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
by “Wired Clues” Abe
Amidst the dull roar
of trucks, cars, and landing jets:
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.
by Sri Wele Cebuda
“I have fondness for deep conversations…”
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.