by Aedile Cwerbus
I sing of no man only, but of all the World as well,
though mania and armies may within these portals dwell,
as godly will and ire swell my sails to ports and shores,
or labours long and hard on land, at sea, in skies or wars.
O may my spirit soar to take on such a thankless task
that no one honours, no one covets, no one wants, alas.
Who cares for banished gods? for vanished bodies on the Earth?
though all will come to this one day, since that’s the fate of birth;
from whence the human race has come; there only being one,
within the mighty and majestic radiating Sun.
Aedile Cwerbus is a poet intrigued by epic.
by I. E. Sbace Weruld
Buzz Aldrin’s first impression when he got upon the moon—
‘magnificent its desolation, beautiful its view’—
up there, he spake “I’d like to take this opportunity
to ask [each] person listening…wherever they may be
to pause…and contemplate…these past few hours…to give thanks
in his or her own way,” and took communion’s godly slakes—
the moon’s first liquid poured and its first bit of eaten food;
that brave Apollo astronaut—he thought that it was good.
He took that trip in ’69. It didn’t seem too long.
In fact, he thought it was divine…with Collins and Armstrong.
I. E. Sbace Weruld is a poet of Space. This year was the 50th-year anniversary of landing on the Moon.
The Morning Dove
by E. Birdcaws Eule
The hawk flies overhead; its wings appear to touch the moon,
that seems so faint and pale in the azure afternoon;
the heat so hot it enters in the body all the way;
the only place to safely sit is in the garden shade.
Nearby within an elm that’s plagued with rust, there is a nest;
a mourning dove sits patiently, there hardly free from rest.
She sits upon her little eggs in blazing heat and worse,
like raging downpours, violént wind-storms, the farmer’s curse.
One egg is broken on the ground below the rustling tree,
yet on she stays despite it all, and does so silently.
E. Birdcaws Eule is a poet of the avians. His last name “Eule” means owl in German. Although one of his favourite bird calls is that of the morning dove, he didn’t like it when this pair of morning doves tried to build a nest in his gutter.
The Water Tower
by Eber L. Aucsidew
I see it in the distance like an alien space-ship,
a giant spider, dozen-legged, a shiny floating blimp,
when in reality it’s just a water tower there
that rises up formidible out in the open air.
It holds a reservoir of water for when drought comes here;
100-degree temp’ratures suggests it could be near.
I only hope we don’t have to resort to use its store,
except when we have lots of back-up, less perhaps than more.
So there it stands a reassurance to some coming drought,
that we would, if we had our druthers, forsooth, do without.
by Eber L. Aucsidew
How wonderful it is—a shower, morning, noon or night,
refreshing to the nth degree, one feels so good and right.
It makes one happier, prepared to face the coming tasks,
the challenges one must accomplish as they come to pass;
especi’lly then, when one has got to move one’s chores along;
to take control of charges one has, one has to be strong.
When one is clean, slicked down and sleek, one’s ready to take on
whatever next presents itself that one must pounce upon,
the glorious, notorious, laborious, and more,
allowing one to press forth, yes, each bull grabbed by the horn.
Eber L. Aucsidew is a poet of air and water. His favourite PreSocratics are Thales (c. 624 BC – c. 546 BC) and Anaximenes (c. 586 BC – c. 526 BC).
Beside the Rock
by Walibee Scrude
“All other ground is sinking sand.”
I saw the man of colours on a path of rusty or’nge,
in sandals by a wire fence beside Uluru’s forge,
the massive sandstone rock formation, closer to rust-red,
of arkose, feldspar, quartz and rock, within the dustless dread,
the bone-dry and dead reddish centre of his native land,
the bloody hot Australian outback in the Sun’s command.
Here is no water—only rock—o, and the sandy road,
that winds around the mountain rock—another episode.
If there were water, we should stop and think. Yes, we would drink.
Into dry grass and pale bushy shrubs, one cannot sink.
Walibee Scrude is a poet of Australia, Edward Mote (1797-1874) a hymnist of the 19th century.
The Yoga Master
by Ice Buledeswar
“The union of the true spiritual self to God is a divine yoke indeed.”
He sits inside an equilateral triangle. He
is sitting in the lotus position. His hands
are at his knees. He’s seeking peace and harmony.
The sunlight touches him with gold commands.
He wants to hold his body steady for a long
time, calming all the joints of tension, bonds and bands.
He meditates upon becoming…being…strong.
He sits upon a mat. One cannot see his face,
His breath slows down. He tightens arms and legs along.
He goes into a trance. He pauses from the race.
He tones his nerves. He contemplates eternity
from his relaxing height. He’s sitting at the base.
Ice Buledeswar is a poet of individuality, a lone man in a lonely world, beloved by few perhaps because he is so cool. Indeed, he appreciates a brief, cool shower, especially in summer. One of the most famous poets in the Odia language (approximately 34,000,000 speakers) is Sarala Dasa (15th century AD), whose couplets of verse do not comprise a similar number of letters. Although the above poem is a bilding, when Ice Buledeswar writes tennos, he strives to have fourteen syllables in each of his lines; even though syllables may be of differing lengths.
A Vision of Ezekiel
by Israel W. Ebecud
Above me seated on what seemed to be a warm
and shining sapphire throne, I saw Him, oh, my God!
a striking, puissant spirit in a human form.
Ah, upward from his mighty loins, I gazed in awe,
such glory was displayed, laid out in gleaming bronze,
sheer glowing mettle, oh, encased in firey flames!
I bowed before such stunning majesty—Yahweh!
Below his loins upon that gorgeous throne, light came
like the appearance of a bow in falling rain,
whose radiant and brilliant brightness left me lame.
How could I be the same? I fell upon my face.
Then heard a voice so deep and grand say, “Son of Man,
stand on your feet. I want to see you full and plain.”
How could I not be overwhelmed in such a case,
to be there in the presence of such greatness, grace.
Oh, God, I love Him so—light of ten trillion dawns.
Israel W. Ebecud is a poet of Israel. The above lines come from Ezekiel 1: 26 – 2 : 1.
by Saudi Becrewel
She still remains in Saudi prison—Loujain al-Hathloul—
and she is not the only one there; there are others too.
She says she will not make a video that says that she
has not been tortured or harrassed by Saud Al-Qahtani.
He watched her being tortured, threatened rape and murder too.
How could she make a video that said it wasn’t true?
They waterboarded her and gave electric shocks as well;
they made confinement solitary, Dahhban’s living hell.
Her family had planned to keep this silent, till they heard,
she wouldn’t sign the document and ripped it—she demurred.
Saudi Becrewel is a poet of the Arabian peninsula.
Remembering Gao Rongrong
by Lu “Reed ABCs” Wei
Once radiant and lovely, Gao Rongrong faced torture for
the practicing of Falun Gong, forbearance, truth and more.
In 1999, she lost her job for her belief;
and thus began her journey of pain, agony and grief.
It was 2003 when she was taken by police
to Longshan Labour Camp in Shenyang; she would have no peace.
They beat her for not giving up belief in Falun Gong:
May 7, in 2004, they tortured Gao Rongrong.
For seven hours straight they seared her skin off face and neck;
o, she was scarred electric’lly, disfigured and a wreck.
The torture was so horrifying, she could not take it,
and from a second story window in that place, she leapt.
Because of all her injuries she went to hospital,
which she escaped October 5th; she snuck out down the hall.
But she was back in prison by March 6th 2005.
Before the spring was over yet, she was no more alive.
Lu “Reed ABCs” Wei is a poet of China. The beautiful Gao Rongrong (1968-2005) had been an accountant when she was forced from her job for believing in forbearance, truth and compassion, certainly threats to Chinese Communism. As of August 2019, is there only one mainstream media outlet with any information about Gao Rongrong—the Daily Mail?
A Dark Night
by Lu “Reed ABCs” Wei
“For the well-being of humanity, this [Chinese] empire must break
A dark night is approaching. Ghosts come out onto the streets.
Hong Kong is a time-bomb that’s ticking. Hear its hard heart beats.
O, freedom feels so very good. Leap up, howl out, and fly.
But power feels so very good, for those who love its high.
The boot of Communism’s pressing on protesters’ heads.
They are aware of Chinese might. The blood is real and red.
The convoys seen in Shenzhen are appearing…long and black…
like living tombs of death in transport. They aren’t going back.
In shear defiance, Hong Kong’s people waved a US flag,
and sang the US nation’s hymn, which made the Mainland mad.
The build-up of the Chinese troops right at the border is
occurring now, they won’t allow crass business order’s fizz.
The Hong Kong Airport was closed down on Monday afternoon.
As troubles spread around, a dark night is approaching soon.
Lu “Reed ABCs” Wei is a poet of China.
Russia Honours National Heroes
by Rus Ciel Badeew
In Russia, new awards have been posthumously bestowed
on experts lost when a nuke-rocket-engine-test e-x-p-l-o-d-e-d.
The five became their nation’s heroes, giving up their lives
for Russian power on the seas; some other men survived.
The blast occurred out on a platform in the White Sea mist,
which caused a spike in radiation in Severodvinsk.
Though how severe it was, as yet there’s been no press release;
except the government which said there has been no increase.
The Russian government drip-feeds all info it’s inclined…
but anxious local residents stocked up on iodine.
And now we learn that radiation levels rose somewhat,
and villagers in Nyonoksa should leave—get the hell out.
As well, the medics, who had helped at the beginning blast,
were sent to Moscow for exams, according now to TASS.
Rus Ciel Badeew is a poet of Russia. Perhaps the most notorious, hence famous, novel of Russian-American writer Vladimir Nabokov (1899-1977) was “Lolita” of 1955 (from which the late Jeffrey Epstein’s “Lolita Express” was named), my favourite novel of his was “Pale Fire” of 1962, in which is embedded a 999-line poem by the character John Shade, with the commentary of his colleague Charles Kinbote.
by Ercules Edibwa
Above the city of Athens upon the Acropolis, the Parthenon stands in ruins, a pale and faint reflection of its original splendor and grandeur. Even in its delapidated state, one can sense from the reality of its form, although now antiquated, adumbrations of ideality. Here it remains, Pericles’ commission under Phidias’ direction, a stone beacon to the world, the awesome vision of a vigorous land, planned, built, and shown for all the nations to see, for all time, a height at which we balk, or else we climb.
Ercules Edibwa is a poet of ancient Greece. Like Cews Baudelier, he sometimes writes prose-poems. Pericles (c. 495 BC – 429 BC) was a noted Athenian statesman, Phidias (c. 490 BC – 430 BC) was a noted Athenian architect.
The Smith-Volterra-Cantor Set
by Euclidrew Base
A set of points upon the real line that is nowhere dense
has an example in the Smith-Volterra-Cantor set;
and in particular it has no intervals, yet has
a measure that is positive, found in analysis.
It is constructed by removing certain intervals;
the middle quarter goes away, around the center culled.
From there a quarter is removed in each remaining piece,
and so this then continues on and on without surcease.
This set contains no intervals, interior is null,
an intersection of closed sets that still is meas’rable.
The closed set of remaining points has measure of one-half,
with boundary of positive Lebesgue; and that is that.
Euclidrew Base is a poet of mathematics and mathematicians. The Victorian mathematician Henry John Stephen Smith (1826-1883) was one of the last mathematicians to write an original and significant memoir in Latin, id est, De fractionbus quibusdam continues (1879). German Georg Cantor (1845-1918), Italian Vito Volterra (1860-1940), and Frenchman Henri Lebesgue (1875-1941) were all noted mathematicians of the late 19th and early 20th centuries.
Getting From Point A To B
Just getting from point A to B can be quite challenging,
if one is unfamiliar with the concrete jug-gl-ing.
One has to be prepared to take evasive action and
get in the left lane, then the right, and u-turn on command.
One-hundred-thousand vehicles weave in and out of routes;
three-dozen at a glance turn here and there in roundabouts.
Where is the GPS? I’m waiting for directions to
the place that I am trying to get to where I am due.
Hooray, hoorah, I’ve made it one more time—no accident;
I’m here on time, though not sublime, at least there is no dent.
Urbawel Cidese is a poet of urban places.
by “Wired Clues” Abe
Not very far off
I hear the dull, traffic roar.
It disturbs my wa.
by “Wired Clues” Abe
the green-throated hummingbird
darts rapidly off,
beneath the large, silver jet
sloaring straight for the tarmac.
“Wired Clues” Abe is a poet fond of Japanese forms. Wa is harmony in Japan. Sloaring is a neologisn by Beau Lecsi Werd meaning slowing down yet still soaring fast.
by E, Dawber Sluice
In the warm evening air, the dragonfly,
of the sub-order Anisoptera
and the order Odonata, passes by
and, quicker than a helicopter can,
lands on the grass. Four diaphanous wings pause,
all at right angles to its abdomen—
black onyx tricked with lapis lazuli—
extending, glittering like sunlit gauze,
the specimen of a lab technician
upon the green neatly placed, as you lie.
And then as rapidly, it zips away
in a straight line, and bounding over tree
and roof, it parts the air of this hot day,
and darts into a line of poetry.
E. Dawber Sluice is a poet of small creatures. This is an American sonnet with a rhyme scheme of ababcdecdefgfg.
The Mower II
by Caleb Wuri Seed
In desert camo hat and tannish-tawny sleeveless shirt,
the mower went about his mowing, swiftly, nounced and curt.
In rainbow-shaded shades and faded blue jeans hardly blue,
he mowed around the summer yard the colour of ecru.
His dark and sun-tanned hands held to the handle as he walked,
and steered the mower round the flowering pear trees unblocked.
Because it was a self-propelled engine his browned arms pushed;
there in the sun, he hardly rose a sweat, nor was he flushed,
Done in ten minutes, he was out and through the wooden gate;
decisively and quick—there was no thing to contemplate.
Caleb Wuri Seed is a poet of yardwork and fieldwork.
by Carb Delisuewe
He stood beside the barbecue, the shirtless backyard cook.
Though very hot outside, he’d get his meat by hook or crook.
He was a bearded Bluto with a bald head and dark eyes,
his bare head browning in the Sun, along with steaks and fries.
Although outside it was more than 100 Fahrenheit,
a national alert concerning heat, it was so high;
still he would have his cooked-up food, he thought it was so good.
Besides, it’s what he wanted—yeh. O, he was in the mood.
The clock struck two, UV rays too; he didn’t give a damn;
he was a barbecue fanatic and an eating man.
Carb Deliseuwe is a poet of food. Though he is much more likely to eat kale salad, chips dipped in avocado guacamole, and macadamia nuts, along with pomegranate juice, he is still impressed by those who can devour huge cuts of meat. In his youth, his favourite food was fast-food hamburgers, he grew up gobbling hamburgers, hamburgers, hamburgers, like J. Wellington Wimpy.
The Bad Apple
by Des Wercebauli
So long and lanky, lean and skanky, living on the edge,
not one whom one would like to find above one on a ledge.
He wore work shoes all of the time, when even having fun.
He never seemed at peace or rest, but ever on the run.
I didn’t know what to make of his brutal attitude.
I couldn’t tell if he was rotten or if he was good.
He seemed like as a wiry fellow, falling all the time,
surprising every second, accidentally sublime.
And though I said, “So long” to him, so many times, “Get lost”;
he still popped up, propped up upon a tempest, tipped and tossed.
A Carpenter at His Work Bench
by Des Wercebauli
I saw him working at a bench in a two-car garage.
The gray garage-door had been closed; it wasn’t a mirage.
It looked like he was focused on a drilling tool for holes,
and he was carefully aligning up the tool with those.
He seemed to be perfecting something that I could not see.
He certainly was building something—but what could it be?
His light tan boots on bright white socks fit in with the decor
of tawny wood and flesh-toned objects there above the floor.
He kept on building what it was that he was working on.
So concentrated, but elated, he would carry on.
Des Wercebauli is a poet of work.
Trip to the World
by Bic Uwel, “Erased”
I think the world will little note nor long remember me;
and I am sure I will forget the world when I leave.
I won’t be coming back, although I wouldn’t mind the trip;
it’s just that I don’t think I can locate a local ship.
This part of space is not a place for coming back, you see,
this world in millennia or in a century.
Besides it isn’t perfect, one can see that every day;
it has so much room to improve in every single way.
And when I leave I will go out of circulation, so
there won’t be any need for me, or the world, to worry—no.
Bic Uwel, “Erased” is a poet of the obliterated. His favourite quote of 2018 was that by Eric Awesud Bla: “The Silicon Curtain is descending across America.” His favourite movie, one panned by audiences and critics alike, was the thriller Erased.
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