escape this whorling hip.
O, even Argus, thousand-eyed, allows his eyes to rest;
nerves taut, on guard relentlessly, I’m beaten by this test…
ah, staring, o, like couples interlocked, that shut you out,
from night-long ecstasies and raging seas of love and doubt.
So come to me and close my eyes. I issue no demands,
enfold my gaze with your sweet haze and smoothe me with your hands.
I beg your wand’s tip touches me, above me hovering,
and takes me to the end of all these wakes, recovering.

Aedile Cwerbus is a poet of ancient Rome. The latter poem draws inspiration from a poem by Statius (c. 45 – c. 96).


Big Bad Bear (#fugaperlaliberta)
          by Uberde Ascweli

M49, a large, strong bear, climbed an electric fence
with seven cables carrying some 7,000 volts.
So dangerous, and dense, to overcome such jolts as that,
he took off to Trentino’s hills where he’d been stationed at.
So many people were amazed. M49 is tough.
It takes a genius to surmount a barrier so rough!
Perhaps he was the bear who had already taken out
domestic animals—some thirteen stalked, or there about.
But now he is back on the loose, and very hard to track.
Where is he now? One wonders when he will be coming back.


Andrea Camilleri (1925-2019)
          by Uberdi Ascweli

Andrea Camilleri left the heat of Sicily,
and died in Rome in hospital at age of 93.
From a director, he went on to dialogues and death,
with dialect he knew from youth and time’s remembered breath.
Police Chief Salvo Montalbano will no longer irk;
th’ imaginary commisario is done with work.
Deaths needed solving with some logic, humour and some fight,
including searching for Luigi Pirandello’s life.
“Il cuoco dell’Alcyon” was his final Iliad;
he left one thousand unsolved cases, yes, a chiliad.

Uberdi Ascweli is a poet of Italy. Statius left unfinished his epic of a chiliad of lines, his Achilleid. One of Uberdi Ascweli favourite movies of all time is “Caccia alla volpe” with its admixture of neorealism and farce.


An Idle Idyll
          by Esiad L. Werecub

They found themselves in morning’s beauty, shepherd and goatherd,
beneath the dappled oak trees and the chattering of birds.
The ground around was thick with shrubbery beneath the copse;
the air was filled with floral smells, cicadas, flies and wasps.
One hears the moan and groan of goat and sheep upon the lawn;
they are content to while away the hours of sweet dawn.
One almost could imagine Pan is piping in the shade,
and holds his wooden flute and plays a summer serenade,
while there nearby a woodland nymph reveals, o, lovely form
there pressing forth beside the ferns in dappled sun light warm.

Esiad L. Werecub is a poet of ancient Greece. In this poem, he is thinking of the poetry of Theocritus (fl. c. 270 BC), who, like Camilleri, was an inhabitant of Sicily.


Harold Scott McDonald Coxeter
          by Euclidrew Base

In youth, he was a pianist, accomplished at age ten.
He felt that math and music were an interwoven den.
In 1933, he spent a year at Trinity
attending seminars of Wittgenstein’s philosophy.
In 1936 he moved to Canada for good;
Toronto then became his city and his neighbourhood.
He was an advocate of classical geometry,
against the major, favoured algebraic tendency.
He did his major work in polytopes, types: regular,
and high-dimensions—Harold Scott McDonald Coxeter.

Euclidrew Base is a poet of mathematics. “Donald” Coxeter (1907-2003) was a British-Canadian mathematician who focused on the theory of polytopes, nonEuclidean geometry, and projective geometry. Among those he inspired were Dutch graphic artist M. C. Escher (1898-1972) and American architect and futurist Buckminster Fuller (1895-1983).


They Came
          by Cesal Dwe Uribe

They came out by the thousands; they were running from their lands.
They could not get out fast enough. They came in roving bands.
They fled corruption, poverty, and dire circumstance.
They didn’t care what might occur. They hoped but for a chance.
They fled their suffering. They fled responsibilities.
They fled the gangs, the criminals, the crime and the disease.
They fled their lives. They fled their dreams. They fled their families.
They longed to flee so many things, o, even more than these.
They came out by the thousands, they were fleeing from the law,
and brought with them that as they came in by the thousands all.

Cesal Dwe Uribe is a poet of the Americas.


An American Idyll
          by Caleb Wuri Seed

Who do these cows belong to, standing by discarded wood?
Who owns that sheep that’s grazing in the barely grassy mud?
Who owns this farm where all the trees are leafless, empty, bare,
like strange contortionists with grasping fingers grasping air.

What’s in those stony silos? Is there anything at all?
Their gray and white stone masonry ascends—cylindrical.
And what is in that white-roofed shed? Is it significant?
Has something ever happened in it that’s important stuff?

Beyond the largest trees one barely sees a tallish house.
Before those trees one sees a long and narrow trailer house.
Who’s in those structures? What have they been doing on this land?
What are they striving to attain? What do they understand?

Beyond the fence there are more structures that one also sees.
Who owns those structures, and that land? Can someone tell me, please?
The skies are pale blue with white and streaming, wind-blown clouds.
A dark gray jet flies overhead. O, is it very loud?

Is that why those beef cattle raise their heads and look straight out?
Is there somebody who’s been taking pictures from the town?
And if there is, does anybody know just who he is?
The emptiness is telling, the brown ground gratuitous.


The Farmer’s Pet
          by Caleb Wuri Seed

He was a Midwest farmer, who always wore suspender straps.
He was just used to holding up his pants that way perhaps.
He never smiled; he was always very serious,
so sober that he never seemed to be delirious.
It seemed as if he did not want to talk to anyone,
especi’lly if the person was in front of him, or hung.
But there was one thing that he liked; it was a husky bitch.
A dog he saved, he found one day, left in a barren ditch.
He made that furry creature his companion, pet and help.
He had it ever close to him, and it would never yelp.

Caleb Wuri Seed is a poet of agriculture. One of his favourite tunes is “Turkey in the Straw”.


          by Rudi E. Welec, “Abs”

He looked out on this city, seeing only buildings rise,
concrete and steel over streets, that jut into the skies.
Good morning, it is time to exercise his back a bit;
without equipment, target rhomboids, lumbars and the lats.

Reverse snow angels in the light, not going anywhere,
as if he’s flying there in place, the hands and arms in air.
Next, dolphin flips, not quite the kicks; up go the legs and feet;
but he is in the urban air, not in the ocean deep.

And then, upon cement square tiles, hands and feet outstretched;
it’s superman, the man of steel, doing reps and sets.
And finally, he stands up straight, and starts his hinge hip moves,
back, glutes and hamstrings, all engaged, in very groovy grooves.

Rudi E. Welec is a poet of exercise. Although he is into regular exercising now, in his youth his worst grades in high school were in PE. When in a college PE class, at grade time, he told his instructor he had lied about some data, or other, he had given him. The professor was so impressed he told the truth, he changed his quarter grade up to an A—perhaps the only time he got an A in PE.


The Study
          by Erisbawdle Cue

He knelt down at the fount of knowledge, drinking up a lot.
He loved to open up to gain new penetrating thought.
He opened up new files, sites, and even hard bound books.
The study was, without a doubt, his favourite of nooks.
He loved a brand new challenge learning what he did not know,
and striving to attain new heights, to rise up from the low,
to reach down deep into his reservoirs of strength to find
new winding avenues within the cities of his mind.
O, ecstasy it is to learn new things not understood,
for wonders no one knew that are both beautiful and good.

Erisbawdle Cue is a poet of thought.


Shine, Perishing Republic II
          by Cal Wes Ubideer

While this America is settling in vulgarity
into the wretched rhetoric, throughout it, thickening,
and mad, protesting masses SCREAM on social media
outrageous claims, in hate-filled rants, of vile expedience,
volcanic shifts in thoughtless rifts spew lava-tory flames
into the blogosphere for corporation hunger-games,
shine, perishing republic, in the face of goolag camps,
where AI birds are twittering away on insta-amps,
and cities lie within this monster’s grip, remember that,
there are the mountains where true freedom can be found, in fact.

Cal Wes Ubideer is a poet of California, which he both loves and hates.


Wake Up: July 19, 2019
          by Cadwel E. Bruise
          “…breaks like the Atlantic Ocean on my head.”
              —Robert Lowell, “Man and Wife”

This morning I woke up in darkness, wholly unaware.
I fell off of the bed. I crashed, and bashed my head right there
on the hard edge of the night stand. O, damn, that hurt like hell,
so totally disorienting that I could not tell.
I needed to turn on a light. I could not see a thing.
I searched to find a light. Where was I? What was happening?
So crazy—I began to worry for my sanity,
the discombobulation, o, and the humanity.
I went to the refrigerator to get an ice pack,
but all I had was North Atlantic sea-scal-lops—nice smack!

Cadwel E. Bruise is a poet of New England.


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Wise Words with Bruce Wise


          by “Wired Clues” Abe

A wind-up gadget
wound up by the summer wind:
cicada clatter.

“Wired Clues” Abe is a techno-haiku poet.


Two Recent Papers on Climate Change
          by Ira “Dweeb” Scule

Some scientists from Finland and Japan said recently
GCM-models used in IPCC cannot be,
“that man-made climate change does not exist in practice”—huh?
Anthropogenic climate change is insignificant.
In the last century, the Finn researchers bluntly speak:
“the human contribution was .01 degrees”.
Professor Hyodo, now at Kobe University,
says natural phenomena more likely raised the heat.
“New evidence suggests galactic cosmic rays affect
cloud cover causing an ‘umbrella [energy] effect.'”

Ira “Dweeb” Scule is a poet of science. Acronyms GCM and IPCC stand for general circulation model and intergovernment panel on climate change respectively.


The Walking Man
          by Rudi E. Welec, “Abs”

It was the early morning; he was going for a walk.
The Sun was shining brightly but it wasn’t yet too hot.
He walked along the sidewalks, step by step and block by block.
He slightly swung his arms. He didn’t pause or stop to talk.
He loved the early morning air. He felt so warm and good.
He loved to be out walking like this in the neighbourhood.
Although he seemed so free, some small concern was on his face;
but overall his pace was nice and easy, filled with grace.
He wasn’t going anywhere, no place particular;
but each spot passed, the very air there seemed spectacular.

Rudi E. Welec, “Abs”, is a poet of physical exercise. He remembers in high school and college when he would wake up early in the morning and go out running. He liked his many-mile, high-school runs up and down the wooded hills at dawn. In college he would run through the bird-trilling-filled trails just as the city around him was waking up.


The Nesting Season
          by W. S. “Eel” Bericuda
          “Most people were heartless about turtles because a turtle’s heart will beat for hours after it has been cut up and butchered. But the old man thought I have such a heart too.”
              —Ernest Hemingway, The Old Man and the Sea

It is the nesting season for the fertile leatherbacks—
sea turtles from th’ Atlantic Ocean, pumped up to the max.
They haul themselves onto the beaches of warm Trinidad,
and dig out nests to lay a clutch within the grainy sand.
So pumped and stoked, they poke and stroke, they wiggle on the land;
they’ve plodded, prodded, coddled sod to reach that longed-for stand.
These days marine biologists believe there are no more
than 90,000 turtles worldwide. O, poor—that store.
And yet they onward strive to keep alive, continuing
to do the best they can, their heart-beats strong and genuine.

W. S. “Eel Bericuda” is a poet of sea life. Only about 1% of sea-turtle hatchlings make it to sexual maturity at 16 years.


Postmarvelous Melbourne
          by Walibee Scrude

Above the deep, blue surface of the Yarra, rise
the buildings of the Melbourne skyline: white, gray, slate,
beneath the high and wide, ballooning azure skies,
rectangular, like blocks upon a flattened plate,
between Bourke Place’s sleek, contoured and checkered plaid
and tall Eureka, pointing like square-fingered fate,
reflected cloud-puffs in Rialto Towers’ staid
and glassy height, the concrete Collins Street boxed crew.
Below, Saint Patrick’s and Saint Paul’s Cathedrals wade
sedately through the shallows and the shaded hues,
another world’s inns of peace, hope, and reprise,
against the waves of modernism’s platitudes.


How Many Tears?
          by Walibee Scrude
          for Robbie Yates

How many tears each year fall for the Melbourne Cup,
for joy for victory, for sorrow for defeat,
for riders of the horses, yelling giddyup,
for owners of the horses, howling through each heat,
for backers of the men and horses that they ride,
for bankers of all parts, until they are complete,
for those c-a-r-r-i-e-d away, or take it all in stride,
for familes of those, the driven and involved,
for those upset by loss, for those beset by pride,
for those who are admired, for those who are unloved,
for winners, losers, and for those who never sup,
or had a chance, with those who were a part of it?

Walibee Scrude is a poet of Australian dreams and realities. The above poems are bildings [sic] with an ababcbcdcdad rhyme scheme. Robbie Yates is an Aussie poet fueled by delicious Melbourne coffee and cheeky poetry. In the note, according to Beau Lecsi Werd, Mr. Scrude meant to use the past participle “lain”.


A Note to Robbie Yates
by Walibee Scrude

Thanks for 8/8 tentacles! That made my day today:
here in July, which is more than a year ago from May.
I cannot say how sad I am that my response so slow
shows I did not appreciate your thought—o, I’m lain low.


The Hong Kong Protests of 2019
by Lu “Reed ABCs” Wei

The seven million of Hong Kong are making quite a fuss.
But what chance does one enclave have against a billion plus?
A small democracy against a giant tyranny:
What hope is there for those who fear and yet long to be free?
Although Hong Kong’s economy is fully ten percent,
of all of China’s wealth, how good is that when it is spent?
A greater power’s holding back a bit and biding time,
but who believes that ruthless force will not commit a crime?
And yet for all that, that small group of people’s standing up
to one dictator—Xi Jinping—who daily drinks his cup…
of blood.

Lu “Reed ABCs” Wei is a poet of China, whose poulation is about 1,420,245,000 compared to Hong Kong’s of approximately 7,392,000. The imperialist Chinese Communist Party membership is about 88,000,000 people. As the ruling elites, they dominate the economy, academia, and hundreds of millions of people.


China’s Claims on Vietnam
          by Lê Dức Bảệ “Wired”

Vietnamese and Chinese ships have been embroiled in
a weeks-long standoff near an oil block off Vietnam.
The site is well within th’ exclusive economic zone;
but China claims the continental shelf of Vietnam!
And earlier this month, July, a Chinese coast guard ship
maneuvered recklessly and threatened ships and oil rig.
Five years ago, the tensions rose, when China started to
drill in the Viet waters, causing rammings to accrue.
In fact, in 2014 anti-China riots had
been triggered in Hanoi for China’s claims on Vietnam.

Lê Dức Bảệ “Wired” is a poet of Vietnam. Vietnam is not averse to pushing back at Chinese imperialism.


          by Drew U. A. Eclibse

Over the roof tops,
the pale, cratered moon rises,
opening evening.


The Indian Rover on the Moon
          by Drew U. A. Eclibse

The Chandrayaan 2, a GSLV MK-III,
weighs some 640 tons and is 140 feet.
The orbiter and lander are housed there up at the top
that’s powered by a cryogenic engine thrusting up.
Two strap-on rocket boosters are the first stage of the launch;
there at the bottom they’re a roaring, roaming, o, me conch.
Two Vikas engines further up make up the second stage
of this our mission, said K. Sivas ISRO sage.
But there had been a snag, the first launch called off just before
the lander and the rover took off for the lunar shore.

Drew U. A. Eclibse is a poet of the Moon. The haiku was written on July 16, 2019. The is the 50th year anniversary of the first human landing on the moon.


A Free Paraphrase from Vladimir Arnold
          by Euclidrew Base

“Though mathematics is one of humanity’s fine arts,
all mathematics is divided into these three parts:
Cryptography is one, supported by the KGB.
and companies to do their business work in secrecy.
Hydrodynamics is the second one, supported by
atomic submarine developers to test the lie.
Celestial “mécanique” is third, propped up by those who deal
in missiles, outer space or military, to conceal.”
Although Vladimir Arnold, when he made a quote like this;
although absurd, his hidden meaning was not hard to miss!

Vladimir Arnold (1937-2010) was a Russian mathematician whose PhD thesis contained the solution of Hilbert’s 13th Problem. He was a co-founder of KAM theory and topological Galois theory.


Mount Chimborazo
          by Wibele Escudar

So beautiful it rises in the rising of the day;
Mount Chimborazo slopes up to a point upon display.
To climb its lovely peak is a perfection rarely won;
its cold austerity a challenge to most everyone.
An Andean stratovolcano there in Ecuador;
it rises up so gorgeously and grand it seems to soar.
One time considered as the highest mountain on the Earth,
it still remains the furthest point from Earth’s grand, bulging girth.
O, Chimborazo, rocky mountain, glaciated tor;
with peak the nearest to the Sun on this Globe’s shifting floor.


Pablo Neruda on the Passing of Joseph Stalin
          by Wibele Escudar

We must be men. That is the law that Joseph Stalin left.
Sincere intensity and concrete clarity are best.
He was the noon of man. Let us from this not be bereft.
Let’s bear these words with pride, all comrade fighting communists.

Though he has died, the light has not; the fire still appears.
Increase the growth of bread and hope. Decrease your shallow fears.
The persecuted rose is on his shoulders, like the dove.
The giant goes back to the land he governed from above.

Speak not of executions, as did Osip Mandelstam.
Speak not of bread crumbs or defeat, like Varlam Shalamov.
Speak not of writers murdered, August 1952,
including poets Markish, Hofstein, Feffer and Kvitko.

Speak not of mass starvation that was planned for the Ukraine.
Speak not of suicides Esenin, Mayakovsky, pain.
Speak not of silenced poets, like Anna Akhmatova,
or those who felt they couldn’t speak more, like Tvetaeva.

Speak not about the gulag archipelago again,
like Sozhenitsyn did. Don’t speak like that. Do not complain.
Speak not of all the millions killed. And most of all don’t shout.
And if you dare to freely speak, a gag should bind your mouth.

The waves beat down upon the stones. continuing his work.
When Malenkov will take the reins, no duties shall he shirk…
till Khrushchev and Bulganin jerk him from the center stage.
This is the power Stalin had. Invincible his Age.

Wibele Escudar is a poet of South America.


The Farmer in the Dell
          by Caleb Wuri Seed

The farmer in the dell was driving all about the farm.
The Sun was shining on him; he was feeling very warm.
Refreshed from riding on his motorbike, he paused beside
the jeep he had been driving in. It too was quite a ride.

A man who’d loaded up his van with wood had paused to chat.
The farmer opened up about his worries and his angst.
He longed to share his troubles with another working man,
who empathized because he too wished for a helping hand.

The dirty farmer looked unhappy, as he paused to break.
He truly felt that life was some times just too hard to take.
And so they talked away the afternoon till evening came;
above, the full moon rose up high; down went the solar flame.

Caleb Wuri Seed is a poet of agriculture.


The Dude
          by Irbee C. Swaudel

The dude wore black, up at his shirt, down to his shoes and socks;
but he did not attempt to channel Hamlet or his lot.
He did not plot to catch the King, nor did he plan to box;
he only longed to fetch the thing to prove that it was caught.

The dude was blue within his soul, and true as he could be;
but he did not attempt to channel flannel or Police.
He did not lease Pessoa’s fleece, nor try to change his tee;
he only longed to be a person, happy and at peace.

The dude was deep, a pinkish shade, a man of colour too;
but he did not attempt to channel haughty attitude.
He did not brood to be some rube, nor rude and reckless coot;
he only longed to be just what he was. He was a dude.

Irbee C. Swaudel is a poet of the ordinary within the extraordinary.


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Wise Words with Bruce Wise


Deep in the Core of the Crab Nebula
          by I. E. Sbace Weruld

Deep in the core of the Crab Nebula expolding star,
the inner regions send out pulsing particles afar,
about the same mass as the Sun, but more intensely dense,
a sphere of only a few miles, incredibly compressed.
While spinning thirty times a sec, the neutron star shoots out
the energetic beams detectable as cosmic shout.
The Hubble Telescope snapshot shows glowing gas in red,
that shows a swirling swarm of cavities and filaments.
Inside the shell, the ghostly blue in radiations glow,
electrons spiralling light speed around the stellar core.

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


          by Ibe Ware Desu, LC

In the evening sky,
the thin sliver of the moon
shows a slender grin.


          by Ibe Ware Desu, LC

The sound of water
replenishing petunias:
cicadas chatter.


          by “Wired Clues” Abe

Amidst the dull roar
of trucks, cars, and landing jets:
cicadas clatter.


          by “Wired Clues” Abe

In the hot, clear air,
the jet with flashing lights flies;
the landing is soon.


          by “Wired Clues” Abe

The distant car sounds,
the magic of the evening,
the man feels warm.

Ibe Ware Desu, LC, and “Wired Clues” Abe are haiku writers.


Mori Ōgai (1862-1922)
          by “Clear Dew” Ibuse

Son of a doctor to the lord of the Tsuwano clan,
Mori Rintarō was born in the southwest of Japan.
At five he started studies of tradition’s apogees,
Confucius, Mencius, and classics of the Japanese.
He was sent then to Tokyo to study medicine,
and stayed with Nishi Amene, once in the Netherlands.
At university, proficiency in German grew.
He joined the army medic corps at age of twenty-two.
He found himself in Germany, there studying hygiene
and European letters, both the new and ancient scene.
When he returned back to Japan, some four years after that,
Mori Ōgai became a writing doctor-bureaucrat.
He married Adm’ral Akamatsu’s daughter for a year;
but acrimonious divorce left life a bit severe,
a bitter tear.
Resigned to working for Japan’s march into modern life,
he took up irony to cope with overwhelming strife.
Spars with superiors sent him to Kyushu in the south;
a quiet, four-year exile in Kokura for his mouth.
Remarried, back in Tokyo, he kept on studying;
then Bureau Chief of Medicine for the War Ministry;
but he was reprimanded by Vice-Minister of War
for his satiric Vita Sexualis mild storm.
Offended by official-dom and growing censorship,
shocked at the execution of Kōtoku Shūsui,
he wrote The Tower Silence showing government attempts
to banish certain thoughts was really an impov’rishment.
In 1912, the Meiji ruler, Mutsuhito, died,
and Gen’ral Nogi Maresuke did his suicide;
from that point on he gradu’lly moved to biography,
from thence he placed a greater value on integrity,
and chose to write of Tokugawa figures come what may,
himself a classic now, like Chūsai, Ranken and Katei.

“Clear Dew” Ibuse is a poet of Japan.


Past the Edge of Vast Eternity
          by Badri Suwecele
          “God is near you, with you, within you.”

I saw him walking past the edge of vast eternity.
He made his way up to the vast plateau of ecstasy.
He was a fan of God. His heart was open to his Lord.
But he was not aware how He should be revered, adored.
O, he experienced a form of metanoia too,
but he was so astonished he did not know what to do.
Perhaps if he could climb the stairway to the cosmic El,
he could escape the horrid flames of living in this hell.
He raised his legs; he stepped up high, to reach another plane,
so hot he could not handle it, so close he was to pain.

Badri Suwecele is a poet of India.


The Conversation
          by Sri Wele Cebuda
          “I have fondness for deep conversations…”
              —Yashasvi Khushu

There in the corner of a room, in natural light lit,
they talked about existence, their beliefs, and even spit.
They talked about their likes, dislikes, and other things as well,
about career choices, voices from the edge of El.
The older one was questioning just what the young one thought
about his low position in society, his lot.
The young one answered everything that he was asked about;
but rarely asked the old one anything; he held no doubt.
The last thing that I heard them say was blah blah blah blah blah;
and so I left them on that plane against the bright white wall.

Sri Wele Cebuda is a poet of India.


The Silencing of Qurrat al-Ayn
          by Delir Ecwabeus

She cast off garments of old laws, outworn traditions too,
immersing in the seas of bounty, grabbing life anew.
How long must lovers still endure the curtaining of truth?
Bestow on them unveiled beauty, freedom, light and youth.
Tahirih stood before the World, adorned, unveiled and true;
but her own Persia cast her off, as one who was impure.

It was September 1852, one dark night’s gloom.
A military officer was coming with his troops.
She dressed up in a bridal gown, anointed with perfume.
She paced the floor, reciting prayers in her prison room.
They strangled her and tossed her in a well with earth and stones.
“Eye’s Solace” had been silenced, but her memory lives on.

Delir Ecwabeus is a poet of Iran. Qurrat al-Ayn (1817-1852) was an Iranian poet, firebrand and Babi religious leader. Iran, this week, after knocking down an American drone, began enriching uranium to 4.5% purity.


Chefchaouen, in Morocco
          by Eswer El Cubadi

It is so lovely where it lies at the foot of the Rif,
Chefchaouen, in Morocco, noted for its blues and kef.
So many of its splendid doors and walls are painted blue,
so picturesque they easily draw tourists to their view.
One can be taken in by settings, time and time again:
this gorgeous door! that pleasing form! o, beautiful! Amen!
It is as if one has a taste of heaven on this Earth.
O, such a rarety bespeaks such loveliness’s dearth.
So lucky are those souls who get to reach its showy streets,
for they possess its sweetness in the form of memories.

Eswer El Cubadi is a poet of North Africa. This week 55 nations of Africa met to create a more open African economic zone.


In the Küçükçekmece District
          by Çelebi Ürwëdas

In the Küçükçekmece district in west Istanbul,
the Syrians are targetted by groups of roving Turks.
With half a million in the province, there displaced by war,
the Syrians have set up shops to make a livelihood.
But rising unemployment and a slow economy
have fueled the anger of the Turks against the Syrians.
The night İmamoğlu became Istanbul’s mayor, o,
this hashtag spread fast: “Suriyeliler Defoluyor”,
which roughly is translated as “You Syians, get out”,
whose meaning, broken windows, goods and signage, left no doubt.

Çelebi Ürwëdas is a poet of Turkey.


The July 1st Nuclear Submarine Fire
          by Rus Ciel Badeew

A Russian naval officer said at the funeral,
of fourteen in Saint Petersburg, that they were heroes all.
Although they died within the fire on the submarine,
they had prevented, by their actions, a catastrophe.
The nuclear reactor was in tact according to
the Russian Defense Minister, tight-lipped Sergei Shoigu.
But news of what occurred July the 1st is classified,
though those who died on the Losharik were identified.
The sub was probably involved in intel gathering;
but what occurred deep down below is still past fathoming.

Rus Ciel Badeew is a poet of Russia.


Wise Words On Plato
          by Erisbawdle Cue

He was a man the wicked have no right to even praise,
said Aristotle long ago, among his works and days;
and Cicero said if Zeus spoke the language of the gods,
he’d use the language Plato used within his dialogues.
The European philosophical tradition is
a series of footnotes to Plato, Whitehead reminisced.
He took dramatic fire to the realms of the ideal,
Wise thought, by showing that ideas were in essence real.

Erisbawdle Cue is a poet of philosophy and philosopher of poetry.


The Selfie
          by Cawb Edius Reel

He stood up tall within the narrow hall where he was at.
He took a selfie in a sleeveless shirt and turned-back cap.
He stood upon a lovely carpet’s marvelous design
of shapely figures done in brown and gold, almost divine.
He stood upon his left foot, right foot off and up a bit.
His heels seemed as if they were uplifted in the pic.
He stood there seriously, catching glimpses front and back.
The logo on his sleeveless was a baseball and some bats.
He stood securely, but I wondered if he wouldn’t fall
into the crevice of some dark and cavernous dun rock.

Cawb Edius Reel is a poet of photography and a photographer of poetry.


An Injury
          by Edwe Bleca Ruís

It was another running of the bulls, Pamplona, Spain,
when Jaime Alvarez, San Fran defender, met his match.
He ran 850 meters to complete the run,
and felt that it was safe to take a selfie video.
But as he did, a bull charged at him unexpectedly
and stabbed its horn into the right side of his neck—such pain.
The joy and the excitement turned to fear—that awful latch.
The paramedics whisked him off to hospital—no fun.
Two-hour surgery required—he felt an idiot.
It did not hit his jugular—a miracle to see.

Edwe Bleca Ruís is a poet of Spain.


Upon the San Francisco Bus
          by Cal Wes Ubideer

Down cluttered Chestnut Street, the red and white bus chugged away,
past cars, shops, and electric lines, upon the pavement gray.
Inside, a woman desperate to reach the passengers
put her petition forth, intent to get some signatures.
In broken English, she went round to each one traveling,
explaining how in China there’s forced organ harvesting,
and Falun Gong practicioners are targetted because,
more disciplined, they’re healthier, and perfect for a cut.
One could not help but feel her immense anxiety,
amidst the honking vehicles and human trafficking.

Cal Wes Ubideer is a poet of California. Last Friday southern California experienced a 7.1 earthquake.


Upon Seeing a Red Mazda 5
          by Bruc “Diesel” Awe

It is an undervalued gem, the bright red Mazda 5,
with a wide range of attributes, unmatched by other rides.
Its sliding doors and seats make it a sweet alternative
for more-expensive larger SUVs and minivans.

Its tidy footprint aids in parking and maneuvering.
Its classy chassis makes it seem a driving lover’s dream.
With lots of windows it provides a very good view out.
It’s nimble and it’s agile too; it’s fun without a doubt.

It can be overtaxed on hills, but it is good on fuel.
Its traction and stability controls are standard too.
It’s like a flashy comet driving past one on the road,
unless it’s filled with luggage, cargo, and a heavy load.

Bruc “Diesel” Awe is a poet of vehicles.


The Business Man
          by Des Werkebauli

It was his early morning ritual to go to work.
He put on shirt and tie, and pulled each sock up with a jerk.
And then he took a pause to rest beside the staircase steps
to have a morning cup of tea to help build up his pep.

While eating buns with honey, he had to be careful not
to spill a thing upon his clothes; that was his foremost thought.
But he was also thinking that the time was passing by.
The black suit lay before him on the railing at his side.

He had to grab it quickly, o, he wanted so to stay;
fat-assing it was not an option for the coming day.
He had to quickly eat and sip, and then be on his way.
He had to leave behind the beauty of that lovely bay.


A Labourer in the Meat-Packing Industry
          by Des Wercebauli

I saw him only briefly once, and then he disappeared.
It was as if he’d vanished from the Earth. It was so weird.
He was a labourer in the meat-packing industry.
That’s where I saw him scrubbing up his workplace table clean.
But what surprised me was when he was done, he leaned on back
and rested on that table, though it was so hard, in fact.
What kind of peace could he enjoy in such a wretched spot?
But yet he seemed to be content with his vexatious lot.
The last I saw of him was when some stern co-worker came,
and hasseled him to get up off his butt and work again.


Plugging Nine-Inch
          by Des Wercebauli
          in memory of my father

The proudest moment of my working life
was when I plugged up nine-inch paper rolls
at Longview Fibre Company. They’d fly
out from machines, and we would plug their holes
with wooden plugs. Each minute there were more.
But we kept up, my working crew and me,
all the night-shift long, though our arms were sore.
It was a challenge of insanity.
I could relate so to John Henry; and
I knew that it was dumb, because we got
no more in money; but it was our stand
against machines. We laboured hard and fought
to keep up—and we did. Our victory
was sweet, if but for one’s night’s misery.

Des Werkebauli is a poet of work.


When He Was in a Tent
          by Cu Ebide Aswerl

When he was but a young kid and had not yet reached his teens,
the first time he was in a tent, he fell, o, fast alseep;
and soundly slept the whole night long; he did not wake till dawn;
and slowly woke up in the morning with a youthful yawn.
But when he did, he felt a stirring deep down in his soul,
as if some wonder to take hold had entered from below.
Some spritely elf had touched his being. O, how could this be?
Right then and there he entered in the realms of ecstasy.
Forever had appeared to him; he woke up from a dream.
Reality had brought him news straight from eternity.

Cu Ebide Aswerl is a poet of leisure.


The Brute
          by “Wild” E. S. Bucaree

He was as cra-zy-wi-ld as an animal at bay,
so haughty and so arrogant he had to have his way.
Whenever he proceeded mad, he went with raging force;
one wouldn’t want to get between him and his destined course.
He threw away decorum; peacefulness was not his thing,
He was a crude and brutal coot who shed all modesty.
He ripped away all pleasantries; he’d toss them to his side.
He didn’t give a damn at all. The dude was rude and snide.
Give in to his unruly wants, or get out of his path,
for only brave and hearty souls could take his mighty wrath.


The Ride
          by “Wild” E. S. Bucaree

The days of training bracing horses had already set,
and yet I saw him riding there astride a harnessed pet.
It reared up high into the sky to get away from him;
but he would not allow for that; he stopped the slightest whim.
He fiercely slapped that horse’s cheek and pulled upon its poll.
He seemed to be as fierce as any lion-fighting Pole.
He rode that horse across the grassland, galloping away,
its heels flying under him, its back on full display.
He held the reins and grabbed its mane to turn it to the side.
Then shot across the day. O, he’d not soon forget that ride.

“Wild” E. S. Bucaree is a poet of the Southwest.


The Exerciser
          by Rudi E. Welec, “Abs”

He did his push-ups on the mat, but only from his knees.
He lifted up as high as possible his shoulders’ frieze.
He kept on pushing, counting up how many that he did.
His breaths were hard; he felt the pains—there were a myriad.
He felt like he was being jerked around by some harsh god;
but on he went, continuing to work out on his bod.
He lifted up his butt and head; he kept his knees well placed.
O, he was flushed behind, below, o, even in his face.
He struggled on—that slightly bearded fellow—pushing up;
until it seemed as if his work-out truly was enough.
He wondered, though, why did it, o, have to be so damn rough?


His Exercising Class
          by Rudi E. Welec, “Abs”

He now was ready to begin his exercising class.
From stretching for ten minutes, he began to work his abs.
He started with some flutter-kicks; his heart was skittering;
like as a flapping butterfly, his legs were flittering.
Then came the he-el touches; he rose up to see the view,
an ordinary sight, but touched, o, with a golden hue.
Next came the pull-ins, where he kept his balance anxiously,
protecting neck, low back, and spine, projecting energy.
And last were crunches in reverse. He went through to the end.
Inspired so, he saw an angel in the air ascend.


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Wise Words with Bruce Wise

A Quick Quip
          by “Wired Clues” Abe

Time’s precious, life is busy, and attention spans don’t last.
You have to make your statement, and you have to make it fast.


          by “Wired Clues” Abe

A lone crow cawing
upon the telephone pole
is joined by a crow.


          by “Wired Clues” Abe

Past my gazing eyes,
a giant dragonfly zips
through the summer heat;
high, in blue, in a straight line,
a tiny silver jet zooms.

“Wired Clues” Abe is a poet using Japanese forms crudely. His focus is on living with modern technologies.


Climbing Kyoto Tower
          by Ibe Ware Desu, LC

He stood up at the bottom of a long gray flight of steps.
One wondered if he would be able to make such a trip.
He lifted up his shoulders and he tensed his light-tan arms.
He turned his head off to the right. He did not seem alarmed.
And so he started climbing up that windowless staircase,
and only just paused every now and then to catch his breath.
There at the bottom seemed like some forgotten storage rooms
but as he traveled, port-hole windows opened up the gloom.
285 steps there in all to get up to
the observation deck of Kyoto Tower’s spreading view.

Ibe Ware Desu, LC is a poet of Japan. Kyoto Tower is 131 meters high. The iconic landmark is the tallest structure in Kyoto.


The Meditator
          by Sri Wele Cebuda

I saw a thoughtful man out on a patio of sorts.
He stood so deep in concentration, he was firm perforce.
He stood in brilliant sunlight in a concrete alcove’s nook.
I was impressed at such a focused, earnest, steady look.
Perhaps he zeroed in upon a patch of grass below,
his right hand on his hip, his left hand maybe near his goal.
It looked like he was seeking something in that patch of grass.
But just what could it be? I did not know. I couldn’t ask.
Still, on he searched where he was perched beside that open wide;
the nearby chaise-longue lounge chair was the colour of the sky.
A nearby guy was searching too. Could he be reading text?
No lovely clover over there on the cement—What next?
But, o, the thoughful man kept up his probing, hearfelt hunt
for something that I could not see or tell, though in sun lit.


From the Cahiers of the Travellothoner
          by Sri Wele Cebuda

They took the path up to Tungnath, that Shiva temple’s height,
a thousand-year-old rock construction was their hearts’ delight.
Through forests óf oak, rhododendron, maple and the like,
for four long days they trekked along and made their upward hike,
……………………………………………………..they moved up to the sky.

From Haridwar to Sari village, they passed great Ganga’s start;
Alakanandra meets the Bhaghirath, once both apart.
From Sari, then, the trail rises steeper all the time;
they reached a hawa ghar and found a dhaba on their climb,
……………………………………………………..enroute to the sublime.

There’s a watch tower near the lake to orient oneself.
One hears rare Himalayan birds at Deoriatal.
But washing is a headache and the toilet’s portable;
and it goes down to 0, freezing when the evening falls;
……………………………………………………..the wind is cold and raw.

Onto Rohini Bughyal, there is but a single stream;
Chaukhambra Peak and Kedar Dome appear between the trees.
There is a clearing, exiting the forests, and one meets
Chandrashila, Moon Rock, 4,000 meters. What a peak.
……………………………………………………..One hardly dares to speak.

Yet on they went, at times through snow, both fresh and frozen kind;
the frozen was more dangerous, although it gleamed and shined.
Along the way, they came across small shrines with yellow flags;
one uses them to make sure one is following their tags,
……………………………………………………..among these lofty crags.

Woodpeckers and flycatchers can be spotted on the way.
Kedarnath Sanctuary has old trees that greet the day.
Below the Kala Parvat peak, is Lake Bisuri Tal;
Pandavas hid their weapons there; the glacial lake so small;
………………………………………………………it’s barely there at all.

They kept on moving forward; next to Chopta and its camp.
They crossed the stream and filled their bottles, happy to revamp.
They passed a set of shepherd, summer homes made out of stone.
The locals with their livestock meant that they were not alone,
………………………………………………………not really on their own.

From Chopta to Tungnath they went to Chandrashila Mount.
The sunrise was spectacular, away from train or town.
In winter, one needs crampons, micro-spikes and an ice-axe;
the trail can be buried in cold snowy, frosty packs,
………………………………………………………amongst those steep switchbacks.

Up at the top one can observe Garwhal and Kumaon,
Chaukhambra too, and Nanda Devi, scenic mountains shown.
Once back in Chopta, in their jeeps, they drover to Haridwar;
the journey took ten hours long; that is, the trip by car;
………………………………………………………o, they had gone so far.

And they had seen so very much, they will not soon forget,
here at the place Lord Rama meditated for his rest,
defeating demon-king Ravana with his many heads,
like snowy Himavat, the father from whom Ganga bred,
……………………………………………………….as sage Valmiki said.

Sri Wele Cebuda is a poet of India. He is reminded by a quote from T. S. Eliot’s “The Wasteland”, “the black clouds/ Gathered far distant over Himavant.”


Der Schnee
          by Uwe Carl Diebes

Der Schnee ist weiss. —
not enough, though true.
Der Schnee is kald. —
better and true, though not enough.

But the snow is white and cold,
and it did snow today,
and the sun did shine yesterday,
and the sun is shining today,
but there is a blanket of clouds between
the sun and
the snow —
so what?
The problem is
that for me this is not enough.
I need satisfaction, or
I won’t be satisfied—
I want to be satisfied—
No, never.
I will never be totally satisfied—
I can’t say the same thing twice—
Der Schnee ist weiss.
and it’s cold, icy,
Enough is enough.
Don’t make a mountain out of an ava

Uwe Carl Diebes is a poet of Germany. He is reminded of another snippet from T. S. Eliot’s “The Wasteland”, “In the mountains, there you feel free.”


          by Euclidrew Base

He was a Greek who lived in Syracuse in Sicily,
defender of the island from the might of Italy.
Known for his strength in math and physics, Archimedes was
a power and a force in mental realms and manual loves.

Nine extant texts include work on the cylinder and sphere;
a third in which he found pi’s limits from a circle’s peer;
a fourth on conoids, fifth on spirals, two more books on planes.
where both the lever’s laws and centered gravity explained;

an eighth, on the parabola, showed he was coming close
to integration from a geometrical approach;
a ninth, “Sand Reckoner” suggested th’ Universe was vast,
into which we, as living, breathing Earthlings had been cast.

Euclidrew Base is a poet of mathematics and mathematicians. Archimedes (c. 287 BC – c. 212 BC) was one of the most creative of mathematicians in history.


          by Aedile Cwerbus

When Cratinus, Eubolis, Aristophanes, and more,
wrote ancient comedies, if they perceived a thief or whore,
a cut-throat or adulterer, they branded them as such;
Free speech back then was very free, whereas now not so much.
Lucilius relied upon these poets for his fire,
according to the Roman Horace in his own satire.
Continuing, he says, Lucilius just copied them,
by only changing feet and meters, though still opulent.
He had great perspicacity; he was a man of wit;
but in his compositions he could be inelegant.

If not as crude, abusive, and as harsh as Cratinus,
at times, he spewed out many lines without a lot of fuss.
As he flowed muddily along, like Tiber in the spring,
he didn’t care to change results of his Menandering.
Though Horace makes not much of much of loose Lucilius,
it seems that he himself was challenged by crisp Crispinus.
Let’s name a place, a time, a space, with judges and a host.
Let’s see, who on their tablets, timed, can truly write the most.
But Horace didn’t take the little bet; he was too meek,
for Horace speaking briefly, seldom, was perhaps too weak!

Still Horace wondered if the bettor imitated air,
Egyptian Crispinus, in Nile’s delta’s dredged, dregged lair.
But Fannius is happy as he has sent manuscripts
to Palatine Apollo, when nobody yet reads his,
for Horace doesn’t relish speaking out in public, nor
is there much appetite when countless souls deserve censure.
Besides, the love-mad, covetous, and avaricious too,
despise the poets and their verses. Cursèd be that crew.
‘He has hay on his horn,’ they cry, ‘avoid him at great length.
For sooth, if he can raise a laugh, he will not spare a friend’.

Aedile Cwerbus is a poet of ancient Rome. Some of the language of the above poem comes from an American translation of 1863, that by Charles Lewis Smart. Lucilius (c. 180 BC – c. 102 BC) was an early Roman satirist. Horace (65 BC – 8 BC) was a noted Roman satirist. Cratinus, Eubolis, Aristophanes, and Menander were Greek comic dramatists. Crispinus and Fannius were contemporaries of Horace.


Modus Ponens (P ˄ (P → Q) → Q)
          by Erisbawdle Cue
          “My dear, Degas, poems are not made out of ideas, they are made out of
              —Stéphane Mallarmé

Mallarmé wrote poetry.
If Mallarmé wrote poetry, then he wrote words.
Therefore, Mallarmé wrote words.

Erisbawdle Cue is a poet of philosophy and logic. Though he often loves the wisdom of Plato and Aristotle, and considers them among the very greatest of philosophers, there are times he finds he disagrees with Plato’s dramas and Aristotle’s lecture notes. Stéphane Mallarmé (1842-1898) was a French poet and critic.


Man’s Inhumanity
          by War di Belecuse

Each day we have examples of man’s inhumanity.
The news across the Globe is filled with this iniquity.
This week I saw a man protesting what he thought was wrong,
but spit upon another man, and shoved him fiercely down.
And if that wasn’t bad enough, he treated him like dirt;
he grabbed his clothes and tore at them; he ripped his nice black shirt.
But no one at the scene cared what this tattoed bully did.
In fact, he was cheered on by others in that neighbourhood.
He pounded him; he beat him up; nobody gave a damn.
Too frequently we see man’s inhumanity to man.


The Man Upon the Battlefield
          by War di Belecuse

The battlefield was hot and heavy in his line of sight.
He was a man in army vest, who dove beneath its blight.
The war was raging, fights engaging, flight was in his mind;
but he dare not arise up or he’d get hit from behind.
He kept down low, avoiding shells discharged about the strife.
There was no doubt that he was in the battle of his life.
He dared to stick his head up from the manhole he was in,
a manhell he was fighting through that he could never win.
And so, he faced his enemy with patient fortitude.
If he could just get through these struggles, he would call it good.

War di Belecuse is a poet of conflict. This week in Portland, Oregon, journalist Andy Ngo was brutalized by Rose City Antifa.


The Acrobat
          by Circ de Wee Balu

I saw the acrobat performing tricks up in the air.
At times, it seemed as if he were here, there and everywhere.
I saw him climbing up the pole, so high above the ground,
and then he swept up to a platform, never looking down.
I saw him swinging back and forth, and then quite bent in half,
I gasped to see dex-ter-i-ty fly off the charted graph.
I saw him turn around in space. He landed on his knees.
He strained to reach the pendulum of his fast-barred trapeze.
And finally, I saw him free, there balanced by his hand.
He stretched his right arm’s elbow up; and then I saw him land.

Sirc de Wee Balu is a poet of the circus.


The Man in the Bed
    nbsp;     by Des Werkebauli

He felt that it was time to git, and leave behind his bed;
but he was so content to be there, happy in his head.
At first he tried to lift his legs up high and to the side;
but they fell back onto the mattress where he would abide.
Then next he thought he should turn over, which is what he did;
but he could only get upon his knees until he slid.
He felt as if some greater force was holding him down there;
but he had to get off to work, he shouldn’t stay and stare.
So finally, he sat up tall, his hand firm and secure.
He got his butt up off the bed and shot up in the air.

Des Werkebauli is a poet of workers and their labours.


The Man in the Car
     nbsp;    by Wes Lee “R. D.” Bucai

He paused a moment to relax behind the driving wheel.
He’d pulled off of the road and parked…in his au-to-mo-bile.
He turned aside to gaze upon the scenic hills he saw.
He’d love to run upon those slopes, but he stayed in his car.

His collared shirt was neat and crisp; it was the colour black.
He nestled in the driver’s seat; his head was down and back.
He left the visor up, the rear-view mirror turned up too.
No passenger was seated in the front; he had a view.

He gazed upon a lamb with off-white, soft, light-golden hair
upon its four appendages; it too had paused to stare,
there at that man within his car at thé edge of the road,
and then high-tailed it on that grass, such loveliness unrolled.

He wanted so to go along and gambol with that lamb,
but he would only stare and stall—that neatly-collared man.
And so he sat there for some time, his head there motionless,
and blessed the hole that he was in, if not for happiness.

Wes Lee “R. D.” Bucai is a poet of pastoral and woodland settings.