by Sri Wele Cebuda
The room was very dark, most of the silhouettes were black.
He got in a bitílasana pose with stretched-out back.
His head was high, turned to the right, and goodness in his mind,
he striving to arrive at the cave of the pure divine.
His back rose up, his arms went down, his knees and thighs beyond.
He felt like as a lotus flower floating on a pond.
He saw the dewy water shining on the sunny day.
It was so beautiful it took his heavy heart away.
He felt like as an Ali Baba come on a treasured pile
of diamonds, opals, pearls, quartz—o, he could stay awhile.
His strength was sure, his angst demure, his heels clean and free.
O, he could go forth mightily into eternity.
He held that pose of poesy, a posy in the dark,
as patient as a bullish ruminant, and just as stark;
like as a patient in a hospital on table top,
the operation a success, victorious the drop.
Sri Wele Cebuda is a poet of yoga. Ali Baba was a character created by Syrian writer Antun Yusuf Hanna Diyab (c. 1688 – c. 1763) and translated late 17th century French Orientalist Antoine Galland (1646-1715).
by I. E. Sbase Weruld
In 1998, the Hubble Space-based Telescope
re ve al’d that the Cosmos was expanding not so slow,
as it had done a long, long time ago. Indeed it was
expanding faster than it had back then. None knew the cause?
The very distant supernovae scientists observed
re-ve-al’d this was an accelerating Universe.
Still, theorists do not know how this now can be explained,
and so they give this enigmatic mystery a name—
dark energy @ 68 % of MegaState,
dark matter 27, and the rest—this Condensate!
the World we know, o, Everything of which we are aware.
How could a cosmologic constant here be really there?
Near Truth or Consequences
by I. E. Sbace Weruld
“Nowhere is there warmth to be found
Among those afraid of losing their ground.”
Gene Clark & the Byrds, “Eight Miles High”
Near Truth or Consequences, Richard Branson had his base,
and flew on a suborbital launch to the edge of space.
He with a crew of five were fifty-three miles overhead
the deserts of New Mexico, above the infrared,
dis-cer-ning weight-less-ness for a few minutes of delight
and witnessing the curvature of Earth up at that height.
The Unity was carried there, about eight miles high;
and then, detached, its engine fired—Mach 3 in the sky—
about as brief as Alan Shepherd, 1961;
then safely gliding back home to Spaceport America.
I. E. Sbace Weruld is a poet of the Universe. Richard Branson is a British business magnate, Alan Shepard (1923-1998) was a late 20th century American astronaut, Mach 3 is about 2,223.3 miles per hour. The Byrds’ song “Eight Miles High” was about their 1965 British “flight” and “trip.”
by “Clear Dew” Ibuse
Heavenly eyes on
Mars by Venus, a New Moon,
on the horizon
by “Clear Dew” Ibuse
The eggplant planted—
o, aubergine, ah, brinjaul,
harvest’s hoped-for haul.
“Clear Dew” Ibuse is a poet of Japanese poetic forms.
by E. “Birdcaws” Eule
The mockingbirds dance
in a mating ritual,
driveway to rooftop.
by “Wired Clues” Abe
A rainbow flickers:
a citronella candle.
The moth flaps away.
by “Wired Clues” Abe
A pool of water
causes the lawn mower to pause:
“Wired Clues” Abe is a poet of technology in English, using Japanese forms.
The Sino Ministry of Industry and Info Tech
announced a three-year action plan to work on Cyber Sec.
One wonders if it will include the willingness to quit
repeating lying, cheating, spying—just a little bit.
by Lu “Reed ABCs” Wei
Just twenty-five big cities make half of our greenhouse gas.
Of them, the most are found in China—twenty-three, alas.
Among them are the following: Handan, Shanghai, Beijing,
Urumqi, Qingdao, Wuxi, Suzhou, Guangzhou, and Kunming,
There is as well, Wuhan, Chongqing, Chengdu, and Dalian
with Tokyo, Huizhou, Hangzhou, Shenyang and Tianjin,
with Moskva, Shijiazhuang, Zhengzhou, Shenzhen and Yinchuan,
according to Wei, Wu, and Chen from Guangzhou’s Sun Yat-sen,
the University named for that Chinese president,
who argued for the people’s rights, welfare and nation state.
The data was published in the journal “Frontiers in Sustainable Cities”; the authors, Shaoqing Chen, Ting Wei, and Junliang Wu.
by Lê Dức Bảệ, “Wired”
“Demur—you’re straightway dangerous—
And handled with a Chain—”
—Emily Dickinson, “Much Madness”
In order to eliminate “wrong views” in Vietnam,
CPVN’s Force 47’s trolling dissidents,
installing spyware, tracking activists, and hacking them,
according to Volexity and FireEye e-m.
The nationalist anticommunists and other folk,
who have not yet been brain-washed and/or chain-quashed to the yoke,
are frequently described as “traitors” by CPVN
for merely disagreeing with war-criminal g-men,
who are the “heroes” of the nation keeping thinking “pure”
and unadulterated by the people who demur.
Lê Dức Bảệ, “Wired”, is a poet of Vietnam/Internet. CPVN is the Communist Party of Vietnam. According to Beau Lecsi Werd, “e-m”, pronounced “ee-em” is a shortening of e-mail.
Before the Dawn of Aldermen
by “Scribe” El Uwade
Before the dawn of aldermen, long after that of bars,
in Hammurabi’s time, when thick beer was held in mete jars,
if a fe-ma-le-ta-vern-keep won’t take corn for a drink,
and if the price is less than what corn sells for on the street,
then she shall be convicted for her sin—o, she should think!
and thrown into the water as her punishment complete.
but if conspirators meet in a tavern, and aren’t caught,
the ta-vern-keep-er should be put to death—he should have thought!
and sisters of a god, if they dare enter taverns, they
shall all be burned for daring to go in—they’ve gone astray!
“Scribe” El Uwade is a poet of ancient Egypt and Mesopotania. Hammurabi (c. 1810 BC – c. 1750 BC) was a king of the Old Babylonia Empire. The above are laws from Hammurabi’s Code.
by Esiad L. Werecub
No one has time. No, this is not the fate of modern men.
It merely is. O, yes. And will be, as it e’er has been.
So why cry all about it? Leave your weeping at the grave.
For, in between, there are so many things that we should save.
A moment that’s redeemed from credit, coupon, coin or cash,
is worth more than a threnody, or thorny haloed gash.
You once thought you could reach another tossing ductile lines—
you could! but then they’d disappear in time and other mines.
Thus, let it go. Go on. Observe what comes before your face.
And be a cub-reporter of eternity and space.
Nobody cares about the author; they just want the news,
or out-of-fashion olds that fold into volcanic spews.
Esiad L. Werecub is a poet of works and days. One of his favourite poets is Greek Hesiod (flourished 750 BC – 650 BC).
by Alecsei Burdew
Best known for work of his on the expanding Universe,
equations he developed showing moving matter curves,
a constant positive sphere, flat, or hyperbolic space;
he thought the Cosmos isotropic, homogeneous.
Hypothesizing a big bang, then followed by a crunch,
he formulated a dynamic, time-dependent hunch.
He was far-seeing in his vision of the Universe,
but married young, and his first marriage ended in divorce.
He ate an unwashed pear bought at a station, it’s supposed.
The typhoid fever that he got had been misdiagnosed.
He died come back from his Crimean, second honeymoon—
September 16, 1925—it was so soon.
Alecsei Burdew is a poet of Russia. Alexander Friedmann (1888-1925) is a noted Russian Modernist mathematician and theoretical scientist.
Maironis: 77-Word Bio Blurb
by Liudas Weberec
His was the voice of spring, the poet Jonas Mačiulus,
professor, priest, mathematician, known as Maironis.
From Kaunas High, he went to Kiev University,
returning to achieve his art in Lithuania.
He later went to the Saint Petersburg Academy
to study deeply Roman Catholic theology.
O, sonorously and melodic’lly, but nat’rally,
he wrote in lyric, epic, and dramatic poetry,
replacing pure syllabic verse with accents in his voice,
portraying love of country, past and present, classic, poised.
Liudas Weberec is a poet of Lithuania. Noted Naturalist Lithuanian poet Jonas Mačiulus (1862-1932) is known more commonly as Maironis.
July 9, 2021, Lithuania began building a barrier on the border with Belarus
to halt the flow of illegal migrants sent in by Belarusian authorities
in retaliation for sanctions imposed by the EU bloc.
The Second Shepherd’s Response to the Nymph
by Wilude Scabere
Though nothing that is born stays young,
nor does truth lie on but one tongue;
yet still there is that which can move
you, lovely nymph, to be my love.
It is not rocks, nor flocks we see,
nor rivers that bring love to me,
nor birds that sing from morning to
the evening that would give me you.
Though roses make a nice bouquet,
to move you, love, it is not they,
nor is it gold or diamond rings;
you will not fall in love with things.
The clothes we wear will all wear out;
that they would bring forth love, I doubt.
So caps and shoes, it can be said,
will not move heart, nor hands, nor head.
And as for belts of straw and buds,
or coral clasps and amber studs,
these are ridiculous, I trove.
They could not move you ever, love.
It’s not delights, like these that bring
two lovers close in lovely spring.
It is ourselves, not stars above
or stones below, that make love move.
Wilude Scabere is a poet of English literature.
by Erisbawdle Cue
The trouble was it was a lie that he could not believe.
No matter what they said to him, he would not be deceived.
And yet because he thought it was a lie, it made them mad,
so they insisted that he could not have the thought he had.
They schemed, they screamed and yelled; they did their best to cause him strife.
Because he did not think like them, they tried to wreck his life.
He lost his credit, lost his job, he lost his right to be.
The trouble was it was a lie that he could not believe.
He’d heard of places in the lands that lie beyond the sea,
where people who did not believe some ideology,
were tortured, beaten, even murdered for what they believed,
and he believed that that was true. Did that make him deceived?
It really only was a lie. Could they not let it be?
Why did they think it was important that he would believe?
He dreamed some day this situation would no longer be;
but though he tried, he still could not believe that that would be.
Erisbawdle Cue is a poet of philosophy.
by Bic Uwel, “Erased”
He traveled through the city; he was not an activist;
but that does not imply, therefore, he was a passivist.
He settled down upon the bed of his unfurnished flat.
He felt like he was be-ing tai-led by police, in fact.
He sat up at the bed’s edge, as erect as he could be.
He wondered if he had been followed to this certainty.
It was so strange to be so present; he did not like it.
He stretched his legs and bent his head to meditate a bit.
He thought about his situation. Where else could he go?
Perhaps he should just give in to authorities. O, no.
Bic Uwel, “Erased” is a poet of the invisible people.
by El Edwi Escubar
The 2018 Cuban law is shutting people down;
now Cuban communists want San Isidro Movement bound;
but academics, journalists and artists want to be
free from artistic censorship and communist decree.
The freedom of expression is a human right, they say:
Release Denis Solís, and break his prison chains today.
“We can’t leave him alone,” said Carlos Manuel Álvarez;
who had himself been put in prison last year for his views.
Miguel Díaz-Canel’s proud of Decree 349.
Denis Solís has been in prison since November 9.
El Edwi Escubar is a poet of Cuba. The President and Communist Party first secretary of Cuba is Miguel Díaz-Canel, who would like to shut down the San Isidro Movement. Carlos Manuel Álvarez is a contemporary Cuban writer, Denis Solís González, a contemporary musician.
The Poetry Society of Texas
by “Wild” E. S. Bucaree
The Poetry Society of Texas celebrates
its kined centennial nonprofit status—with updates—
although to join one must pay money—dollars twenty-five—
and be a native or a citizen, and still alive.
One must fill out an application, name, address and state;
one can pay by PayPal, it’s easy to participate.
Its logo-flag is colourful, its background brilliant blue;
a red star in the upper left on white comes into view.
The middle is a golden cow-head lyre twixt the horns,
before a map of Texas which its purple hue adorns.
“Wild” E. S. Bucaree is a poet of Texas.
Daniel Kemper: Bio Blurb
by Cal Wes Ubideer
He is, as he might say, an unaccomplished man of sorts,
who crossed the bridge of no return connecting Sachong’s shores,
who carried forth an acolyte’s cross in rose-fingered dawn,
who, at the gates of hell, heard in the garden of Rodin,
some poetry at midnight—some supposed Atropia?
who touched the bones of Dinkenesh, preEthiopia,
who climbed Masada long before the Sun’s burn beat above,
who walked the Pamlico barefoot—What was he thinking of?
who brought two kids into the world, and took one father out,
who wrote words when there was no one who he could tell about…
Cal Wes Ubideer is a poet of California. Daniel Kemper is a contemporary poet. The Bridge of No Return crosses the Sachong River between North & South Korea. There are twenty bronzes, including the Gates of Hell in the Rodin Sculpture Garden, Atropia, one of five fake countries invented by the US Army, Dinkenesh (Dinknesh, etc.) is “Lucy” the 3.2 million-year-old skeleton from Ethiopia, Pamlico Sound is the largest lagoon along the East Coast of the United States of America, off North Carolina.
A Trophy on a Shelf
by Rudi, E. Welec, “Abs”
“My description of the baseball bat ran to 4500 words,
all scrtched with a diamond on the south wall.”
—Donald Barthelme, “Game”
He found he was within a building with an open hall,
red-carpeted, and lined with shelves, sports trophies on the wall.
He got down on his knees to view a trophy that he saw.
He wore black pants, a tight, white shirt, black shoes, and long, white socks.
What was the sport? What was he looking at? Was he in school?
What did he see on that flat shelf that was so beautiful?
When he was young he didn’t understand where he was at,
while sitting in some dug-out, waiting for his turn to bat;
but now, although he understood as little as before,
he had experienced through-out his life much, yes, much more.
And thus, he stared there on that floor, o, so, observantly.
What was the one displayed that he gazed at so fervently?
Rudi E. Welec, “Abs” is a poet of sport.