Jamie S. Farnes
by I. E. Sbace Weruld
At Oxford University researcher Farnes suggests
dark matter and dark energy possess ne-ga-tive mass,
a fluid which has zero gravity in its purview,
the kind of mass, that if you pushed it would come back at you.
It would show that the cosmos is symmetrical if true,
dark matter and dark energy both negatively glued,
repelling all the bodies that come in con-tact with them.
Though it is but a theory yet, it is an astro-gem.
Researchers long to test this on the Square Kilometer,
which when complete will be the biggest telescope bar none.
I. E. Sbace Weruld is a poet of the Cosmos. Farnes is a radio astronomer and astrophysicist.
Cherry Blossom Haiku
by “Clear Dew” Ibuse
They’re having a bash.
O, the cherry blossoms dance,
each softly landing.
Cherry blossom clouds—
We’re sitting on a bus on
They don’t miss a day;
they scatter about, and die—
the cherry blossoms.
He thought about them,
the cherry blossoms.
“Clear Dew” Ibuse is a haikuist influenced by Basho, Buson, Issa and Shiki.
The Wuhan Residents
by Lu “Reed ABCs” Wei
Last week the Vice Prime Minister—his name is Sun Chunlan—
went to a residential hall located in Wuhan.
It had been meant to be a PR show, and televised,
and residents were not to come out, but to stay inside.
But things soon went out of control with the PR’s first take,
when residents began to shout, “Fake! Everything is fake!”
It should not come as a surprise the biggest critics of
coronavirus are these residents; they’re skeptical.
They do not buy the constant lies the CCP puts out,
and therefore, residents of Qingshan Kaiyuan had to shout.
Lu “Reed ABCs” Wei is a poet of China. Xi Jinping also went to Wuhan this week.
A Victim of the New Coronavirus
by Dr. Weslie Ubeca
I saw him on the Internet; he was a victim of
the new coronavirus, not a sufferer in love.
He was dressed all in black, from baseball cap down to his shoes;
he didn’t seem, as if he was, about to lose his life.
But there he was a casualty—coronavirus mark.
The cruel strife upon his body parked its darkened arc.
No more would he play baseball with his friends upon the beach.
No more would he sit back and shoot the breeze, o, each to each.
The end had come much quicker than he thought that it would come.
There down upon his knees, how could he seize the day—poor bum?
Dr. Weslie Ubeca is a poet of medicine.
by Sai Deebec Wurl
O, Holi is a holiday, a celebration of
the spring’s arising festival, bright colour and sweet love,
a joyous revelry of blossoming, a booming spree,
hope for the bounty of a season rich in blooming glee.
Now it’s subdued in India—coronavirus fears—
no touching of nose, eyes and lips, no hand shakes, fewer cheers.
In capital New Delhi, some events were canceled as
new covid-19 cases rose—four dozen going past.
Most years, some millions toss their powders, anyone in view,
green, yellow, orange, scarlet, white, pink, violet, and blue;
but Modi said he’d not participate in public—no—
the gala lunches, water dances—all these had to go.
Sai Deebec Wurl is a poet of India and its colour-rich culture.
.Rapper Amir al-Maari
by Cid Wa’eeb El Sur
Amir al-Maari is a man from Maarat al-Numan,
a city sitting at the edge of Idlib’s southern land.
Since it began last April, some 1,000 have been killed,
600,000 lives have been displaced; blood has been spilled.
Just leave us! is his message to the many varied ones,
the Turks, the terrorists, the Russians and the Syrians.
Direct and factual, his raps can’t change things on the ground;
the rapper has not much effect—not even to astound.
And yet he keeps on rapping, slapping all up…on all fronts…
his country aching at its breaking point—such arrogance.
Cid Wa’eeb El Sur is a poet of Western Asia. This week Russia and Turkey announced a preliminary agreement to resolve the ongoing conflict in Idlib in northwest Syria.
by Çelebi Ürwëdas
The Turks are famous for their genocide of years ago;
more than 1,000,000 of th’ Armenians were slaughtered—o.
But also Greeks, Assyrians, and intellectuals,
the Turks, the Ottomans, were ruthless, so effectual.
Turks still continue wreaking havoc on the Kurds of late;
and Syria is in their sites, within their realms of hate.
And now they’re forcing migrants into Greece’s boundary;
they round them up with drones and tear gas, many floudering.
Assad himself is ruthless, but so too is Erdoğan;
reviving clashes ‘twixt Assyrian and Ottoman.
Çelebi Ürwëdas is a poet of Turkey. According to Beau Lecsi Werd, the genesis of the word genocide was first used to describe the Turkish massacre of Armenians, Greeks and Assyrians.
Italy in Lockdown
by Alberdi Ucwese
Unprecedented, Italy has locked the nation down,
with shops and restaurants now closed, and jet planes on the ground.
Infections leapt, as did the deaths, past South Korea’s stats;
outside of China, Italy now tops the World’s graph.
The cases there, more than 10,000, deaths, 600-plus;
and Lombardy’s provided data shows they are in flux.
The government has told Italians they should stay at home.
This is the time to stay in quarantine, and not to roam.
Though most will be on-line and streaming, reading lots and long;
this is the time to read some tales of the Decameron.
Alberdi Ucwese is a poet of Italy. Giovanni Boccaccio (1313-1375) wrote 100 tales in his Decameron, which takes place during the Black Plague.
The Bear Market
by Brad Lee Suciew
O, the bear market is upon us, it has come full force;
it seems as if the raging bull has run its recent course.
The stocks which had been climbing for some time, have hit a snag,
and values fell across the board; for some the news was sad.
Those glory days, that soaring haze, have settled down a bit,
and even Goldman Sachs said the bear market’s here; it hit.
Some stare in shock to see the stock of stocks drop down so low;
coronavirus fears have put them in a deep, dark hole.
The lovely pink of even love must have its ups and downs;
but, o, how gorgeous is it when it’s rising from the ground.
by Brad Lee Suciew
“I’ve yet to find liquidity…There’s none…” [Don’t panic, sir.]
said Richard Hodges a Nomura money manager.
The plunge is not just equities, but also VIX,
the volatility index, rates, credit—the whole mix.
The market for the CDS , the credit default swap,
due to the lack of much liquidity had to be stopped.
But worst of all, the key gauge of the banking-sector risk,
the spread of FRA and OIS is skyward fixed.
The market’s paralyzed, the forward-rate-agreements and
the overnight-index swaps have exploded on demand.
The credit/funding markets are now showing signs of stress
from th’ economic fallout of the covid-19 press.
Brad Lee Suciew is a poet of business.
by Esca Webuilder
Although the arrows all were green, they pointed diff’rent ways,
to left, diagonal and right; he felt stuck in a maze.
Before him was a yellow sign, which meant he should move slow;
but he was being blocked, o, yeh. How could he even go?
Below him things were moving. Should he be down on his knees,
to stabilize the rocking and the rolling, o, and frieze?
Behind him stuff was coming at him. He dare not sit down.
He felt the hand of Fate upon him, at his shoulder bone.
He felt like as he was manipulated by the by,
the focus of surveilling, nailing electronic eyes.
Esca Webuilder is a poet of the Internet. Sometimes he feels like he is in a movie, like Stanley Cramer’s production of “The 5,000 Fingers of Dr. T”.
by “Wild” E. S. Bucaree
At times the traffic down in Austin, Texas, can be bad.
you’re stuck, you cannot travel forth; you must stay where you’re at.
You sit there waiting to go north, or south, or on off-ramp;
but all you do is idle there in lines, a wolf pack plant.
You try to make the best of it. You pause and bide your time,
and wonder just how long you will be i-d-l-i-n-g in line..
Before you, giant semis sit and wait their turn to move.
Behind you drivers press upon you. O, what will they prove?
And so, you count your blessings; you’re alive and maybe loved,
despite the fact you fe-el that you’re only being shoved.
“Wild” E. S. Bucaree is a poet of Texas. The population of Austin is about 950,000.
by Rudi E. Welec, “Abs”
It was time for his morning exercises on the mat.
He stretched his arms and legs out wide, and on his back lay flat.
The first thing that he did—leg raises—lifting them up high—
o, up and down, again, again, his toes stretched to the sky.
Next up, knee raises, high and wide, into them he would dive;
he loved to activate his abs; it made him feel alive.
Then he would take a breather, sitting up or lying down.
He loved to rise up in the morn; his heart began to pound.
Now crunches in reverse were up, o, they were not so fun;
he’d squeeze his pelvis to his back, like an accordion.
That exercise was followed by the good old-fashioned plank;
upon his elbows he would pinch his butt cheeks, tighten flanks.
He’d hold his body’s weight like that, for as long as he could,
and turn his head off to the right to see if it was good.
O, it would take a lot to do the plank; o, it was hard;
and yet he held himself in place, like as a stalking pard.
Flat on his back again, bicycles were the next in line.
While leaning up, he pedaled air. O, it was not divine.
But it would activate his abs. He held his head up high,
as if he were about to kiss the sky. My, he would fly.
And finally, it was time for the toes-to-ceiling—yeh.
Up, down, up, down, and then around. O, he was feeling flexed.
Rudi E. Welec, “Abs”, is a poet of at-home exercises, especially when house-bound.