I. E. Sbace Weruld
SpaceX has launched its second sixty Starlink satellites;
it is the fourth of Falcon 9’s reboosting rocket flights.
SpaceX has also used a once-used fairing on this trip,
refurbished from its April launch from the past mothership.
The company has raised more than one billion dollars for
its Moon-and-Mars-bound Starship rocket and its Starlink corps.
They want its Starlink services, so everyone can get,
across the planet Earth, their own linked high-speed internet.
With this SpaceX can fund Starship, so someday they can make
a self-sustaining site on Mars as well as Lunar base.
I. E. Sbace Weruld is a poet of outer space. A fairing is a nose cone.
Protesters in the Streets of Hong Kong
by Lu “Reed ABCs” Wei
“Shoot down the rioters.”
—Chinese State Media
Protesters in the city streets of Hong Kong still go on
protesting every week, and will continue says Josh Wong.
They want Beijing to back away and let the people vote,
for whom they want; they don’t want Chinese Communist control.
So free so long they don’t desire Xi’s dictatorship;
they bend about as easy of a firm potato chip.
The Chinese University’s Sha Tin site plunged into
long confrontations with police in battles at the school.
Protesters demonstrated there against school-boss response;
the recent student death has since renewed their list of wants.
Lu “Reed ABCs” Wei is a poet of China.
by Euclidrew Base
The systematizing of negatives and zero is
first found in Brahmagupta’s work around 626;
for Brahmagupta loved math’matics just for its own sake,
as in his questioning of quadrilaterals, so take.
He was the first to give a general solution to
the Diophantine linear-equation answers too:
ax + by = c: a, b, c, integers,
the GCD of a and b must go right in to c;
if a and b are relatively prime solutions, aye,
x = p + m · b, q –ma, y.
Euclidrew Base is a poet of math. Brahmagupta (c. 598 – c. 668) was an Indian mathematician and astronomer who wrote his works in elliptic verse. He lived in what is now called Bhinmal, Rajasthan, a city of about 300,000. Diophantus (c. 201 – c. 285) was a famous Greek mathematician, the first to recognize fractions as numbers. Beau Lecsi Werd suggests the idiom so take, is a shortening of “so take as an example”.
Three Acres at Ayodhya
by Badri Suwecele
On Saturday. the Indian Supreme Court’s verdict said
a Hindu temple at the site of razed mosque could be made,
A building of a temple to the Hindu god of Ram
was praised by Modi who amicably has called for calm.
The battle over Ayodhya has fanned debate and scorn,
as some believe it was the very spot where Ram was born,
In 1992 extremists sacked the mosque in place;
about two thousand people died from riots. Where was Grace?
Three acres were assigned to Hindu suit participants;
five acres at a diff’rent place to Muslim litigants.
Badri Suwecele is a poet of India.
In Darkest, Blackest Night
by Sri Wele Cebuda
In darkest, blackest night, he got into the lotus pose.
He rose up tall, he opened up his legs, his eyes were closed.
He longed to be connected to a cosmic power surge.
He felt he was within the presence of a demiurge.
He wanted to burn all his energy and be at peace.
He longed to be, o, wide awake and still be half asleep.
He wanted purpose, fully to achieve his destiny,
to get beyond the rolling thrills of utter ecstasy.,
to leave behind destruction’s force and tap creation’s spring,
to rise upon the dawn of a new-found eternity.
by Sri Wele Cebuda
He got into the lotus pose upon the countertop.
He spread bent legs out to each side, against the wall he flopped.
He felt like he was in a house of mirrors all around
and upper-lower lockers that about him did abound.
His look was somewhat dazed, though someone else might call it crazed,
but he was merely trying to be elevated, raised.
He longed to reach nirvana, though in gray athletic shoes.
He wished to be connected to some mighty cosmic fuse.
He opened his mind’s eye upon the force that came to him;
but he sought true enlightenment. O, this was not some whim.
His hands held him in balance, ah, between life and machine.
He cried out OM, a lovely hum, that made him feel a king.
Up sitting on the tow’ring throne within some mundane place,
perhaps he could reach perfect peace if only for a space.
His knees were bent, his elbows too, he felt industrial,
here in materiality, but flying spiritu’l.
O, God, he cried out to the heavens, but would any hear,
unless they were quite close to him, here sitting on his rear?
He felt like he was near to near renouncing everything
but that to which he was connected to so heavenly.
Sri Wele Cebuda is a poet of meditation.
Lost in the Shadows of the Night
by Badrue Ecsweli
I long to be lost in the shadows of the night in blackest dark, embraced by the impersonal, beyond the Cape of Good Hope, touched by lunar light, let loose from all reality, immersed in all, at one with the oppression of eternity, a lover of the brutal and the virtual; for that is where for ages hence my heart will be. For in that way I’ll be prepared for after life, millennia of bullying and cruelty; the horror of infinity unloosed will fly and ride upon the undulating billows right into the ecstasy of everending flight.
Badrue Ecsweli is a poet of South Africa. This prose poem of two sentences contains 144 syllables. The Cape of Good Hope is not the southern most tip of Africa, that is Cape Agulhas, Cape of the Needles, the dividing line between the Atlantic and the Indian Oceans.
by Alecsei Burdew
Upon a low, desolate, wind-swept shore
he stood, and there he thought thoughts high as clouds.
Before him flowed the river to the sea;
a single skiff sped o’er its surface. Prowed,
it went beside the marshy banks, allowed
by time to pass the homes of poor, sad Finns,
shrouded in the misty distance, cowed, firm chins,
surrounded by forests and poverty.
And there he thought, ‘We’ll threaten Finn and Swede,
and build a place to spite our neighbor’s bile.
And though ten thousands more or so shall bleed,
we’ll cut a window into Europe’s hardened smile.
And ships of every nation will appear
to visit us upon the Neva here. And we
shall push keen rudders through the icy drear,
commanding Baltic waters, near and free.’
The centuries have passed to prove this so.
The Ornament and Marvel of the North
has come to be from woodland, bog and snow,
has stepped upon the World stage, to and forth.
The Finnish fishermen were driven out.
Their nets were cast aside for Russia’s good.
Grand palaces and towers rise there now,
the Venice of the North in granite shod.
Across its waters many bridges hang,
and ships show up to fill its docks in throngs,
much as, of yore, the olden poets sang
in bold words, poems, yarns, and golden songs.
Cast-iron railings have replaced those souls,
who had no columns rising to the sky,
who had no gilt-inspiring cathedrals,
or shopping malls filled up with things to buy.
No lonely, cowled monk ever there could find
a hermitage so elegant or fine,
where one could then regenerate one’s mind,
or pause to eat, on fancy dishes dine,
and see so many things, from garden parks
to famous battleships moored at the dock,
from cemetery sites to rented cars
or Peter rising o’er red granite rock.
Alecsei Durbew is a poet of Russia. Saint Petersburg (Санкт-Петербу́рг) is a Russian city with an agglomeration of about 6,000,000. Powerful, albeit crass, Tsar Peter, was the force behind its creation. This poem draws from Pushkin’s much larger canvas, “The Bronze Horseman”.
Above a Sea of Lovely Pale Blue
by Ercules Edibwa
He got into the lotus pose upon a poofy bed.
He sat beside the fluffed up pillows at the bedstead’s head.
He let go of the things he saw, the picture, lamp amd wall,
imagining that he was on a round, rotating ball.
He orbited within his mind, like as a bright full moon,
which seemed to float above a sea of lovely pale blue.
Perhaps Poseidon would appear and greet him at the dawn,
and he would rise upon the tide, involved in gaping yawn.
O, he was so inspired by the sea foam rushing past,
there riding on the waves, he grasped a surfboard as it passed.
Ercules Edibwa is a poet of Ancient Greece. Poseidon, the god of the sea, was the father of Proteus and Triton.
by Aedile Cwerbus
Vivacious, let us live, and let us be in love with life,
not caring for the youthful, twitter-rumour mobs of strife;
I wouldn’t give a penny for their gossip or their lips;
each new sunrise and sunset will their empty words eclipse;
and when our short-lived lives are gone, all sunlight will be quenched,
and we will be perpetu’lly eternally unclenched;
and all the kisses we have given over all our time
cannot be counted, nor be doubted that they were sublime;
we’ll leave these youthful scaliwags and useless alley cats,
who’ll never comprehend the nature of our loving pact.
Aedile Cwerbus is a poet of Ancient Rome. Here he has in mind a poem of Catullus (c. 84 BC – 54 BC).
On What You Get in Life
by Uwe Carl Diebes
You get nothing. None knew that better than Johann Christian Günther, the poverty- stricken, spurned, and “last Silesian,” of fine poetic sensibility, born in Striegau in 1695, who, broke his father’s heart, not studying to be a doctor seriously, rife with ailments and sarcastic muddying, got drunk before th’ Elector ‘f Saxony, August the Strong, and King of Poland—great! including Leonore, whom he wronged more than he loved, and others filled with hate.Who really longed to hear his jongling song? At twenty-eight, in Jena, he received tuberculosis, and died, hardly grieved.
Uwe Carl Diebes is a poet of Germany. Johann Christian Günther (1695-1723) was a poet from Striegau in Lower Silesia. Striegau is a town of 16,000 in southwestern Poland. A figure no less than Goethe proclaimed Johann Christian Günther was a writer of poetic sensitivity. This prose poem of three short sentences and one rather long one has 140 syllables. Beau Lecsi Werd is not exactly sure what the meaning of jongling is, though he is sure that was the word Uwe Carl Diebes intended to use. Perhaps others will be able to figure it out.
Near the End of Mozart’s Don Giovanni
by Ewald E, Eisbruc
The terror starts with the entrancing entrance of
Commendatore’s shattering note in the brass,
one long, diminished seventh chord. This is not love,
but Hell that paramour Don Giovanni has
come to. “A cenar teco m’invitasti,” Ho!
“e son venuto.” But this is quite a repast!
Persistently he’s asked. Repent! “Pentiti!” “No!”
The level of the tension rises. Fearless, he,
Don Giovanni claims he’s not afraid. And so,
the floor is opened, and he is mercilessly
engulfed by rising, fingered flames of Hell. Above,
they sing his end. It’s “worthy of the life he leads.”
Ewald E. Eisbruc is a poet and critic of German and Austrian music.
by Sirc de Wee Balu
Some think that I have been a spy,
but that is not the truth;
although my life is a charade
and has been since my youth.
I never have been able to
be who I want to be.
My life has been a masquerade
for nobody but me.
I don’t insist I don’t exist,
for that would be a lie;
and yet I can’t be who I am
no matter how I try.
This is because it is the fate
of being human. None
escapes this fate. We all of us
impinge on everyone.
And yet, despite all this, I find
I can enjoy this game,
because it fascinates my mind.
Do others think the same?
Sirc de Wee Balu is a poet of Life’s Circus. This poem is a pretennos tennos.
So Much of Life
by Erisbawdle Cue
So much of life is what one shouldn’t do, One must not say
such words because they bother someone else; they aren’t okay.
One shouldn’t be so callous, or so careless; that is wrong.
One must obey high-techie masters or one can’t belong.
Don’t drink too much. Don’t eat too much. Don’t fart into the air.
Don’t buy on-line. Don’t waste your time. Don’t fall into despair.
Don’t vote for X, don’t vote for Y, and do not vote for Z.
Do not upset another person with one’s vanity.
Self regulation is the mantra of the modern way.
So much of life is what one shouldn’t do and should not say.
Erisbawdle Cue is a poet of philosophy.
by Esiad L. Werecub
O, Zephyr, say, where have you gone, in yellow and bright green?
We miss your breath inspiring us to hope-filled love and spring.
O, come back now to this harsh landscape. Bring us, yes, your smile.
Allow us in your warmth again to linger for awhile.
Let us breathe in your lovely freshness. Show what you can do.
Blow airs from out your puffed-up cheeks that carry us anew.
O, Zephyr, open up your lips, so tender crops can grow.
Come to the garden bed again to let the flowers glow.
Cold Boreas is pushing you from bathroom, bed and boon.
I hope our pipes don’t freeze this winter. Play a welcome tune.
Esiad L. Werecub is a poet of Greek mythology. Even the lone wolf of the cold North longs for Zephyr. One of his favourite Postmodern Canadian nonfiction works is “Never Cry Wolf” by Farley Mowat (1921-2014).
by “Wired Clues” Abe
As temper’tures dropped,
all night long the faucets dripped
to keep from freezing.
“Wired Clues” Abe connects Japanese literary forms to NewMillennial technologies.
by Ibe Ware Desu, LC
If a poet falls
into a forest of print,
the sound is silence.
by Ibe Ware Desu, LC
A blanket of leaves
covers the lawn and driveway
after a windstorm.
Ibe Ware Desu, LC, is a haikuist.
The Passing Leaves of Autumn
by Eber L. Aucsidew
O, Boreas comes roaring down the lane on which I live.
The leaves fly past along the road; they are not tentative.
Like racing cars, they speed along with each upsweep of wind,
as if from some enchanter fleeing fast, not hesitant.
I like to watch them whipped along, in brisk group after brisk.
I like to watch them scurrying, a swish, a zip, a whisk.
The oaks, the maples, and the myrtles let their foliage go
frenetic’lly and hectic’lly when Boreas does blow.
In glorious arrays they’re raised and swirl through the air;
and I sit here inside my home and watch their magic there.
Out in the Open Air
by Eber L. Aucsidew
“fresh air, the quiet, the lakes, rivers, woods and wildlife were
It’s true one can get in the lotus almost anywhere,
outside and on a farm or ranch out in the open air.
O, there it can be excellent, in plaid and rugged shoes;
by opening one’s self up one can lose the bruising blues.
One leaves behind, within one’s mind, the rickety old fence,
connected to a deeper realm where images condense.
With legs outstretched, one then can meditate upon the ledge
of the ecstatic and eternal everlasting edge.
O, then it is as if one is free from life’s hard concerns
and one is lifted high above all that for which one yearns.
Such settings may not be so gorgeous or so beautiful,
but still the moments there one has can be, o, wonderful.
Eber L. Aucsidew is a poet of air and water, the two most important things for the human being. In the tennos occasional words come from Shelley’s “Ode to the West Wind”. His favourite movie of Vermont in Autumn is Alfred Hitchcock’s “The Trouble With Harry” In addition to the idyllic music of Bernard Hermann in the movie, Eber L. Aucsidew likes the easy-singable song “Flaggin the Train to Tuscaloosa”. In the dodeca, I have learned from bloggers online, like the Mermaid, that one can get in the lotus position, just as one can pray, nearly anywhere one can be.
The Seven Ages of Man: A Pleased Jaques
by Wilude Scabere
At first there is the infant, grinning wide
because he has escaped his nurse’s arms
and her chagrin, in short shirt takes his stride
around the corner, swaggering with charms.
Next comes the busy schoolboy in the morn.
He’s running off to take his shower fast,
and then he towels off what he was born
with; clothed, back-packed, in joy goes off to class.
The lover then appears, a full grown man,
though hairier, his moustache still is thin.
His heart pounds with delight at sighting an
exquisite, lovely beauty in the wind.
The soldier is a brave and gutsy guy,
who follows orders for his country’s need.
If necessary he will gladly die,
although it is his pref’rence not to bleed.
Then comes the man in full career form.
He makes more money than he ‘s ever made.
His eyes are cheerful and his heart is warm,
more sociable now he has made the grade.
Sixth, the old goat fits into lean blue jeans
with reading glasses on his blood-shot eyes;
but he is happy he can read a thing
and that his life is still a big surprise.
The final dude is hard of hearing, weak;
he’s slow, senile; what hair he has is gray.
Since few can hear him when he tries to speak,
he finds he doesn’t have that much to say,
content to let life’s treasures slip away.
Wilude Scabere is a poet of English literature. Here he has taken a famous speech from “As You Like It” by William Shakespeare (1564-1616) and reversed its negative focus. According to Beau Lecsi Werd, Jaques is pronounced “jā kwēz”.
by Carb Deliceuwe
Though technic’lly they’re seeds found in a big, hard, woody shell,
Brazil nuts have a nut-like taste and funky, thick, rich smell,
ridiculously high in nutrient selenium
and others, like magnesium, and, yes, potassium.
Due to their making antioxidant glutathione,
they can contribute somewhat to increased testosterone.
Found in the forests of the Amazon, they are so good;
but eaten moderately only, they’re a potent food.
Each day some long to have but two nuts as an evening snack,
so much so that those avid eaters keep on coming back.
by Carb Deliseuwe
Though some love eggs, and others don’t, what’s fascinating is
how many kinds one can observe in visits to store biz.
There’s the conventional eggs—brown or white, it’s all the same—
and vegetarian-fed eggs are next within this maze.
Cage-free come next, though there is little difference between
them and the previous two named. Some eggs are blue and green.
Free-range are next; we’re getting closer to the better ones;
the price goes up along the way; you pay more for the Sun.
Organic eggs come next, but still we haven’t reached the top,
which are the pasture-raised, at which we finally can stop.
Watch out for phrases, like “all natural” or “hormone free”;
“farm fresh” as well says naught at all about egg pedigree.
Carb Deliseuwe is a poet of food.