Our Sun
          I. E. Sbace Weruld

Our sun, a yellow dwarf, is only one
among the seventy sextillion stars
that are scattered throughout our universe;
and yet, it is the source of all life known.
Our fuel and our food come from its throne,
sunlight that takes just minutes to reach us,
then Mars, the asteroids, to Jupiter
and far more distant planets and their zones.
Hans Bethe, back in 1939,
conjectured that its energy comes from
its superhot plasma blast-furnace brine
that changes hydrogen to helium—
fused protons on a scale that is divine—
sextillion megawatts each second’s thrum.

I. E. Sbace Weruld is a poet of the Universe. Hans Bethe (1906-2005), mentioned in the Italian sonnet, was a German-American nuclear physicist who won the 1967 Nobel Prize in physics.


At Siding Spring
          by Walibee Scrude

In daylight, past the intricate, white-cupped
radio telescopes at Siding Spring,
Australia, one can see them pointing up,
and make another sighting—jumping—zing—
a kangaroo leap through the dry brown grass
beneath the brilliant, beautiful blue skies,
that doesn’t pause, but moves by very fast
the metal owls that are the planet’s eyes
down under, constantly alert, aimed at
the centre of the Milky Way, in day,
or night, as quiet as a wombat that
is hid below the Southern Cross display
or the two Magellanic Clouds nearby,
part of our Local Group, that round us fly.

Walibee Scrude is a poet of Australia.


I Never Think About It, But
          by Lu “Reed ABCs” Wei

I never think about it, but somehow I can’t forget
those many years ago the Tiananmen incident.
The China Dream must be the one espoused by Xi Jinping,
not that which would allow the people to be free in spring.
That day you covered my two eyes with a gold-touched, red cloth,
and wrapped it all around my head, you asked me what I saw.
I saw a line of tanks; I saw a picture of what was;
I saw the sky was dark, and making sounds was dangerous;
I saw some people crouched within a corner of the World,
the year that had no 4th of June, the day that had no year.

Lu “Reed ABCs” Wei is a poet of China. The above poem reveals where Lu “Reed ABCs” Wei derives his hao from, lu wei 蘆葦 which means “reed” in English. The “Incident” of Tiananmen Square took place three decades ago in 1989.


In India
          by Sri Wele Cebuda
          “Beware the Leader whom all love.”
              —Eric Awesud Ble

In democratic nations, also which do have free speech,
their nation’s leaders are called names. Impeach, impeach, impeach.

Take Modi, for example, leader of the BJP,
it’s hard to count the names, he has been called so many things.
He’s been called out as Hitler, Mussolini, and jallad,
as well as Duryodhana, gangu, Bhasmasur and dog.

He has been likened to a frog, a monkey and a goat,
compulsive liar, man of damage, man of stupid coat,
Ravana, mental retard, and the list goes on and on.
Just walk in any street in Delhi, adjectives compound.

Yet in the tyrannies one hardly hears a horrid word,
too fearful for their lives, folks dare not call a turd a turd.

Sri Wele Cebuda is a poet of India.


The Travellothoner
          by Wic E. Ruse Blade

I saw him like an X against the lightly-clouded sky,
above the sand, beside the waves, and jagged rocks nearby,
dressed in a scarf, black jacket, light-blue jeans and bright-blue shoes,
sun-glasses on his eyes, a young man leaping and amused.
It is as if he is detached—a moment from the Earth,
an impish sprite, high as a kite—the Travellothoner.
One wonders where he’s going to. What is he doing there—
attempting to cheer up the World from his spot in the air?
So many dwell in angst and do not like their fellow man;
but here’s a spirited and joyful soul who shows we can.

Wic E. Ruse Blade is a poet of high jinx and swashbuckling energy.


Leo Tolstoy at 82: The First Colour Photograph in Russia
          by Radice Lebewsu

He’s sitting on a slatted, wicker-like, white chair,
whose right arm his right arm rests on, and right hand holds,
while his left hand lies on his lap. Up in the air,
his left black boot and gray-pant leg there overfolds
across his right leg firmly planted on the ground.
His long-sleeved blue shirt his old shoulders’ contours mold,
down which his long white whiskers fall in strands around
his light-brown, round face, and serious countenance,
as if at something grim he had recently frowned.
He sits before a sun-lit background’s dark tree trunks,
beyond, which are vague shrubberies and branches bare,
before, which is his stare, pushed keen and out in front…
as if it were a mountain waterfall’s despair.

Radice Lebewsu is a poet of Russia. Leo Tolstoy (1828-1910) was a Realist short story writer and novelist of vast prosaic canvasses.


Israel Moiseevich Gelfand
          by Euclidrew Base

Arriving in a mountainous arena at some time,
A. Kolmogorov would immediately try to climb
the highest peak, while Israel Moiseevich Gelfand
would start the building of new roads to cross across the land.
Gelfand contributed to functional analysis,
as well as integral geometry’s fine chalices.
He likewise did some work in physics and biology;
while labouring within the field of cohomology.
He thought the greatest thing a student could get out of math
was the attainment of such scenic views along its path.

Euclidrew Base is a poet of math and mathematicians. Israel Moiseevich Gelfand (1913-2009) and Andrey Kolmogorov (1903-1987) were among the most famous of 20th century Russian mathematicians.


Lord Sugar Mound the Leader
          by Esca Webuilder
          “Threats to freedom of speech…lead to…disrespect for the rights of the citizen.”
              —George Orwell

Lord Sugar Mound the Leader wants to limit the debate.
Lord Sugar Mound the Leader is defining what is hate.
Lord Sugar Mound the Leader purges those he doesn’t like.
Lord Sugar Mound the Leader is against a bill of rights.
Lord Sugar Mound the Leader would like us to just assent.
Lord Sugar Mound the Leader wants to shut down the dissent.
Lord Sugar Mound the Leader bans with iron-fisted clout.
Lord Sugar Mound the Leader says what you can talk about.
Lord Sugar Mound the Leader tells you what you can believe.
The Tyranny of Tech continues unabashedly.

Esca Webuilder is a poet of the Internet. Are people being banned for opposing censorship?


The Tools
          by Cee Builder Saw

The tools were all arranged around the pegboard on the wall,
so neatly hung, they hardly swung, placed perfect one and all.
The guys would come around each weekend for some games and drink.
It seems that poker was the fav’rite, betting on the brink.
There in that large garage, built big enough for work and fun,
the men would smoke their big cigars before they had begun.
A straight, two pairs, a flush, the stares, the cards were dealt with vim.
One wondered who would get the king, and would he win with him.
O, long into the night would go the many dealt-out hands;
but after all the sees and calls, by two it all disbands.

Cee Builder Saw is a poet of carpentry.


The Firm, Determined Furry Squirrel
          by Bud “Weasel” Rice

The firm, determined furry squirrel dug and tugged away
to open up his dirty hole with brown nuts on display.
He wanted so to fill it full—ah, super, acorn hole—
to him it was a cornucopia, a lovely bowl.
Though it was but a little bit, chipmunks might like it too;
there’s no accounting for the taste of nature’s freest zoo.
Though some would find such stuff disgusting, vulgar certainly,
there are a crew of nature’s group who love it perfectly.
So, though I was repelled by that firm squirrel and his hole,
I walked away a little lighter, frightened for my soul.

Bud “Weasel” Rice is a poet of the Animal Kingdom.


An Owl
          by E. Birdcaws Eule
          “That slepen al the nyght with open ye”
              —The Canterbury Tales: General Prologue, Geoffrey Chaucer

An owl in a tree
stares out in the shadowed wood.
I spot it perched there.
Though resting on a dark branch,
its eyes are wide and open.

E. Birdcaws Eule is a poet of owls.