Rendezvous With Didymos
          I. E. Sbace Weruld

The city-killer Didymos is a twin-asteroid;
it poses a potential risk that we’d like to avoid;
so ESA will send out Hera, NASA will sent DART,
to see if it is possible to move its destined track.
First, NASA will crash DART into the smaller Didymoon,
then ESA will map the impact crater, as a boon.
Next, Hera will fly closer, get more data, and then land;
at least this is what NASA and the ESA have planned.
The mass of this twin-asteroid is dense; it is immense.
The question is, will all this work for planet Earth’s defense?

I. E. Sbace Weruld is a poet of space. The asteroid system of Didymos (the Greek word for twin) is composed of a large space rock with diameter 780 meters and a small orbitting 160-meter moonlet. DART is the “double asteroid redirection test” mission.


          by “Wired Clues” Abe

In the pear tree’s shade,
the bright-red neon skimmer,
searches for insects.
Searching for the survivors:
helicopter maneuvers.

“Wired Clues” Abe is a poet of Japanese art forms and technology.


At the Sea’s Edge
          by Sub Cie Leeward

High-spirited and flushing from the vast pacific plain,
he rises on the low horizon with a sea-green mane.
He crashes forth in spume, he’s chafing at his bridle bit;
he rushes forward to the land; he’s galloping to it.
He seems unchecked as he comes forth, a strapping, burly force,
with streaming, touseled, foam-flecked hair, on his unceasing course.
He rushes headlong o’er the brine with rousing, joyful noise,
without a let-up, unremitting, hurrying with poise.
His hooves pounce on the rocky shore and vanish into spray.
Upon the beach, I turn around to hear his fading neigh.

Sub Cie Leeward is a poet of the sea.


The Carousel of Life
          by Cu Ebide Aswerl

I’m holding on to a tall pole that’s going up and down,
while sitting on a charger that is going round and round.
I’m on the carousel of life for all that I am worth.
I’m in a violent stampede that’s galloping o’er Earth.
O, up and down, o, up and down, I’m bound to who knows where,
attempting to hang on while I am flying through the air.
I’m trying to appreciate the moments that I have.
I’m sitting on a bucking bronc I clasp with thighs and calves.
And then I feel the hand of God, who steadies me aloft.
I throw my shoulders back and pray that I do not fall off.

Cu Ebide Aswerl is a poet of leisure. It has been a long time since he has been on a carousel. His favouite Hollies’ hit, however, was not “On a Carousel,” but “Bus Stop” followed by “After the Fox” and “Woman in a Black Dress”.


          by Swer Badiuc Lee

The Guardian reported artwork by Badiucao
was censored up on Instagram, for he made fun of Mao,
who was seen mounting both an emu and a kangaroo;
though the death threats against the artist were still seen in view.

One read, “I will kill you, cut down your head, bitch.” That’s okay?
But making fun of Mao who killed ten-millions. You can’t say?
It’s dangerous to speak against Mao even in Melbourne.
So much thata’s coming out of China is indeed Hell-born.

The Chinese government has hit both Twitter and Facebook
with social media manipulation they had cooked.
Accounts originating from the Chinese mainland were
attempting to sow seeds of discord in the Hong Kong stir.

Swer Badiuc Lee is a poet of political cartoons. Badiucao is a Chinese cartoonist living in Australia.


The Waiting Room
          by Bic Uwel, “Erased”

It was 2009. He had come to the waiting room.
He’d come to get his memory erased. He was well groomed.
He started getting in the red chair, with its silver arms,
when suddenly the doctor showed up with his soothing charms.
The doctor reassured his patient, moistening his lips,
The patient rose up, arched his back, and lifted up his hips.
He’d come to get mind-parts erased. It happened all the time.
But, o, ah, he was worried still. The doc brought his enzyme.
He whispered, “Steady,” as he gave the applicating “spit”.
The patient sucked air through his teeth, o, ah, then he took it.

Bic Uwel, “Erased” is a poet who doesn’t exist anymore. Although he was put in the trash bin and deleted, poems of his surface every now and then. This tennos comes from an idea in a short story by Alex Markovich, a contemporary Russian writer and painter, though the date, the characters, and the names have been changed to protect the guilty.


Mykolo Volkozub
          by Radice Lebewsu

He still remembers it—Chernobyl—o, so long ago,
when he soared o’er that ra-di-o-ac-tive vol-can-ic hole.
He piloted an MI-8, o, fearing for his life,
above reactor number 4; in all, he made three flights.
He was out measuring the temp’rature of gas inside
the accident that sent huge plumes above the countryside.
He won a hero’s medal for his work upon those trips,
Mykolo Volkozub, the man in one of hist’ry’s blips.
Then dosed in radiation, though he had a lead vest on,
when tested later tests on him were off the charts and gone.

Radice Lebewsu is a poet of Ukraine and Russia, from where his closest great-grandfather came. An MI-8 is a helicopter. Now at 87, Mykolo Volkozub piloted one last trip over Chernobyl this week; with a confinement shell, it looked a lot different.


Achilles and the Tortoise
          by Esiad L. Werecub

Achilles must traverse an infinite division’s stack
to catch the tortoise up ahead and sit upon its back.
But it’s impossible for him to take that many steps.
Before infinity is reached, his energy’s been spent.
And thus, Achilles never can surpass the tortoise; he’ll
just need to cool his heels on a line that is unreal.
But in reality, Achilles can run circles round
and round the tortoise slowly plodding on the rocky ground.
But what Achilles cannot heal are the arrow points,
in flight, that penetrate the tendon or surrounding joints.

Esiad L. Werecub is a poet of ancient Greece. This tennos touches upon a pair of Zeno’s paradoxes, Achilles and tortoise and Achilles and the arrow. Zeno of Elea (c. 495 BC – 430 BC) was a philosopher of ancient Greece.


The Angel and Lord Erebus
          by Lud Wes Caribee

I saw him in an orange rabe, angelic flitting light.
He sat before his Lord, attentive to his may and might.
Lord Erebus, straight from the dark, was seated on his throne.
Was Dante at the camera, or were those two alone?
Why did he dare drop in to Hell’s nine circles of pure pain?
What joy could he there find? What did he think that he would gain?
Lord Erebus arose and shouted terrible commands.
The angel rose up from his seat; he pressed together hands.
It was his fate, his destiny, to deal with this Lord;
but, o, what would he not have given to flee the discord?

Lud Wes Caribee is a poet of the Caribbean. According to Beau Lecsi Werd, a rabe is a radiant robe.


The Photo
            by Cawb Edius Reel

The background was a brownish-green, o, unrelieved by more,
reminding one of those drab paintings painted by the score.
Two bearded men were struggling in a barren, dirty room.
Though stocky yet himself, the thinner dude had been knocked down.
The guy who fell had tats that climbed up half way up his arm.
It looked as if the bigger dude had meant to do him harm.
The falling dude had stopped his fall upon some cushioned place,
but his left foot and leg were as high as his scruffy face.
But what was most impressive was his graceful, clumsy flop,
from which the bigger dude had grabbed him so he wouldn’t drop…
                                                                                              until he stopped.

Cawb Edius Reel is a poet of photography. Those painting he referred to were those of the 19th century French Realists, who used earth-toned palettes to avoid the idealization found in 19th century French painting. The oxymoronic phrase “his graceful, clumsy flop” identifies that quality French Realist were striving for—beauty in the ugly.


São Paulo’s Sky
          by Luc Ebrewe Dias

On Monday in the height of daytime, São Paulo’s sky
was darkened suddenly, as if it were the dead of night.
Sure, smog is bad, where traffic jams stretch for kilometers.
The scientists were checking madly their barometers.
“Apocalypse!” somebody said. “The end is near!” It’s here.
It looked like it was “Mordor” glowing in the atmosphere.
Apparently, it was a combo of three diff’rent things:
a cold front, smoke from forest fires, and a cloud formed wings.
“The final judgment’s coming!” someone else responded back.
The biggest city in the Western Hemisphere went black.

Luc Ebrewe Dias is a poet of Brazil. Recently he has been eating two Brazil nuts a day.


On Turning Badly
          by Bruc “Diesel” Awe

Today I needed someone to slap me across the face
for turning down a one-way lane. O, I was out of place.
The screeching honk was just the bonk I needed to wake up,
and get out of that one-way lane. Abort! O, interrupt!
Of course, we hate to demonstrate our sheer stupidity;
but well-placed smacks, when we’re off track, attack cupidity.
I thank those drivers, and the Lord, who saved me from dumb pluck.
Beware of what you’re doing, Jack, or you’ll be out of luck.
Although we don’t like being spanked, or forced to tow the line,
it’s better that than crashing flat, or paying out some fine.

Bruc “Diesel” Awe is a poet of transportation and transportation.


The Illustrious Life of Stephen Hagerman
          by Sub Cie Leeward

He graduated high school back in 1969,
and served the US Air Force for four years, a hard dark time.
In Vietnam, he flew 10,000 hours in the air,
and visited some sixty countries, later “over there”.
He graduated college with a technical degree,
his major being in electrical technology.
He worked as an industrial technician decades long,
with a C-10 electrical contractor’s license bond.
He traded for a thirty-seven-foot-long cutt’r-rigged ketch,
and spent ten years at sea; yes, that is really quite a stretch…
………………………………………………………………………….and quite illustrious.

Sub Cie Leeward is a poet of the sea. Mr. Hagerman once referred to Sub Cie Leeward as “U. N. Wise”.


The Dude—a Duck
          by Birdee Euclaws

He looked just like a duck—the dude—when he was lifting weights
and doing squats in place, out on the floor, at quite a pace.
His arms were out, extended, holding up the barbell, firm,
like wings aflutter from the water, shaken but not stirred.
The squat itself was like a duck-walk, wad-dl-ing along,
yet he was very powerful, his arms were lean and strong.
And last he wore athletic shoes that were fluorescent or’nge,
and, like a duck, he squawked a bit, as each jerk was adjourned.
He wasn’t fat or feathery; he had a lot of pluck.
and yet his knees went out each side. He looked just like a duck.

Birdee Euclaws is a poet of birds.


Sir Connoisseur of Beauty
          by Beau Ecs Wilder

He wore his baseball cap on backwards, tidy, black and smart,
and a left-shoulder tat array of clustered, curving art.
Today he would be playing with some malleable clay.
He loved to work it with his hands, to frame it for display.
He loved to raise it, shove it, glaze it, spread it out so fine,
o, yes, manipulate it and its overall design.
He loved to thwack it, pack it, crack it, move it all about.
No doubt, sometimes he seemed to be not much more than a lout.
And yet he kept it up, as if he’d won a lottery;
and in the end he had a lovely piece of pottery.

Beau Ecs Wilder is a poet of art.


The Store Clerk
          by Des Wercebauli

He was not where he wanted so to be a retail clerk;
though he was willing to do it for cash. Yeh, it was work.
He had to face each customer who passed his register,
and be agreeable, no, ma’am, yes, ma’am, no, sir, yes, sir.
Occasionally he could have a person passing by,
who made his mundane job seem good, some knowing gal or guy,
who’d empathize, and maybe more, gaze with profoundest eyes,
and he could love his thankless tasks, o, what a sweet surprise.
But most times weren’t like that at all; he could not be so glad;
and yet those times were what he lived for; that was all he had.

Des Wercebauli is a poet of work.


Early Morning Exercises
          by Rudi E. Welec, “Abs”

He started early morning exercises by the stairs,
beginning first with stretching, putting off diurnal cares.
Once that was done, he’d squat, then lunge, and get into a groove.
He went down slow; that’s how he’d go, and focus on each move.

Then after that upon a mat, he’d get up on all fours,
prepared for push-up strengthening, his arms, his legs, and more.
In black tank top, he wouldn’t stop, until he’d done enough.
Although he knew that it was good enough, it still was rough.

He did his reps beside the steps; he tried to give his all;
but there were times he couldn’t help but take some time to loll.
Then finally he’d do his sit ups over by the chair,
where if the truth be told that’s where he’d rather be—right there.

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