2019 Nobel Prize in Physics
          Ira “Dweeb” Scule

Canadian-American cosmologist JP,
along with Swiss DQ and MM—for astronomy—
have won the Nobel Prize for Physics for discoveries
of planets orbiting far suns and thoughts on galaxies.
The picture of the Universe they paint is stranger than
the many strange ones we have seen from history’s grand plan.
James Peebles used his theoretic tools, interpreting
trace radiation from the cosmos in its infancy.
Queloz and Mayor found the first known exoplanet’s path;
and since then, thousands more have been now added to that math.

Ira “Dweeb” Scule is a poet of science. James Peebles received half of the prize for his work, and Michel Mayor and Didier Queloz received the other half for theirs.


          by Ibe Ware Desu, LC

Braced, shoulders back, tense,
head erect, prepped and propped up,
riding the maelstrom,
the sailor went soaring, o,
through the violent worm hole.


          by Ibe Ware Desu, LC

On right ring finger,
while watering the flowers,
a grey moth landed.
Instantly, instinctively,
away he quickly flicked it.

Lieutenant Commander Ibe Ware Desu is a poet uniting Japanese forms and English words.


          by “Lice Brews” Ueda

The bright butterfly
doesn’t count months, just moments,
and has time enough.


          by “Lice Brews” Ueda

The red dragonfly,
pausing, has dipped its body
into autumn, ah.

“Lice Brews” Ueda is a poet of the small. The first haiku is taken from Inidan poet Rabindranath Tagore. There is a noted haiku by Kaya Shirao (1738-1791): “The beginning of autumn/ decided by/ the red dragonfly.” Perhaps his most famous haiku is “Hito koishi hitoboshi koro wo sokura chiru: Yearning fills my heart/ When the candles are lit;/ Cherry blossoms fall.” In an around Ueda there lived many of his pupils. Ueda is a city of 150,000 in central Japan.


World Rugby 2019, Tokyo, Japan
          by “Clear Dew” Ibuse

No phone calls on the trains, there is no smoking in the streets.
The World Cup rugby fans have learned rules of the Japanese.
Don’t pack your Vicks inhaler; conversations should be soft,
as should your head-phone music. Turn it down or turn it off.
Avoid crowd surfing friends, and carry garbage on your self;
most drugs are unacceptible. Just leave them on the shelf.
Don’t bring prescription medicine; keep allergy pills home.
For goodness sake, don’t take painkillers—oxycodone—no.
There’s absolutely nothing wrong when any land suggests
behavior proper for its citizens and foreign guests.

“Clear Dew” Ibuse is a poet of Japan.


The New Zealand Rugby Player
          by Eric Awl De Beus

He leapt into the air—the rugby player who
was trying hard to catch the flying rugby ball.
His left leg rose up high, as his whole body flew,
his torso twisting to the right, a waterfall
of light and flesh. His shoulders turned; his arms stretched out;
his eyes were following the oval object’s flight;
so calmly and so surely, seemingly no doubt
that he would catch it. Ah, a moment of ballet,
an executed move that caused his fans to shout.
Ole! ole! Ole! ole! Ole! ole!
Such beauty in the blue; his adversaries boo;
he wants to make the catch; they do not want him to.

Eric Awl De Beus is a poet of New Zealand.


The Australian Rugby Player
          by Walibee Scrude

He put aside his uniform, the yellow and the green.
He tossed the ball across the hall where it could not be seen.
He lay across the gym equipment, head turned to the left.
He lost the match, he missed the catch, but he was not bereft.
He stretched his legs, he thought of kegs, the whole damn day he’d doff.
He simply wanted to relax, to let it all roll off.
He rested patiently, alone; the crowds had disappeared.
He cast the rind of all behind; an unfilled hunger neared.
He got up on his knees and yawned. The banner raised had dropped.
He simply gazed in thoughtful daze, and then the worries plopped.


The Deadly Snakes
          by Walibee Scrude
          “But never met this fellow, Attended or alone, Without a tighter breathing,
          And zero at the bone.”
              —Emily Dickinson

          “A sort of horror…Overcame me now his back was turned.”
              —D. H. Lawrence

          “I watched their awful slithering, and when they reared, the eldrich light
          fell off in hoary flakes of blight, and left me pale and quivering.
              —Bud “Weasel” Rice

Australia has ten of the most deadly snakes that crawl across its barren           landscape’s naked
egg. Just one alone ‘s more than enough to make one shake; but all of them are           scarier
than any plague; nor are those th’ only ones there that are venemous. When
through their realm, one better watch one’s leg; for they will strike—they are
          such vicious
enemies. Be careful where you lie, or sit, or even stand. Although they may
beautiful in cinemas, or even gorgeous at a distance, austere, grand, beware
unforgiving bile for goodness sake. They yield only to the desert’s hard           command.


The Man Who Caught a Snake
          by Walibee Scrude

Here was a snake with colourful designs upon his skin,
which I could not make out, they were complex and intricate.
I saw his winding S go past the row of lockers—gray.
It looked as if he was attempting to get clean away.

But some dude in gray shoes was watching where he slithered to.
He longed to take that creature, o, to take him to a zoo.
So robustly he yanked that snake that wiggled like a fox.
He took his stick and tricked that serpent to go in a box.

And then he slammed that door as hard as he was able to.
The dude would keep his distance, but he still kept him in view.
I was impressed to see how calm and forceful that dude was.
I loved how he controlled that snake with firm, sure, furtive spunk.

Walibee Scrude is a poet of Australian wildlife. According to Australian Geographic those ten deadly snakes are 1) eastern brown snake; 2) western brown snake; 3) mainland tiger snake; 4) inland taipan; 5) coastal taipan; 6) mulga snake; 7) lowlands copperhead; 8) small-eyed snake; 9) common death adder; and 10) red-bellied black snake. Above the prose-poem is followed by a dodeca.


Communist China Manipulating Wikipedia
          by Esca Webuilder

And now we see the Chinese Communists are altering
the Wikipedia—Hong Kong and Taiwan faltering.
Manipulating the on-line encyclopedia;
mass edits on two dozen sites now are expedient.
Five dozen edits on “Hong Kong” occur within a day,
and “Taiwan” is attacked in almost every single way,
because the World knows that country never did exist;
at least that’s what the ruthless Chinese Communists insist.
They cannot face the truth, so filled with sabotage and lies;
truth would destroy the very fabric of their alibis.

Esca Webuider is a poet of the Internet. When Houston Rockets’ GM Daryl Morey tweeted: “Fight for Freedom. Stand with Hong Kong.” he had no idea the ruckus he would cause in China, which dropped his team immediately. So he deleted, and apologized for his remarks. Too bad. China did not care. And his kowtowing got him little but the outrage of free-speech-rights activists and Hong Kong protesters protesting for freedom in the streets of Hong Kong.


The Pedestrian Redux
by AI Welder, “Cubes”

He is out walking in the city—the pedestrian—
but he is not the only one; no, HE IS NOT ALONE.
He still can hear the distant traffic; most are still at home;
but TV screens have been replaced—computers and smart phones.
There aren’t as many Leonards these days, as there used to be;

[and Leonard Nimoy—Spock—has passed into eternity…]

and Leonard Mead fits right in with the blog community.
It seems that everyone’s a writer, writing messages.
Doomsdayers say all kinds of things the future presages.
The worst are claiming that the World ends in ten short years.
So often have we heard that said we have no time for fears.

AI Welder “Cubes” is a poet of artificial intelligence. “The Pedestrian” was a Postmodern short story by American novelist and short story writer Ray Bradbury (1920-2012). American Leonard Nimoy (1931-2015) was a Postmodern actor born in Boston.


The States and Union Territories of India
          by Badri Suwecele

North India includes Haryana, Himachal Pradesh,
Jammu and Kashmir, Punjab, Rajasthan, Uttar Pradesh,
and Uttarkhand. With cities, Lucknow, Jaipur, Kanpur, are
the union territories found there, Dehli, Chandigarh.
West India includes Maharashtra and Gujarat,
with Goa, cities, Pune, Mumbai, and Ahmedabad;
Daman and Diu, there’s Dadra too and Nagar Haveli:
its 10% makes 24% of GDP.
South India includes Tamil Nadu and Kerala,
with Karnataka, Telegana, and Andhra Pradesh.
as well there’s Puducherry and Lakshadweep to the west,
and further off there’s Andaman and Nicobar out east.
Some major cities there include Chennai, Hyderabad,
as well as Bengaluru, Thiruvananthapuram.
East India includes Bihar, Odisha and Jharkhand,
West Bengal too, with sites Kolkata, Patna, and Dhanbad.
In 1975, tiny state of Sikkim joined
the nation where its sits in Himalayan Mountains poised.
And in the center part of India one finds its heart,
and mineral reserves, Madhya Pradesh and Chhattigarh.
There major cities found include Bhopal and Jabalpur,
as well as other urban spots, like Indore and Raipur.
Northeastern India includes Tripura and Assam,
along with Meghalaya, Manipur and Mizoram,
there’s also Nagaland, up north Arunachal Pradesh.
These are the parts of India, an interesting mesh.

Badri Suwecele is a poet of India. These artificial divisions were made by Suwecele as an aid to learn the states of India and their relative locations.


A Nighttime Meditation
          by Sri Wele Cebuda

The night was dark, but there was light that lit the living up.
It seemed like he was on a mat, like as a lotus cup.
He loved to meditate upon the beautiful and true,
the loveliness of life when spi-ral-ing, like as a screw.
His mouth was open but his eyes were closed in peaceful thought.
He felt a genie over him, protected by a god.
If he could hold that rising spirit climbing up the wall,
perhaps he could be happy, o, so happy, blithe and tall.
O, here it was that golden treasure—pleasure in the mind—
that was divine, o, yes, when it was perfectly divined.

Sri Wele Cebuda is a poet of India.


Operation Peace Spring
          by Curdese Belawe

It’s Fall, it’s started, “Operation Peace Spring”, Syria;
the Turks have launched a military op against the Kurds.
Civilian casualties have been recorded thus so far,
as thousands flee to reach the provinces down further south.

They opened with some air strikes followed by their howitzers
to hit the ammunition depot bases of the Kurds.
Artillery has targetted the gun and sniper YPG;
Prez Erdogan is looking for homes for his refugees.

Explosions rocked the borderlands, smoke rose from building sites;
so many places have been hit, civilians there have died.
As war in Syria continues on for these eight years;
it seems that all the people have left are blood, sweat and tears.

Curdese Belawe is a poet of the Kurds.


Niels Henrik Abel
          by Euclidrew Base

Niels Hendrik Abel was a mathematician, and Norse,
which meant that, in Christiana, he was off the main course.
But even there, and at an early age, he proved some things,
like showing solving quintics was impossible, by means
of radicals, a problem then unsolved for centuries;
so he took French and German lessons wanting so to please.
In Europe, Gauss and Cauchy hardly deigned to read his works;
but some, like August Crelle and Carl Jacobi, were not jerks.
Still by the end, he still was in the realms of poverty,
along with groups, elliptic functions, his true sov’reignty.

Euclidrew Base is a poet of math. Christiana is now called Oslo, a Norwegian city of 670,000. German Carl Friedrich Gauss (1777-1855), German August Leopold Crelle (1780-1855), Frenchman Augustin-Louis Cauchy (1789-1857), Norwegian Niels Hendrik Abel (1802-1829), and German Carl Gustav Jacob Jacobi (1804-1851) were all famous 19th century mathematicians.


The American Man
          by Usa W. Celebride

He wore blue stars upon his head, red stripes hung out below.
He loved to rest upon his bed when he was feeling low.
Lo, he beheld a raging Charley horse come galloping,
his right leg stretched out long and straight, his muscles tightening.
He held on for dear life—that wild mustang on the loose—
the agony was genuine, his knee flapped like a noose.
He wanted so to reach sweet equilibrium at once,
but he would have to wait until the horse hooves stopped their runs.
He struggled to restrain his cramp; he tried to tamp it down;
still he kept riding through the day; he rode the hard, tan ground.

Usa W. Celebride is a poet of America.


The Hungry Man
          by Carb Deliseuwe

I see the look of wanton hunger on his face.
He seems like little more than rib cage, skin, and bones.
He’s so unhappy in his body’s grim embrace.
Inaudible, if he could speak one would hear groans.
He longs to get away from where he is now at.
He holds his hands against his abs. One hears hard moans.
He is so slender, and his stomach is quite flat.
Brutality hangs all around him when he stands.
His end is nearing hardness, yet he still stands pat.
Though near the finish line, he hardly moves his hands
or any body parts. His is a futile race.
He lowers down his head. He’s ready for commands.

Carb Deliseuwe is a poet of food.


The Remembered Houston Skyline
          “Wild” E. S. Bucaree

How beautiful they are—high-rises climbing Houston’s scape,
skyscrapers jutting to the heavens, silvery and gray—
so many from the 1980s, even earlier,
Chase Tower and Wells Fargo, Williams Tower, Heritage,
Bank of America and CenterPoint and Enterprise,
the Fulbright Tower, One Shell Plaza,, reaching to the sky.
I still remember long ago, when I once took a ride
up in a Houston elevator, darkest night outside;
and I could see that something wonderful was happening,
a gleaning city glittering, caught in some happy scene.

“Wild” E, S. Bucaree is a poet of Texas.


Autumnal Sitting
          by Ileac Burweeds

It was a gorgeous autumn day. He paused to take a break.
The many golden leaves upon the ground could use a rake.
He sat down on a wooden bench. The air was redolent.
The dappled light across his bod was warm. He was content.

He clenched his arms behind his head. The shirt he wore was gray.
He stretched his legs out to each side. It was a turn-down day.
His toe balls touched the ground. His eyes were closed. He felt okay.
He wasn’t going anywhere, though he would go away.

Behind him high and green and fine, a giant hedge rose up.
It seemed to rise up to the sky, so lush and beautiful.
He’d stay like that for quite some time, here in this lovely rest,
where peace dropped in to pay a call, so wonderful and blessed.

Ileac Burweeds is a poet of Nature.


A Passage to Windy Abandon
          by Wilbur Dee Case

I sing my days, the great achievements of the present time,
the works of engineers and modern wonders, strong, sublime,
the mighty highways of America and other lands,
the satellites that orbit planet Earth in swirling bands.
I sound the note, commence the cry, with thee, o, soul, at last,
the future in an instant and our presence in the past.
That teeming gulf, the sleepers and the shadows of this World,
how infinite their greatness into which we have been hurled,
as a projectile, formed, impelled, and passing certain lines,
our present goes on utterly, interior designs.

Wilbur Dee Case is a poet and literary critic. He has Walt Whitman in his sights here.


The Words
          by Cadwel E. Bruise

The painter, drummer, dancer, writer—share one body, yes,
each doing what each does for good, or glad, or naughtiness.
The words create the rhythmic beats that move the dancer’s soul,
embracing words as they are written, spoken and unrolled.
The writer sees the dancer chasing words across the stage,
translating Whitman in a modern idiom uncaged.
The painter hears the writer, turns the words into new forms,
the shapes and colours, beauti-fuller, showering in swarms;
yet ugly as the hawks in graceful sweeps across the sky,
the categories keep us all a-part, yet help us fly.

Cadwel E. Bruise is a poet of New England. This poem was inspired by a piece by Janet Cormier. American Walt Whitman (1819-1982) was a late 19th century Realist poet.


The White and Gray Recliner
          by Cu Ebide Aswerl

He leaned back on the white and gray recliner happily;
in white tank-top, he simply flopped down there contentedly.
Around him planters with green hedges and pink flowers grew;
he loved to lie down in the daylight of the afternoon.
He threw his left arm back of him; he lifted his left leg.
He sprawled in thoughtful studying; sudoku was his gig.
His right arm stretched beyond, his right leg dropped to the cement;
at least this moment all about him oozed with sweet content.
But he was all alone. No one was there to give him help.
He wasn’t going anywhere—no man hard on himself.

Cu Ebide Aswerl is a poet of leisure.


Some People
          by Erisbawdle Cue

Some people talk so much. What do they ever say?
If you said something once, why would you say it twice?
You can step in the same damn river twice, okay;
but why would you step in it once. Is it that nice?
Some people treat each other like crap. Why is that?
Some others are polite. Some make a sacrifice.
The Devil wanted Jesus to jump, and go splat;
but Jesus was too smart and wouldn’t take his bait.
Some people have no thought about where they are at.
Some people like to sit around in a debate.
Some people run their mouths. Some people run away.
Some people don’t like taking much. Some people wait.

Erisbawdle Cue is a poet of philosophy. Here he’s arguing with PreSocratic Greek philosopher Heraclitus (c. 540 BC – c. 480 BC).