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.