A Pseudo-ku
          by “Wired Clues” Abe

Jessie Yee Wai Ching
got the time wrong and missed it:
Flight 370.

“Wired Clues” Abe takes the rudiments of Japanese poetic forms and ties them to technology. According to Beau Lecsi Werd, a pseudo-ku is a fake haiku, retaining only a syllabic count, and nothing more. Malaysian Airlines Flight 370 disappeared March 8, 2014. Jessie Yee Wai Ching was the only passenger who lived, because she didn’t make the flight.


Someone Was Looking at Panang
          by Basir Uswedeec

Someone was looking at Penang and took one long last look.
The pilot—he was from the island of Panang—the hook.
In order to observe Penang, a pilot has to turn
to left or right to get alongside it—just to discern.
He has to execute a lengthy swerve. It takes some nerve.
The captain would have had to work to make just such a curve.
If you look at the output of Malaysian Airline Flight,
370 shows that there were three turns, not one, that night.
He flew along the Thai-Malaysian border—Captain Khan.
Thus undetected there, someone was looking at Panang.

Basir Uswedeec is a poet of Malaysia. This poem draws from Simon Hardy, a Boeing 777 pilot and instructor. Even one turn off of a flight is unusual, but three. With a population of about 1¾ million, the major city of Panang is a city in northwest Malaysia.


Space Jars Us From This Little World
          by I. E. Sbace Weruld

Space jars us from this little World we live on—
the planet Earth that’s orbitting the blazing Sun—
that’s orbiting the center of this Milky Pond,
about 240,000,000 years—just once,
230+ kilometers per sec, or so.
Perhaps the Milky Way itself is moving in
the same direction as the Great Attractor, oh,
a massive myriad of galaxies spi-n-n-ing.
And where is this all going to? One wonders, yes,
what is the journey that this universe plots out?
Is there a purpose to it all? Who knows? Perhaps.
Space jars us from this planet—Earth—no doubt, no doubt.

I. E. Sbace Weruld is a poet of the Universe. This poem is written in blind verse, not balland verse or blank verse.


Near Warkworth, New Zealand
          by Eric Awl De Beus

The Warkworth Satellite Earth Station sits, on site,
upon the gently, rolling, grass-green, hilly lea,
beneath blue skies, white clouds, at day, and stars at night.
Occasionally one observes a kowhai tree.
Here they are looking outward to the universe,
from off New Zealand’s northern-island, platformed tee;
the huge, white dishes opened wide diameters,
above their heralds at computer terminals.
They scatter information gleaned from monitors,
the reinforced links to the concrete pedestals,
the printed letters streamed in lines on-line, in sight,
antennae that reflect the light that’s usable.

Eric Awl De Beus is a poet of New Zealand.


Bernhard Riemann
          by Euclidrew Base

In 1854, Riemann was called upon to speak,
to give a speech at Göttingen before the faculty.
His lecture urged a new view of geometry, one based
on any number of dimensions, any kind of space.
There, he envisioned manifolds, now Riemann surfaces,
a non-Euclidean interpretation of curved space.

In 1859, he wrote a paper, at that time,
about the zeta function, that was equally sublime.
He used imaginary numbers, and found that there was
a pattern to the primes in any given sequences.
Though not a simple order, it was order nonetheless,
as Riemann added brilliant thinking just before his death.


The End of Riemann, After Dedekind
by Euclidrew Base

The day before his death he lay beneath a fig tree’s span.
He was filled with the joy the landscape offered him, so grand,
there writing his last work, a work which he left incomplete;
the end came gently, and to him. without death agony.
It seemed he followed close the parting of the soul divine
and body, as his wife gave him some little bread and wine.
He asked that she convey his love to those who were at home;
to “kiss our child” was his last command; he said no more.
His wife said the Lord’s prayer, as he could no longer speak.
He raised his eyes devoutly, but, alas, he was so weak.
A few more breaths, and then his pure and good heart ceased to beat.

Euclidrew Base is a poet of mathematics. German Bernhard Riemann (1826-1866) is considered by some to be one of the great mathematicians of history. He was a student of another great German mathematican, Friedrich Gauss (1777-1855). Richard Dedekind (1831-1916) was likewise a noted German mathematician.


          by Acwiles Berude

Poseidon in half chiton, a white, cotton t-o-w-el—rapt—
his cell phone taking selfie in the locker room—zoom zapped.
His sandy, scraggly beard adorned a dense indifference,
as if to say, this is my way, I don’t need confidence.
O, I will get just what I want; it’s my prerogative.
I’m who I am, I do not need to be more cognitive.
The sea before me parts its waves. I ride the dolphins home.
I love to rule this rolling realm, ecstatic spume and foam.
Odysseus, stay clear of me, or I will do you in.
Do you think you could cross me once, and then do it again?

Acwiles Berude is a poet of ancient Greece from a NewMillennial view point.


Johnny, in Caliath
          by W. S. “Eel” Bericuda
          “…an eelnet made by man for the eel fighting…”
              —Robert Lowell, “Dolphin”

I saw him vaguely in dreamality, hair round his lips,
there pointing to some person he’d seen on one of his trips,
Pessoa, o, the dreamer of such personality;
it’s João writing words in English—utter poetry—
and Portuguese. He’s so sincere he makes me feel ashamed.
He drops into such depths, those chasms of the self—á mush.
O, even when he’s at the bottom of a rising tide,
he surfaces, a surfer on such an astounding ride.
O see him, like a dolphin, swimming through eternity,
the undercurrents of his music overpowering.

W. S. “Eel” Bericuda is a poet of the sea. His favourite Modernist Portuguese poetic person is Fernando Pessoa (1888-1935). According to Beau Lecsi Werd, dreamality is a neologism contrasted with reality.


          by Wibera Esculde

How gorgeous are they, o, Cordoba’s towering
highrises, fine skyscrapers reaching to the clouds,
attempting to escape the pumped-up showering,
the thin and tender fog banks, wispy, lacy shrouds.
O, how I long to take those elevated stairs,
to reach those lovely pinnacles above the crowds,
to go where only the intrepid climber dares.
How wonderful it is—gray reinforced concrete,
those rocky cliffs, those rugged walls, what nature bares,
that stand so tall and grand, so sleek above the street,
each building like a god-like power glowering,
a garden, beauteous and flowering, complete.


O, Barcelona
          by Wibera Esculde

O, Barcelona, sitting on the azure sea,
o, how I long to be with thee there simmering
upon the Mediterranean, like jewelry,
so lovely, shiny, beautiful, and glimmering.
O, Barcelona, how I love your many views,
your gorgeous lay-out, hot, in sunlight shimmering,
the pulchritude of buildings, parks and avenues.
So many places would I love to linger there.
O, Barcelona, I pray you don’t take a cruise.
The pain to Spain would be unbearable, I swear.
Your harbour is a haven from eternity,
a place to rest one’s tired eyes and swollen-teared despair.

Wibera Esculde is a poet of Iberia. The poems on these two Spanish cities are bildings [sic], 12 x 12 syllable snapshots of feelings the cities elicit.


Measuring Curves
          by Euclidrew Base

An arc length’s first solution was by Neile and Heuraet,
the algebraic semicubical parabola,
y squared is equal to x cubed, the curve whose length they found
in 1657. It was something to astound.
Soon after that Wren figured out the cycloid’s subtle curve,
explained in 1659 in Wallis’ learned work.
The length of one arch of the cycloid is four times as long
as the diameter o’ th’ generating circle. Ah.
These were perhaps the first forays into arc measurements;
the Europeans were creating novel monuments.

Euclidrew Base is a poet of mathematics William Neile (1637-1670), Hendrik van Heuraet (1634-1660), Christopher Wren (1632-1723), and John Wallis (1616-1703) were significant British and Dutch mathematicians of the 17th century.


World War II British Soldiers at Arnhem
          by War di Belecuse
          “Ten thousand dropped, eight thousand stayed…”
              —W. S. Vernon, Over the Bridge

Bent over, running for their very lives,
the soldiers, stripping down to nothing left,
right in the middle of bursting shells, dives
into the freezing river’s flows, bereft
of everything, lost sleep, lost boots, lost souls;
for they had stepped into the horrid cleft
of hell, and had become no more than ghouls,
ghosts in the night, who gasped for air and peace,
and struggled to get out of deadly holes,
while hoping that the fighting soon would cease.
Some hit the river that would take them off,
some didn’t. Even living was dec(r)ease.
There wasn’t anything that they could doff,
and only harried, shadowed hair survives,
precariously balanced, paused, aloft.
O, God, they fell down into time’s archives
and never more could reach the longed for ledge,
a single slinging string surcingle, dang-
ling, barely hanging on, there at the edge…


The Fleers
          by War di Belecuse

They ripped across the beach as fast as they could go.
There was no time to pause. The enemy was in
pursuit. The river lay before them, oh, so cold.
They had to let the water freeze against their skin
if they would get away. Machine-gun fire ran through
the air, while mortars splashed around each arm and shin.
Their shoulders, elbows, hands, their legs and feet moved to
and fro. They did their best to get th’ hell out o’ there
where shells crashed forth. They were a damned determined crew.
Dead men lay on the sand, immobile in that air,
while the living swam through the broiling imbroglio;
who made it, each, had to dispense with his despair.


Right at the End
          by War di Belecuse

They put a cigarette into his mouth.
He had escaped the enemy. They shoved
him up to safety’s height and pushed him south
far from the falling shells. He felt so loved.
He had escaped. He lived. He moved along,
helped by the hands of his own company.
He crawled contentedly through that thick throng.
He was so glad. His heart pumped happily.
The men in helmets pulled him out of hell.
They’d got him to a safe position where
he could get some sweet peace, and one could tell,
he didn’t mind the straps or freezing air.
He didn’t have a care, for he was back.
Then came the rifle’s crack, and all was black.

War di Belecuse is a poet of conflict. The opening poem in terza rima. the second bilding, and the final sonnet all relate, in various ways, to the failed Arnhem mission of September 1944, the 75th anniversary taking place this week. His favourite film in reference to the Battle of Arnhem is “Theirs is the Glory” (1946).


The Business Man Inside
          by Brad Lee Suciew

I saw him sitting in a motel room with one small lamp;
drab-orange curtains were drawn closed, the light, of golden amps.
He wore a white/black baseball cap, the brim was up, atilt.
He seemed robust, a stocky dude, one would say solid-built.
He had a tat upon his shoulder, thick and curving lines;
but I could not tell what it meant, that inchoate design.
He lifted up some bright red-orange thing I could not see,
with black and white lines at its edge, it seemed quite small to me.
Was it a brief from his brief case, for future reference?
Was it a memo, a reminder, of due deference?
He had a lazy, glazy look, lips parted, eyes half shut,
as though it was the time for bed, to drop down on one’s butt.
It seems, in dreams, he even was attempting to make sales;
he’d had so many clients over ages, he had tales.


The Business Man Outside
          by Brad Lee Suciew

Dressed up in suit and tie, he was prepared to make a deal.
He longed to show his clients how he felt, how he could feel.
He stood beside the waterway, beneath skyscraper heights,
in shades, light mustache, beard, and earrings, sparkling, round and bright.
The steel-gray buildings rose up square, rectangular and long.
His hands were cupped in fists to show that he was tough and strong.
His attitude was frank and blunt, like as the city, crude.
In deal-making he could be quite pleasant, but still rude.
He was prepared to make a swap, to hop into a cab
to ride down Lee, off to Fifth Avenue, but come on back.

Brad Lee Suciew is a poet of business.


Two Truths and More
          by Erisbawdle Cue
          “The instruments of darkness tell us truths…t’ betrays us in deepest consequence.”
              —Will Shakespeare, Banquo, “Macbeth”
          “Two truths are told as happy prologues to the swelling act of th’ imperial
            —Will Shakespeare, Macbeth, “Macbeth”

No longer am I drinking koolaid, though the truth be known,
I, once upon a time, so loved it, loved it to the bone.
It quenched my thirst; it drenched my dry spells, with its coloured dye.
But, Papa mio, now my Mio, flavours me, o, my.
Will Asean has asked me what my koolaid’s colour is,
because I spoke of many truths, in light of politics.
Although the topic, truth, has been discussed for centuries,
I love to start with Plato first, for all my venturings.
I am a realist; I love truth’s many flavours, yes;
but when it comes down to ‘t, I make it take the savour test.

Erisbawdle Cue is a poet of philosophy. This tennos is in reply to Mr. Will Asean’s succinct comment. Erisbawdle Cue said of DD & 5000+, “She was debatably ‘a beauty’, maybe dateable. She wanted so to be ‘liked’, oh, she was insatiable.” I saw P. L. McMillan pouring truth into her horror tales. She could do much worse than to study politically incorrect Edgar Allan Poe, who inserted some humour and phantastic truths in many of his tales.


Protesting (In Washington DC)
          by Caud Sewer Bile

In Washington DC, the climate change protesting fleet
came to disrupt some twenty intersections on the streets.
They wanted to bring businesses to a grid-locked stand-still.
They wanted to express climate anxiety they feel.
They dressed in many costumes; they worked hard to interrupt.
One even twerked to halt the cars with movements quite abrupt.
He wore cut-offs, rain-bow sus-pen-ders, gray, tight, tee shirt too,
and strutted round the cement stage in gray athletic shoes.
They threw confetti, burned up trash, a lot of loitering.
DC commuters sat in cars, upset and i-dl-ing.

Caud Sewer Bile is a poet of the Swamp. Eber L. Aucsidew has said of climate change, “The climate will always change. You can’t stop change. The premise is absurd. [cf. Heraclitus].”


A Letter to the UN
          by Eber L. Aucsidew

More than 500 climatolgists and scientists
have sent a letter to the UN pointing out just this:
There’s no emergency! The climate data has been skewed;
and when there is hysteria, humanity gets screwed.
They say they want debate. There is no real evidence
that global warming is occurring. Where is common sense?
The current climate policies are pointless at the least,
and at the worst they could be damaging humanity.
In fact, they are opposed to a net-zero CO2,
and models some are using aren’t appropriate or true.


His First Stupendous Lightning Storm
          by Eber L. Aucsidew

Though it was long ago, I still recall that stormy night.
The room was dark and narrow; there was very little light.
My eyes were closed, and I was half asleep in dreamy mode.
I’d no idea that the atmosphere would soon explode.
A flash of lightning lit my resting body’s lenthened form:
electrical and frightening, I suddenly felt warm.
The lightning’s jagged fingers jabbed the local, nearby hills:
exciting, yes, inviting, no, I wasn’t up for thrills.
I tried to shove it from my mind—greased lightning in the dark—
but I had no control, the thunder roared, the lightning sparked.
I rose up like one shocked. I tensed my arms, my legs, my abs,
for fear that it would overwhelm me with its striking jabs.
For some good while, I held quite still, for fear what would come next.
In truth, to say the least, I felt quite put upon and vexed.
But then the final flash appeared, and I collapsed in bed.
And that great storm—it was no more—o, no more overhead.
Now I have seen a lot of storms; but then I was quite young;
and that great, crazy violence, that over me once hung,
shook me back there, took me back then, its dreadful power’s vent,
that I can still recall it well, a message heaven-sent.

Eber L. Aucsidew is a poet of the air and and the atmosphere, of meteorology, climatology, and aeronomy, the latter co-founded by Frenchman Léon Philippe Teisserenc de Bort (1855-1913) and German Robert Assmann (1845-1918). In 2007 more than 30,000 scientists, engineers, geologists, meteorologists, climatologists, physicists, earth and space experts sent the US Congress a letter pointing out the similar point of view; and since 1970, more than forty climate claims have been disproven by the facts of time. The latest fashionable frenzy shows that forces of antiscience continually reemerge.


The Seagulls
          by E. Birdcaws Eule

The seagulls pause to stand on Desdemona Sands,
close to the river’s mouth, forceful Columbia.
They take advantage of those momentary lands,
those temporary isles just off Astoria.
When something good appears, they do not meditate.
If there’s an opportunity, they go for it.
They do not ruminate, they do not contemplate
the possibilities, but rather go for them.
They do not cogitate, they do not sit and wait,
they make use of what comes their way, a tasty gem,
crabs, fish, clams, french fries tossed out from some human hands,
or bridge updraft of air to soar AM/PM.


The Birds
          by E. Birdcaws Eule

Some birds are disappearing in th’ US and Canada,
like chimney swifts, wood thrushes, bobolinks, and meadowlarks,
grasshopper sparrows, common grackles, shrikes, and jays so blue,
barn swallows, orioles, indigo bunting, and cuckoos.
Across all North America, since 1970,
so many breeding habitats are seeing a decrease,
like grasslands, forests, coastals, tundra, and the aridlands;
the only increase of the avians is in wetlánds.
The causes for these bird decreases are lost habitats,
collisions, pesticides, wild critters, and the common cat.

E. Birdcaws Eule is a bard of birds. Both Russian Anton Chekhov’s “The Seagulls” and British-American Alfred Hitchcock’s “The Birds” show the hardships of human relations.


Cross Country
          by Rudi E. Welec, “Abs”

It’s time to run cross country once again—September’s here.
The leaves are browning up, the grass is drying out, and sere.
It’s time to run those rolling hills, go down and up and down.
It’s time to build endurance. O, it’s time to pound the ground.
Left-right, left-right, left-right, left-right, the feet fly up and out.
It’s time to hear the Piper’s call. Get up and heed it now.
It’s time to run the levee, go along the mounded dike.
Keep on your feet. Do not resort to motorcar or bike.
The air is fresh, the wind is brisk, the heart is beating hard,
great training for a soldier, moving quickly, like a pard.

Rudi E. Welec, “Abs”, is a poet of sport. He attributes many of his most extraordinary experiences to his high-school training in track and cross country, which he truly loved.