by “Wired Clues” Abe

Splotchy gray-white clouds
cover th’ empire o’ th’ sky:
Nature’s Rorschach Test.


          by “Wired Clues” Abe

The meter reader
at the apartment complex
cautiously observes,
and reads the many meters
above the thick, long, black snake.

“Wired Clues” Abe unites technology with Japanese forms.


          by “Lice Brews” Ueda

On a lily pad,
the frog sat squat, motionless,
prepared to hop off.

“Lice Brews” Ueda seves nature’s microcosm.


          by Eber L. Aucsidew

Th’ aquamarine pool,
clear and rectangular, shines
beneath th’ azure sky.
No one notes a man leap in,
happy, splashing with Basho.

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).


The Speed of Light
          by I. E. Sbace Weruld

If one could travel at the speed of light,
then one could see…light stationary, stopped.
But ot’s impossible to have such sight;
and one can only posit that in thought.
It makes one pause to think about this World,
upon which we are spinning round the Sun,
which is within this galaxy’s realm hurled,
the Milky Way itself upon a run.
No matter where one is, light moves…about
three-hundred-trillion centimeters in
a second—absolutely. Is there doubt?
This cosmos seems to be its suzerain.
And so whats changing all the time, is time,
and us, atte,pting to reach light’s sublime.

I. E. Sbace Weuld is a poet of the Universe.


At Karnak
          by “Scribe” El Uwade

The brilliant sun shines in the sky much as it did in the times of the New Kingdom, when Iknaton abandoned the worship of multi-faceted Amon for Aton, the one and only true one, and isolated himself near Hermopolis in the newly built capital of Amarna, where he dwelt, as the empire around him toppled to little more than a memory, at Karnak.

“Scribe” El Uwade is a poet of northeast Africa and ancient Egypt. This is a single-sentence prose-poem of ninety-six syllables.


Asteroid Impact
          by Ed Rubee Swical

An asteroid, as mighty as ten-billion atom bombs,
caused dinosaur extinction and untold, unknown life-forms.
The twelve-kilometer-wide asteroid—Chichulub’s girth—
some sixty millions years ago, collided with the Earth,
and caused extinction of three-fourths of all the life there was,
according to the U of T researchers in P-NAS.

It’s thought that crash caused wildfires, and tsunamis too.
The sulphur in the atmosphere caused planet Earth to cool.
It’s estimated that three-hundred-billion metric tons
of sulphur were ejected in to th’ atmosphere at once.
Professor Gulick led the study of the crater’s core;
and when he saw the impact record, he was roused and more.

Ed Rubee Swical is a poet of the dynamics and physics of Earth, the rocks of which it is composed, and the physical, chemical, and biological transformations that take place upon it and within it. In “The Fixation of Belief”, American philosopher Charles Sanders Peirce (1839-1914) suggested the avenue to truth comes not from tenacity or authority, but from genuine scientific methodological naturalism.


Sri Lankan Incident
          by Esala “Cu” D’ Abrew

Two ambling elephants had run amok on Saturday,
Colombo, in Sri Lanka, Buddhist festival parade.
According to Jayantha Jayewardine they were in musth
and lost their tranquil dispositions; their hor-mones went bust.
Then in the pageant they became inflamed and furious;
some seventeen were injured. though none too serious.
Still the authorities should have assessed the pair before
they went upon their rampage, not far from the temple floor.
One rider fell off his bejeweled elephant head first,
surrounded by a throng of worshippers and raging burst.

Esala “Cu” D’ Abrew is a poet of Sri Lanka. This incident reminds me of George Orwell’s personal essay “Shooting an Elephant”.


The Blue Girl
          by Delir Ecwabeus

The only thing she wanted was to watch a soccer game;
but she lived in Iran where women cannot watch the same
as men. She’d snuck into the stadium dressed as a male;
but she was caught and told she would spend half a year in jail.
That was too much for her. And so, she set herself on fire.
The twenty-nine-year-old Sahar, in gas doused, burned and died.
She dies on Monday at a hospital in Tehran’s care,
with burns across most of her body for her flagrant dare,
Nicknamed Blue Girl, for wearing of the colours of her team.
Some said a stadium be named in honour of her dream.

Delir Ecwabeus is a poet of Iran. The desire for freedom ran deep within Sahar Khodayari.


          by Web de la Cruise

Computer worm and cyber weapon Stuxnet spread around,
but first got to Iran, and caused a centerfuge slowdown.
But it did not remain just there; the malware moved along
to India, to Indonesia, to Azerbaijan.
It even came to Pakistan and to the USA,
infecting tens of thousands as it moved upon its way.
It used four zero-day attacks, promiscuously spread,
and went through Windows indiscriminately targeted,
then seeking out Siemens Step7 software where it came
with a link file and rootkit that hid malicious aim.

Web de la Cruise is a poet of the Internet.


Across the Internet
          Esca Webuilder

Across the Internet, there are so many bloggers who
are writing words, like lettered birds, in the electric blue,
like Anna Mosca’s lines designed from varied points of view,
or Nancy Botta’s bottled thoughts, bright baubles and haiku,
like PB with her ministrations, positive for you;
Sparkonit simplifying science, opening each clue;
like Alex Markovich’s ink-blots, coming in on cue;
or Elan Mudrow capturing light-streams and drops of dew.
Across the Internet, like as so many bloggers do,
words fly along, both thought and song, some left, some right, some true.

Esca Webuilder is a poet of the Internet and intimate of surfer Web de la Cruise.


South African Xenophobic Attacks
          by Badrue Ecsweli
          “O, cry, beloved country.”
              —Cur A. Wildebees

More than 635 Nigerians signed up
to take free airline flights and leave homes in South Africa;
because of xenophobic strikes against their properties,
and lives, their very lives; they grabbed this opportunity.

Zimbabwe too is picking up evacuees by plane.
More than 165 are fleeing the insane.
The riots in Pretoria and in Johannesburg
have killed a dozen; foreigners are fleeing the absurd.

Beninese, Ethiopians, are leaving by the score;
they cannot take the looting and the killing any more.
Malawians, Mozambicans, they too have fled the hate.
In thousands, foreigners are leaving homes attacked of late.

Badrue Ecsweli is a poet of South Africa.


A Little Serenade
          by Ewald E. Eisbruc

The catchy Little Serenade by Wolfgang Mozart starts
with an ascending Mannheim rocket theme, as it imparts
joy with each little serendipitous phrase it accrues,
and falls into the mind so snappily in happy grooves.
A composition of a chamber orchestra in place,
two violins, viola, cello, and a double bass.
Called Eine Kleine Nachtmusik, it captures in sweet tune
the beauty of the Viennese milieu beneath the moon.
It dances in the scintillating city, jittering,
like dreams upon the waters of the Danube—glittering.

Ewald E. Eisbruc is a poet of German music. Among his favourite composers of all time, his top three are Bach (1685-1750), Mozart (1720-1788), and Beethoven (1770-1827); but there are many other German composers that he very much admires. He recently watched one of Alfred Hitchcock’s least favourite movies,”Waltzes from Vienna” (1934).


Quotes from Friedrich-Karl Ewert
          by Uwe Carl Diebes


“Contrary to computer-based scenarios, and hence,
contrary to what’s gen’rally believed [uncommon sense],
anthropogenic CO2 is meaningless because
[yes,] its influence is not recognizable. [A pause.]
Of course, this [here] result complies with basic physics laws,
and really is not that surprising [to those who aren’t dense].
Increasing Sun activity is probably the rea-
son for slow global warming since mid-19th century.”


“The fact is ever since the Little Ice Age Earth has been
[within the normal process of its] warming up again.
We don’t have global climate change [precisely]; what we have
are normal tem-per-a-ture fluc-tu-a-tions [not that vast].
We have had parallel cool-ing and warm-ing episodes.
No CO2 influence is detected. [No, no, no.]
Since year 2000, we have been [yes] cooling off again.
The data has been faked to show there is a warming trend.”


“Between the years of 2010 and 2012 [how strange],
the data measured [thus] since 1881 was changed,
so that they show significance in warmth [embarrassing],
especi’lly after 1950…A comparison
of data that’s from 2010 to 2012 shows that
the NASA-GISS had altered its own data sets, so that,
especi’lly after World War II, there’s a clear warming trend,
although it never has existed [never, never, end].”

Uwe Carl Diebes is a poet of Germany. Friedrich-Karl Ewert is a geologist and emeritus professor at the University of Paderhorn.


The Scientist
          by Ira “Dweeb” Scule

The scientist investigates with patient, steady eye.
He looks into his matter with a calculating smile.
He studies his material with animated zest.
He wants to test it out. What’s is its truth? Is it the best?
He runs analyses. He longs to figure out its pith,
and brush aside snap-judgments and thé mirage of myth.
He loves discovery when it occurs, but he’s aware
it takes a lot of time and energy, as well as care.
But he’s persistent. If at first he doesn’t get results,
he’ll keep on working, searching, getting to the nuts and bolts.

Ira “Dweeb” Scule is a poet of science.


The Utility of Matrices
          by Euclidrew Base

The reason we have algorithms for determinants
of matrices is that they’ve found a bit of permanence
in analyzing vector spaces and large data sets,
computer games and graphic cards and quantum mechanics.
They calculate, as well, electric circuit properties,
and offer simultaneously opportunities.
Computers simulate stochastic matrices that range
events from gambling to forecasting weather cycles’ change.
O, data that can be arranged in rows and columns can
be used in business and encryption for the mind of man.

Euclidrew Base is a poet of mathematics.


The Man Upon the Sailing Boat
          by Seaweed Lubric

I saw him on a sailing boat; he stood upon the deck;
he rode upon the deep blue water, silvery with fleck.
His wrinkled neck, connected, jerky, hung down long, and thick;
it almost seemed ridiculous, as if he were sea sick.
I wondered if he was a captain or a crewman there.
He seemed to be a picture of New England, rugged, spare.
I could not tell exactly where he was, and so relaxed,
like as a seagull on the wind, or rigging rope untaxed.
He longed to get away from where it was that he was at,
and vanished in the wake of waves behind his cruising yacht.

Seaweed Lubric is a poet of the sea.


O, Why?
          by Cris Wade Eubel

O, why dig up your past? What do you gain by doing it?
It may be beautiful, but, o, it is a gooey pit.
By focusing upon the end, you never reach the start—
that lovely dart, those running, legs, that moving, gorgeous art.

O, why not grab the present currently before your eyes?
Its radiance is ravishing, o, smashing with surprise.
Just snatch it, clutch it, catch it, pluck it from life’s giving tree.
Forego the impulse that you have to sit in history.

O, why not see the future coming up right next to you?
It longs to lift you up to the magnificent and true.
It longs to carry you away into the grand unknown.
So go with it. From now on ride time’s rising-high cy-clone.

Cris Wade Eubel is a poet of the moment. This poem is a dodeca.


The Sewer Rat
          Caud Sewer Bile

He was a sewer rat who hung out with the worst of men.
I swear he lived beneath a manhole in a man-cave den.
I only saw him once. I did not want to cross his path;
for if I did, it would not work out well. You do the math.
He hung out in the shadows, ever lying in the dark,
prepared to stick up any fool, pot-bellied, grimy, stark.
He had a giant hole where he was wounded in the war,
the horror of which haunted him, on which he’d closed life’s door.
But what amazed me most was his alarming attitude,
so used to ugliness, he loved its stink and found it good.

Caud Sewer Bile is a poet of waste. His favourite poem is T. S. Eliot’s “The Wasteland”.


Remembering the Twin Towers
          by Dic Asburee Wel

I still remember vividly, as if it were just some short time ago, those high Twin Towers, grand against the gorgeous city, stalwart and secure. They were so beautiful, upright above the land. They were so sleek and tall, and fit so perfectly beside the other buildings, life-filled, lofty and pulsating. But, alas, o, such was not to be for long; for vicious men had plotted their demise. They longed to knock them down with wild insanity. They longed to tear them from their heights with harsh surprise. How long will I remember them, there at that perch, forever shoved from morning’s rosy-coloured skies?

Dic Asburee Wel is a poet of New York. The seven sentences of this prose poem contain one-hundred-and-forty-four syllables. Hong Kong activists called off protests on Wednesday in remembrance of September 11, 2001 attacks on the United States of America.


In the Hot-air Balloon
          by Eber L. Aucsidew

Away we went, up in the beautiful hot-air balloon,
suspended there beneath the gorgeous, pale golden moon.
We stood up in the gondola, the wicker basket weave.
Though were were slightly frightened, we were ready still to leave.
We rose up in the atmosphere, up on the heated air,
o, buoyant in the upward thrust, above the stones of care.
We rode in joy, exhilarated by the lighting flight,
the burner mounted just above, injecting flames of light.
The polyester dacron fabric, seal’d wi’ silicone,
rose high above the grassy knolls that rolled out green and on.


The Goddess at the Pool: Louise E. Anna, Lady
          by Eber L. Aucsidew

She sat beside the lovely pool, so blue and warm and clear.
It was as though the evening were alive and still and near.
She felt it permeate her being, floating like a cloud,
a boat upon the surface, splashing happily, not loud.
The chattering cicadas drone, theirs is a moaning churn.
The Sun is down, the sky is high, yet still there is a burn,
as if some god has lifted up her kicking body’s legs,
a butterfly that fluttered by, for butter th’ beggar begs.
She slides along the water’s edge; the long pool’s fading fast;
and then she goes inside to sleep. How long will this dream last?

Eber L. Aucsidew is a poet of air and water, the vital components of life. He loves vast swaths of oxygen and H2O.


Elysian Fields
          by Esiad L. Werecub

The road sign to Elysian Fields was crumpled in the shrubs,
a large metallic green square, out of synch with grass and bush.
Perhaps that’s why the population has declined a bunch;
with three-cubed persons in it, well, it isn’t much as such.
In fact, it’s not a town at all; it’s just where some folks are.
There, one’s stuck in the boonies if one doesn’t have a car.
Although the cost of living’s lower than that o’ th’ US,
the unemployment’s higher; something that someone might guess.
This rural unincorporated place is on some maps;
but it is not a place of perfect happiness, in fact.

Esiad L. Werecub is a poet of out of the way places.


The Soldier and the Cup of Coffee
          by Carb Deliseuwe

He stood up at attention on the carpet in the hall.
Clad in black tee and silver dog tags, he was long and tall.
He saw outside the Sun was shining. It was nice and warm.
He paused in contemplation of life’s thinner, inner form.
His glasses set atop his head. His pen is in his hand.
A yellow pad before him rests; it’s ready to command.
The sunlight lightens up his back; his front in shadow lies.
He turns around to gaze upon the image in his eyes.
It is a round and fulsome cup. The coffee was so good.
O, how he longs to fill it up. If only, God, he could.

Carb Deliseuwe is a poet of food and drink.


The Man and the Chair
          by Earl W. Sidecube

Although he was content, he was uncomfortable there,
so now he was prepared to go sit over on the chair.
He got up, kneeling, slowly, from his last place, to his feet,
and walked on over to the chair; his journey was complete.
He turned around and sat down carefully attentive to
positioning himself so he was straight and not askew.
He did his best to just relax, but he was still quite stressed,
and here, before his work, he could not help but still feel pressed.
Yet still he was content upon the thickly padded chair,
and sat as still as he was able, taking in the air.

Earl W. Sidecube is a poet of furniture.