The Vector of the Swan
by Sea Curlew Ibed
The soul, o, gander, flies above the park, and far beyond…
The discords of the wind descend upon its passive pond.
The swan swims on, its curving neck arising in the air;
it floats along the water unperturbed by hunter’s dare.
Like as one scrawling in a ripple on the surface, sir,
it leaves behind an auburn, quirky, Paphian caricature,
bequeathing its white feathers to the aura of the ess,
as autumn’s buff aurora dips in dark, duff murkiness.
The soul, o gander, flies up high in white wings on the dawn,
and races to Deneb, and then, o, Cygnus, it is gone.
Sea Culew Ibed is a poet of birds, on land, on water, in the air, at times metaphorical and mythological.
by Air Weelbed Suc
These stream-lined clouds of water-vapour condensation freeze
around the aerosol existing in th’ exhaust one sees,
containing gas and solid particles, and make contrails
upon the azure atmosphere, their straight and shooting tails,
emissions here composed of varied oxides pouring out
and hydrocarbons, such as methane, sulfates, and pure soot.
Persistent spreading contrails, like these fuzzy, broad white lines,
affect the climate, more than less, because of their designs.
They cover a far larger area when so induced,
so many grams of fuel per meter when the jet is juiced.
Air Weelbed Suc is a poet of air and water.
by “Wired Clues” Abe
Shut off the water,
turn valves perpendicular,
and empty the pipes:
I share my winterizing
with two small, brown gulf coast toads.
“Wired Clues” Abe is a poet of technology and Japanese poetic forms.
by “Clear Dew” Ibuse
Dew-touched brown oak leaves,
glisten in golden sunlight,
preparing to leave.
by “Clear Dew” Ibuse
A baby wobbles
and an old person hobbles
across the wet road.
“Clear Dew” Ibuse is a poet of nature and Japanese poetic forms.
by Wu ‘Sacred Bee” Li
Whether or not it is true, tea’s discovery has been attributed to Emperor Shennong back in 2737 BC. This happened when the Divine Farmer boiled some young leaves from a wild bush accidentally. When he returned to his boiling water, he noticed it had a pleasing aroma and pale hue. Then he tasted it; and by this new drink he was blessed.
Wu ‘Sacred Bee” Li is a poet of ancient China. This prose poem has 96 syllables.
The Latest Official Chinese Waste Stats
by Aw “Curbside” Lee
According to Chinese Environmental Ministry, in 2018 China dumped a lot of waste at sea, more than 200,000,000 meters-cubed of waste unleashed, a 27%-rise on 2017. Most waste was dumped in deltas of the Yangtse and the Pearl; from these industrial sites was where most of it was hurled. Because the Chinese want to clean their rivers up, they dump a greater sum of garbage in the open ocean sump. Improving the environment of cities is no boast; the petrochemicals and steel are moving to the coast.
Aw “Curbside” Lee is a poet of industrial China. This prose poem has 140 syllables.
In Delhi, India
by Sri Wele Cebuda
October to December are the worst months of the year
if you’re in Dehli, India’s polluted atmosphere.
This week flights were diverted and delayed for all the smog,
the millions living there besieged lashed out on phone and blog.
It was as if each citizen was smoking forty cigs,
and choking on the foggy air. O, God this is the dregs!
It comes from many sources—diesel use and industry—
the bursting crackers of Diwali and the dusty streets—
crop burning and illegal builds, migration uncontrolled—
more than eight million vehicles are driving on the road.
School children have been given face masks. It’s “unbearble.”
Chief Minister of Delhi says—Sri Arvid Kajriwal.
A Meditation’s Spell
by Sri Wele Cebuda
He got into the lotus pose. He stretched both legs out wide;
although he wasn’t going anywhere, he liked his stride.
The walls were gray; they looked delapidated, but were not;
although walls do not matter when one’s deep involved in thought.
One heard the sound of om come from his open mouth—ho-hum—
but he was quite excited; in his mind he was not numb.
His left hand on his left thigh as he reached up to , o, God,
his right hand seemed to steady the contortions of his bod,
his shoulders back, his head back too, his back was in the air:
he felt connected to a cosmic power surging there.
How long could he be in that plane and in that open pose?
It seemed as if each taut, tight muscle in his body froze.
He felt like as dark eyes were staring down as up he rose.
He meditated deep and long. He longed to be trans-posed.
And then two men came in the room. They interrupted him.
He had to come out from his trance. He had to be with them.
He left his seat where he had been. He got up off his hips.
He greeted each one with a heartfelt smile upon his lips.
But they weren’t happy. He was back within the world of men—
crass thought, crass talk, crass attitude—again, again, again.
But he would still attempt to keep things orderly and clean.
Above all, everything, he wished his World was nice and neat.
He wanted truth, he wanted goodness, beauties so sublime,
they would transform him to another place in space and time.
O, he strove hard to keep an even keel in his boat.
In raging storms and wild norms he still desired to float.
O, set the keel, steer the barque to points he longed to see;
but try to keep his focus on the real and the free.
O, he would try to bridge the gap between the spar and mast,
and still press on through thick and thin, to hold his course. Avast!
Sri Wele Cebuda is a poet of India. Pollution levels this week in Delhi were more than double the pollution of the second most polluted major World city—Lahore, Pakistan.
by Lebu Seric Wade
Some of Sierra Leone’s troops participate each week
in Freetown to do yoga training to improve physique,
reducing stress and lowering depression—anxious flak—
from deadly outbreaks or the civil war two decades back.
As yoga is about the focusing on present tasks,
they leave behind all kinds of things and let go of the past.
They work hard on all kinds of moves, as well, the soldier’s pose;
requiring enormous strength helps deal with one’s foes.
They stretch and lengthen, legs, arms, bacon, limber to the max,
preparing for all physical and mental nast attacks.
Lebu Seric Wade is a poet of West Africa. Sierra Leone is a nation of West Africa, bordered by Guinea to the north and Liberia to the south, with a population of about 7,000,000. English is the official language, although an English-based creole, Krio, is the most common language in the nation. Two recent traumas for the nation were the civil war from 1991-2002 and the ebola outbreak of 2014. It was noted this week that Nigeria cannot enter for best foreign film at the Academy Awards because in Nigeria, a country of 190,000,000 people, English is predominantly spoken. Beau Lecsi Werd suggests the word nast is a neological shortening of nasty.
Igor at the Kitchen Sink
by Alecsei Durbew
I saw him washing dishes at the sink.
He stood against the smooth, white countertop,
and tan, wood cabinet below his pink
thick, stalwart legs—bull in a china shop.
O, he was not Prince Hamlet at the court,
but rather more Prince Omelette or Prince Ham,
more like a chef than chief at Agincourt,
more like a servant, serf, or serving man.
But he worked hard, clench, scrub, rinse and release,
clench, scrub, rinse and release, again, again,
as if in some grand, mesmerizing piece
some mad, Romantic pianist had penned.
I wondered what would happen to that stack—
o, as he washed, would all the dishes crack?
Alecsei Durbew is a poet of Russia.
by Lude E. Serbiawić
With the onset of winter many Balkan cities choke;
Zagreb, Belgrade, and Sarajevo sit in fog and smoke.
This should not come as a surprise; it happens every year.
The quesstion is how do they plan to make it disappear.
The problem is it seems authorities are doing more
not to reduce pollution, but air quality outdoors.
Some cities found in Bosnia have smog probs all year long,
like Tuzla, Zenica and Lukavac, where waste is strong.
The owners of indistrial production at those sites
do not reduce emissions with technologies they might.
Lude E. Serbiawić is a poet of Serbia. Zagreb is a city in Croatia of about 800,000, Belgrade is a city of Serbia of about 1,300,000, and Sarajevo is a city in Bosnia and Herzegovina of about 275,000. Also in Bosnia and Herzegovina are the smaller cities of Tuzla, 100,000, Zenica, 100,000, and Lukavac 40,000.
The Arched Parabola
by Euclidrew Base
y = ax2 describes an arched parabola,
that conic section that Menaechmus knew was parallel.
When seeking for a parabolic segment’s area,
sage Archimedes used approximation very well.
Triangles through exhaustion was a brilliant way to go,
and Archimedes likewise used rectangles there too, o.
Desargues then showed it has but one point at infinity,
its beautiful perspective seen best when it’s in a tee.
The path of a projectile is an arched parabola,
when Galileo proved inertia’s gorgeous principle.
Euclidrew Base is a poet of mathematics. Menaechmus (380 BC – 320 BC) was an ancient Greek mathematician and philosopher. Archimedes (c. 287 BC – c. 212 BC) was a Greek mathematician, inventor, engineer, physicist and astronomer. Girard Desargues (1591-1661) was a French mathematician and founder of projective geometry. Galileo Galilei (1564-1642) was an Italian engineer, physicist and astronomer. Though not a typo, its print may differ—y = ax2—it is pronounced “y equals a x-squared”.
The Painter Piero della Francesca
by Buceli da Werse
Born in Borgo Sansepolcro in Umbria, forty miles to the south of Florence, Tuscany, was the painter Piero della Francesca. Not long after his death, it was the destiny of his paintings to become unfashionable because of their stillness and their serenity. The sublime, mathematical and rational were seen at the time as inadequate and quaint. How many of his works were thrashed, dashed into null? Few sought his geometric precision in paint or admired the dignified and majestical therein. Few appreciated such pure restraint.
Buceli da Werse is a poet of the Italian Renaissance. Piero della Francesca (about 1415/1420 – 1492) was an early Italian Renaissance painter. This prose poem has 144 syllables.
It Seems So Very Strange To Say
by Luis de Cawebre
His voice reminded me, it seems so very strange to say,
of Edgar Allan Poe, a disembodiment displayed,
so intimate, so genuine, so thoughful and so real,
a language with such depth it couldn’t help but make one feel.
Pessoa, too, if I think on it, Portuguese its core,
with depths so marvelous it couldn’t help but make one soare.
His prose rose on poetic’lly, in rows of rolling waves,
occasionally dissipating in still, sunlit bays.
I wondered at its strange delight, its anguish and its pain,
I felt like as bullfighter from the dusty plains of Spain,
my top vest snug and tight, prepared for action far away
from any crowded ring—it is so very strange to say.
Luis de Cawebre is a poet fond of Portugal. He is thinking here of João-Maria the author of “Caliath”, one of his favourite NewMillennial works. Beau Lecsi Werd notes that soare is an obsolete word meaning a young hawk, here a one syllable word, meaning both to soar, that is, to fly, and to feel sore, that is, to ache.
A NewMillennial Jean Laffite
He was a nasty jake; he sometimes went by name of Jean;
perhaps because he was a Frenchman, and a wretched one.
He stood up high beside gray peeling walls and prison grate.
The Sun was shining on his back. He thought its warmth was great.
He had a snarly distant look, this Frenchman in the shade,
with dark black beard and dark black eyes, who stood stalwart and staid.
He wore his bright red baseball cap on backwards as to say
that he would stay, but he would be defiant all the way.
He seemed a pirate with his silver bracelet on his wrist
and shiny earring dot that even in the shade did glist.
His tank top was a black and orange sport athletic shirt,
but though quite clean, he looked like he was ready for some dirt.
No thing about him seemed refined, he was a brutal guy,
so bad inside with a wide stride, he’d even fight the sky.
Cews Baudelier is a poet of France. Though Anglo-American documents used Lafitte, Jean (John) spelled his name Laffite. Beau Lecsi Werd notes that glist is a shortened form of glisten.
by Cadwel E. Bruise
His ready pen is free. His jagged thoughts ignite my mind.
But I am not o’erwhelmed. My soul is not controlled or blind.
I love his jagged thoughts, how they meander where they will.
They whisper in my brain, like as a lonesome whippoorwill.
I hear his words each week. The midnight train is whining low.
The leaves are falling from the trees, but I’m not pining—no.
I weekly thank him for a chance to share my lonely words.
They were my only audience…once; now they’ve flown—the birds.
It is so cold. The moon is so austere, and so remote.
But I am glad. I wrought these words for one who freely wrote.
Cadwel E. Bruise is a poet of New England. Writing these words brought Hank Williams from the depths of his mind to the ends of a couple of lines.
The Rosebud Near the Bench
by Ileac Burweeds
He sat upon a smooth brown bench above the bark dust strewn,
his shoes were resting on large rocks from some stone quarry hewn.
About him oak trees rose with green, gold, orange and red leaves;
but he was looking closer at much closer pretty things.
Below him was a lovely rose bud just beyond his reach.
Though it was autumn it was budding softer than a peach.
And though it was so beautiful, thorns rwound its taut green stem
that hurt like hell when they poke one—a memory for him.
He loved the undulating sun, he loved the lovely path,
and there he podered longingly at the required math.
Ileac Burweeds is a poet of Nature. Beau Lecsi Werd notes that the neologism rwound means wound around.
by “Wild” Era Buc-ees
His eyes were closed. It looked as though he dozed. Was he in pain?
It looked as though he was prepared to face a hurricane.
And though he stood upon both feet, it seemed as if he sat
upon a cyclone’s spinning, automatic thermostat.
His hands were braced upon the gale, as tight as they could be.
The sinews of his arms were locked in perfect harmony.
It seemed as if he planned to ride the whirlwind all the way
from Texarkana to El Paso on to Santa Fe,
as if he rode an oil gusher or pneumatic drill
or a tornado whirling round and round—ah, Pecos Bill.
“Wild” Era Buc-ees is a poet of Texas, Texarkana has a metro area of about 150,000, El Paso 650,000, and Santa Fe, New Mexico 80,000.
Seattle, the Emerald City
by Ubs Reece Idwal
I came to it—it seems so long ago—searching for, seeking—I do not know what—je ne sais quoi— verging ever upon the edge of emerging; but did not see an emerald city. I saw a maze of gray, hard concrete highways and low ways, displays of gray rain pouring down upon my awe, arrays of gray, polluted bays and dirty plays, a place of gray skyscrapers climbing to gray skies. What did I gain in those interminable days, those endless hours filled with tired, sleepless, bloodshot eyes, those countless moments of misery all surging toward some infinite suffering thing? Nothing…wise.
Ub Reece Idwal is a poet of the Northwest. Seattle, Washington, is a city of 740,000. This prose poem has 144 syllables.
Down to the Gym
by Rudi E. Welec, “Abs”
He went down to the gym to do his exercises there;
one wall was brick, another gray, the floor was blue and bare.
He got down on a thick blue mat beside the Smith Machine
and worked upon his glutes and pecs and everything between.
His mouth was open wide, for he was panting up a storm.
He moved so hard each part of him was feeling very warm.
He bent his legs, he tilted back his head, and held on to
the complex exercises that he felt compelled to do.
He gave himself to do a good job on that floor and mat,
his shoulders back, his back curved back, his shoes out wide and flat.
But in that process, it was as if he did not exist,
like as a pale and ghostly character of wish and wisp.
He leaned upon the flat workbench, o, working on his form,
and did as much as he could do, till he could do no more.
Rudi E. Welec, “Abs” is a poet of exercise.
A Salad for Lunch
by Carb Deliseuwe
He felt a very greasy guy while eating up his lunch:
he had cranberries, broccoli and lots of added crunch,
green cabbage, Brussels sprouts, radicchio, pepitas, kale,
with pumpkin seeds and chia seeds and olive oil’s assail;
but he was quite content to eat it up; it made him glad,
like as a happy camper who gave thanks for what he had,
an avocado, pomegranate juice and nothing more.
Yes, he was so content; a scale reading told the score.
How odd he felt, like as a sweet and buttery flapjack.
Dessert was then not need with a salad just like that.
by Carb Deliseuwe
The avocado has been called an alligator pear,
because its ovate shape has a hard, bumpy skin to bear.
The yellow-green flesh in the fruit is eaten, but the skin
and large seed are discarded. What one wants is what’s within.
It has a lot of nutrients. It’s rich in vitamins.
Monounsaturated acid fats reside within.
It has a lot of fibre and contains carotenoids.
Its bland, but buttery, insides are easily enjoyed.
Hass avocados are the commonest that people eat,
but there are many other kinds and used varieties.
Carb Deliseuwe is a poet of food.