by E “Blue Screw” Dai

Cold darkness surrounds
a thin lunar lacuna:
the winter solstice.

E “Blue Screw” Dai is a haikuist of surreal spaces.


Heavy Elements
          by I. E. Sbace Weruld

Big Bang created lighter universal elements,
like hydrogen and helium, that formed the first stars thence.
Nuke fusion in those stars then made in their environments
the elements, much heavier, like iron, those more dense.
Those elements to iron are spewed out, when stars explode,
as supernovas in a violent-blast-episode.
In 2017, the merging of two neutron stars
was witnessed making heavier than purest iron bars.
Perhaps that’s where the heaviest of elements occur.
There’s still a lot within this cosmos people can observe.

I. E. Sbace Weruld is a poet of the cosmos.


The Dog Fence
          by Sbede Cawlie Ru

The Great Australian Wall is not a wall, or meant to be one. It’s a fence that runs three thousand miles, and cordons off a quarter of the continent, defending stock from cunning wild dingo wiles. Steel posts with wire mesh rise sixteen feet in height, from Jimbour on the Darling Downs, in single file, to arid cliffs above the Great Australian Bight along
Nullarbor Plain. The fence has helped reduce stock losses; but it has increased, at the same time, the population of emus and kangaroos and rabbits, while the feral camels smash and dent the fence down south, and snakes and spiders still get through.

Sbede Cawlie Ru is a poet of Australia. This prose poem of four sentences contains 144 syllables.


A Christmas Card
          by Lu “Reed ABCs” Wei

It was a Christmas card that a young girl had opened up,
and found a message in it that some labourer had put.
Thus: We are foreign prisoners in Shanghai Qingpu jail
and we are being forced to labour here against our wills.
Please help us notify a human rights group if you can
and get in touch with Peter Humphrey who will understand.
The corporation Tesco stopped production of the cards,
and typic’lly the Chinese government denied the charge;
but Mr. Humphrey had no doubt, because slave labourers
are used by China all times they can get away with it.

Aw “Curbside” Lee is a poet of Chinese business.


The Christmas Spirit
          by Crise de Abu Wel

He was a happy man on whom a tough guy could rely.
He lifted up his spirits with a wondrous, grinning eye.
He shook him out of being crotchety. He cracked his cheeks.
He left behind the low and base to climb up gorgeous peaks.
He tried to get him to arise, to come out of himself.
He longed to bring him up no matter how far down he fell.
He wanted so to cover him, if he were naked, nude.
He longed to show him cheerfulness, to make him feel good.
He tried by helping him to see the goodness of his span.
He was committed passionately to his fellow man.

Crise de Abu Wel is a poet of the good Father.


A Transcription from an Episode of Ancient War
          by Scribe El Uwade

I met him on the battlefield so far from anyone.
I could not help but feel fear. This would not be so fun.
I placed my back against a solid place, safe and secure.
I had to have my back protected if I would endure.

He came at me with shield and lance, with fire in his eye.
He was both vile and violent, that fierce, determined guy.
I set my stance. My legs were firm. I would not yield an inch.
I could not help but feel the hand of fate begin to pinch.

I held my shield steadily before his coming lance;
however, he knocked it about. I only had my stance.
But I could not escape, backed in the corner as I was.
From off life’s stem I fell, fast as a dandelion’s fuzz.

Scribe El Uwade is a poet of ancient Egypt. This poem is a dodeca.


At the Hippocrene
          by Esiad L. Werecub

I’m at the Hippocrene that Pegasus formed from his hooves.
I kneel down beside its pool of scintillating moves.
I cast my eyes upon its beauty, but can’t take it in.
To see its sacred waters shine, my head begins to spin.
I long to wash my skin in it, and then to drink some up.
O, I would love to have a cup, and then another cup.
Its drafts are maddening, but sweet; they make me feel alive.
Into its gorgeous liquid waters I would love to dive.
I’ve come t’ imbibe its inspiration and its energy.
I’d love it for forever, if I could eternally.

Esiad L. Werecub is a poet of Ancient Greece.


In Ukraine
          by Radice Lebewsu

You crane your head to see what they were doing in Ukraine;
your head spins round to see what they all managed to disdain.
So many players that you can’t keep track of all of them;
you sit upon your swivel chair, and at your desk you swim.

First off, the Russians swarmed into the east part of Ukraine;
Crimea quickly plucked, what more could Putin take away?
Then Trump, H. Clinton, Adam Schiff, both Biden and his son.
And what was Guiliani asking that Ukrainian?

You pause to look behind you; your computer opens up.
The hanging fruit falls from the tree; it has a juicy pulp.
The silver lamp shade sends its light down to each online sight.
If beauty dazzles as it razzles, can it bring delight?

Radice Lebewsu is a poet of Ukraine. This week Putin rode the newly made passenger train into Crimea.


With You
          by Wlad Eeic Bures

We sat in wicker chairs beside the square, wood table, ah,
in white light with the sugar cubes, bright flowers in a pot.
While We were talking, ah, thin, green, squat trees surrounded us.
There was a flash of light; it was unbounded, limitless.
And then the table turned into a round and white, flat wheel.
All I could do was feel—the moment was so real, ideal.
The sun was shining, glittering. My heart began to fly.
I was so glad to be with You. The day flew to the sky.
Above the brilliant walls, We gazed out to the distant sea.
We were upon the World’s top. Around flew You and Me.

Wlad Eeic Bures is a poet of the Czech Republic.


An Unexpected Inspiration, Henri Poincaré Steps onto a Bus
          by Euclidrew Base

It was just at this time in life that I departed Caen,
that grand, historic city then that I was living in.
Ostensibly the purpose was a geologic trip:
I traveled to Coutances. The moment that I took a step!
th’ idea came to me without a thing within my thought
to pave the way for its arrival—math, I had forgot.
And then I realized the transformations I had used
for Fuchsian functions—suddenly the insight’s essence fused—
yes, were identical! o, I discovered happily,
with those I saw in NonEuclidean geometry.

Henri Poincaré (1854-1912) was a French mathematician. Caen is a city of 100,000, Coutances 10,000, in northwestern France. Fuchsian functions were later named automorphic functions. Lazarus Fuchs (1833-1902) was a Prussian mathematician. This incident occurred before he was thirty years of age.


Kings Duncan and Macbeth
          by Clide Abersuwe

Young, weak, and ineffective Duncan was the Scottish king,
who died near Elgin in 1040, Macbeth bat-tl-ing.
Macbeth had an alliance with his cousin, Orkney’s Earl,
and he became the Scottish king, no baby of a girl.
He reigned with wife Grauch at the Castle Dunsinane near Perth,
and took a pilgrimage to Rome, 1050, peace on Earth.
But Malcolm got the help of Earl Siward later on,
1057 at Lumphanan, and he too was gone.
When James became the King of England, Shakespeare made his play
and altered sev’ral aspects, putting witches, trey on gray.
In Holinshed, friend Banquo helped to kill King Duncan with
Macbeth, though some have argued he himself was but a myth.
Whatever really was the case, the truth is strange indeed.
Without the play few would have cared if either king did bleed.

Clide Abersuwe is a poet of Scotland.


In Virtual Default
          by Ibewa del Sucre

The President of Argentina said his country is
in virtual default in a recession eighteen months.
The Argentine economy is shrinking three percent,
and now postponed till August paying billions of its debt.
The country’s debt has been downgraded—Fitch and S & P—
their Congress passed a brand new law for this emergency.
Upon the rich and middle class new taxes are increased,
as well, a thirty-percent tax on trading currencies.
“We have to end this practice, saving dollars,” he has said,
as refuge from inflation rising fifty-five percent.

Ibewa del Sucre is a poet of Argentina. The center-left President Fernandez won the December 10 election in Argentina, defeating President Macri.


The Burning of a Flag
          by Eric Awesud Ble

Adolfo Martinez, a man who hails from Ames, Iowa,
was sentenced sixteen jailed-years for the burning of a flag.
The thirty-year-old man purloined a raindow-coloured flag
that hung upon a church, and lit that rag, that cloth on fire.
So obviously a thoughtcrime, he had to pay the price,
unlike so many burning US flags protesting ICE,
unlike Antifa members burning flags all of the time,
as well as once a Secret Service agent—no jail time.
Good God, I feel I’m falling back, back in the darC old War.
How strange it is to feel one’s back, back in US…SR.

Eric Awesud Ble is an Orwellian poet.

The TV Screen
          by Cawb Edius Reel

It seemed so strange, so dorky really, on the TV screen,
supposedly an entertainment, something he had seen.
And there it was again, ten, twenty, thirty years ago,
no more than just another one, a television show.
How many had he seen? How often had he thought them neat?
when in reality they were no more than merely mete.
They pulled him in to watch them spin through windmills of his mind.
O, yes, he had indulged in them. Were they a waste of time?
Life is so strange, and there he was, observing filmy things,
along the passing airways of his mind’s meanderings.


Observing Superman
          by Cawb Edius Reel

It was quite an impressive sight, observing Superman;
his legs and feet outspread in flight, outstretched his arms and hands.
He looked like nothing else up there, not bird, not plane, not jet.
To him this was a sight that was not easy to forget.
He was not mightier than locomotive train or Thor,
when on a track or in the sky, when he was roaring forth.
He could not leap tall building towering up to the skies;
he really was, o, but a man with back and hips and thighs.
He was not faster than a speeding bullet from a gun,
but all such things, in certain ways, paled in comparison.

Cawb Edius Reel is a poet of film.


Chuck Peddle (1937-2019)
          by Brad Lee Suciew

Chuck Peddle, an American electric engineer,
is thought of as a personal computer pioneer,
who early recognized there was a likely market for
creation of a useful, low-cost microprocessor.
His low-cost chips were used in Apple II and Commodore,
and set in motion the desire for many wanting more.
In th’ 1970s, he worked at Motorola, but
the company was unconvinced, and took no note of it;
so he went off to start another company to bring
his main ideas to fruition’s useful functioning.

Brad Lee Suciew is a poet of business. Chuck Peddle was originally from Maine.


The Man Upon a Bench
          by “Wild” E. S. Bucaree

He sat upon a wooden bench out in the great outdoors,
astraddle, like a cowboy, but more natural, of course.
He looked behind, on his left side, although he saw no thing.
He couldn’t help but feel some thing back there simmering.
He could not see a snake was coiled; but with his knowing eye,
he couldn’t help but feel he’d be attacked, and stakes were high.
He felt that he was open to a danger coming close.
He looked back, scanning his rear view, but stood still as a post.
What was it that he heard? He knew that he was quick and buff.
But when the strike, like lightning hit, would he be fast enough?


The Man Upon the Couch
          by Bruc “Diesel” Awe

I saw him on the couch, his legs stretched out so long and far,
like as his feet were on the pedals of a speeding car,
as if he were a driving ace upon a racing track,
his hands on gear shift and the wheel; o, he can’t go back.
He put his peddle to the mettle, riding round each curve.
He steered his vehicle along the way with skill and nerve.
He had to go full out, but could not crack upon the stands.
He had to ride as if his life depended on commands.
He turned about, without a doubt, around each sweeping bank.
He had to make the finish line with gas still in his tank.

Bruc “Diesel” Awe is a poet of transportation.


In the Well Fargo Tower, Irving, Texas
          by “Wild” E. S. Bucaree

Outside the ten-foot windows, semis, trucks, and cars speed past
upon 183, the freeway going west and east.
A string of pigeons perches on high wires; here I view
the sky is wide and bright and light; it is a pale blue.
So much activity is going on one hardly can
the canvas vast before one fathom in its massive span.
One sees beside the rushing motor vehicles’ dull roar,
a restaurant, a plaza, a car dealership, and more,
a tiny part of a gigantic World on a roll;
it’s odd to see it now and be one individual.

“Wild” E. S. Bucaree is a poet of Texas. Irving, Texas, is a city of approximately 240,000.


A Christmas Present
          by Carb Deliseuwe

How tasty is it? HU dark choc’late, vegan paleo—
no sugar alcohols, organic house, and ground cacao,
no stabilizers, gluten, dairy, and no GMOs.
Get back to human is their slogan. What do you suppose?
There are no sugars they’ve refined, emulsifiers no;
soy lecithin, palm oil too, these also had to go.
What do you think about the calories per half a bar?
It’s low carb, healthy and delicious. Have they gone too far?
It’s not too sweet and it is rich, both in its taste and price.
But was it very satisfying? Did its taste suffice?

Carb Deliseuwe is a poet of food. Palm oil has become the most popular vegetable oil on the planet. Child labour and modern slavery are used in Indonesia and Malaysia where most of the palm oil of the World is produced.