Out to the Edge
          by I. E. Sbace Weruld
          “Die Erde unter uns/ treibend, fallend/ scherelos schwebend/ komme
          heim”
              —Peter Schilling, “Major Tom (kommt heim)”

Jeff Bezos thanked his Amazon employees from his base
for his historic trip out to the edge of outer space.
He celebrated like it was the end of a yacht race,
the rocket of Blue Origin returning his glad face.

Jeff Bezos, in a cowboy hat, stepped from the capsule hatch…
alive, with bro, old gal, young Dutchman, laughing, at his ranch.
The four civilians flew to just beyond the Kármán Line;
the automated flight’s eleven-minute trip was fine.

Jeff Bezos, having bought the land near Texas town Van Horn,
returned from his short supersonic joyride in the morn—
July the 20th in 2021—his journ
extending human travel to a nu-discovered bourne.

I. E. Sbace Weruld is a poet of the Cosmos. Peter Schilling is a German synthpop musician, “Major Tom (kommt heim)” was a PostModern hit of 1983. The Kármán Line is 100 kilometers (330,000 feet) above mean sea level, named for Theodore von Kármán (1881-1963), an Hungarian-American engineer and physicist, active in aero-astro-nautix. According to Beau Lecsi Werd, journ is a shortening, and nu is a new spelling of new.

~~~

Haiku
          by “Clear Dew” Ibuse

The rabbit munches.
scrumpching upon dead grass straw,
mounching for its maw.

“Clear Dew” Ibuse is a poet of Japanese forms in English, especially the traditional haiku, which reached its height in the 17th -19th centuries.

~~~

Haiku
          by E “Birdcaws” Eule

The mockingbird swoops
at the tiki flame below,
whooping at its glow.

E “Birdcaws” Eule is a poet of Japanese poetic forms, such as haiku and tanka.

~~~

Haiku
          by “Clear Dew” Ibuse

Lights flash in the eyes
of reclining souls beneath
jets crossing night’s sky.

“Wired Clues” Abe is a NewMillennial poet interested in the comingling of technology and Japanese poetic forms, like the haiku.

~~~

Chinese Communist Cyber Attacks
          by Esca Webuilder

In March, malicious cyber acts the Chinese state performed,
on 30,000 customers of Microsoft, were borne.
Back then, Volexity discovered the Exchange breach hitch—
widespread and vicious hacking that the Communists had pitched.
Paid by the Ministry of Chinese State Security,
these gangs of hackers carried out attacks on industry.
Australia, Canada, New Zealand, UK, and Japan,
along with NATO, US, and the EU, hand in hand,
blamed China’s MSS for criminal activities,
extortion, crypto-jacking, cyber-hacks, and other schemes.

Esca Webuilder is a poet of the Internet.

~~~

Navasana Pose
          by Sri Wele Cebuda

He rose in navasana pose t’ row to tranquility.
He stretched his limbs and raised his head in angularity.
His feet and ankles seemed to ride the shoulders of the sky
that hovered over his closed face, but open inner eye.
He felt like as the gods were taking him to easeful stress,
but really all he truly wanted was just peacefulness.
The room was dark where he was parked; his abs were tensed and tight.
How could he reach nirvana here at this low place and height?
He felt like as he was but a right-angle in this light,
alone and palely loitering, so far from sheer delight.

Sri Wele Cebuda is a poet of yoga. The last line of this tennos alludes to Romantic English poet John Keats (1795-1821).

~~~

Newsreel:
Ahmed Danish Siddiqui, Reuters news photographer,
with senior Afghan officer, was killed in Kandahar.
Between the Taliban and Afghan force, there was a clash,
the two reportedly caught in the hos-tile-cross-fire-flak.

~~~

Another Incident
          by Sawceeb Dureli

It was near to the border-crossing in Afghanistan,
the hard, “white desert” Spin Boldak, not far from Pakistan.
a district of one-hundred-thousand, plagued by bomb attacks,
like that which to an unsuspecting donkey was attached,
Three children, playing on the donkey cart they had jumped on,
were unaware explosives were beneath th’ alfalfa straw,
which killed three nephews of Fazluddin Agha, 2010,
they didn’t understand the harsh brutality of men.
Aged fifteen, thirteen, twelve, they were among the many deaths
the Taliban ’s recorded in their quest for power’s breadth.

Sawceeb Dureli is a poet of Afghanistan. Danish Siddiqui (1983-2021) born in Dehli, India, based with Reuters in Mumbai, was killed “near to the border-crossing in Afghanistan” at Spin Boldak, not far from Pakistan. According to the UN, the Taliban and their allies were responsible for over 3/4ths of the thousands of civilian deaths in Afghanistan in 2010.

~~~

In a Beat-up Jeep
          by Eswer El Cubadi

What were they doing there? North Africa? Iraq? some beach?
A driver and his passenger were in a beat-up jeep.
The sky was bright, a vibrant white, unlike the light below.
Beneath the tan, dilapidated roof, they rode the road.
If they were happy, they did not show it—no not a whit.
One wondered where they were, where they were not at all content.

The back man, leaning back upon the pale seat’s pink hue,
seemed slightly shaken at the bumpy ride and his purview.
The thin guy at the wheel, staring outward, pursed his lips;
he seemed uncomfturble there fidgeting upon his hips.
Where were they going? and why was the passenger aghast?
The driver, in control, drove steadily—until the blast.

Eswer El Cubadi is a poet of the tan landscapes of North Africa and West Asia. According to Beau Lecsi Werd, “uncomfturble” is a realigned spelling, suggesting a slight disturbance in the force. Is the latitude in this dodeca about 33° N?

Newsreel:
6,000 chickens died in Ghana; so they slew a slew
with th’ highly pathogenic H5N1 avian flu.

~~~

Kofi Nyameye
          by Lebu Seric Wade

He looked into the azure-blue, eyed wide Nyameye Sky,
a man from Accra, Ghana, on a trip to Sci-Fi High.
He took a course in school—Speculatívidfantasy—
but dropped out into one more alternate reality.
He fell out of love with the chattled social media,
and flew off like a black-and-white alchymic aedia.
He grew in faith and taking risks, he honed his floating craft,
but though it was much longer, stronger, it was still a raft.
He didn’t want to take it out on great Lake Volta’s span,
in area, Earth’s largest reservoir e’er made by Man.

Lebu Seric Wade is a poet of West Africa. His favourite NewMillennial Internet-wary, winged-sorcerer Kofi Nameye is a contemporary Ghanaian writer. Accra, the capital of Ghana, is a city of approximately 4,000,000+, its name deriving from the Akan word, Nkran, meaning ants, a reference to the anthills in the countryside around. Speaking of ants, his favourite short story about ants is that by German Modernist Carl Stephenson (1893 – c. 1954+), and his favourite essay passage about ants is that by American Romantic Henry David Thoreau (1817-1862), in his prose, Homeric ‘Battle of the Ants’ from “Walden”. Aedia leucomelas, also known as the eastern alchymist, or sorcerer, is a black-and-white moth, found from Europe to Australia. Lake Volta, behind Akosombo Dam, has a surface area of over 8500 square kilometers.

~~~

Above Dakar’s Mamelles Beach
          by Lebu Seric Wade

O, dan-gl-ing on umber cliffs along West Africa,
like as Abasse Wane, a climber come from Senegal,
who climbs above Dakar’s Mamelles Beach for love, for fun,
notes that these days it’s getting harder there beneath the Sun.

Where once a park’s grand lighthouse stood, that keeps ships from the reefs,
a dusty site is littered now with medical debris.
Construction junk is being dumped down cliffs that once were clean.
O, what was once so beautiful no longer is pristine.

New nearby condominiums built closer to the shore
erode the cliffs—those gorgeous gifts—O, will there be no more?
The places left to latch a rope are dropping in the sea,
and bits of hardened cliffs are turning in to slopes of scree.

Lebu Seric Wade is a poet of West Africa. Dakar, the capital of Senegal, has a population of around 1,400,000.

~~~

I’d Ask Cheiron
          by Ercules Edibwa

If it were proper for this prayer to be made by me,
I’d ask Cheiron to live again and teach me prophecy,
he who departed, son of Cronos—O, please reign again,
thou centaur-sage of pharmacy, of herbs and medicine,
whose mind was friend to men, albeit beastly in the wild,
who reared Asclepius, that gentle craftsman, meek and mild,
who drove pain from the limbs he heal’d, and cured disease as well—
I’d ask Cheiron to live again to hear what he could tell,
especi’lly now as this coronavirus plagues the Earth,
that from mad science has displaced much of the world’s mirth.

Ercules Edibwa is a poet of Ancient Greece, here dipping into Ancient Greek poet Pindar (c. 518 BC – c. 438 BC).

~~~

Newsreel:
Flash floods—the death toll rose in Belgium and in Germany—
burst-river deaths more than one-hundred-eighty—mor-dant-ly.

~~~

Voter Integrity in Germany
          by Uwe Carl Diebes

Official Germans were defending the security
of their elections at a talk on vote integrity,
including heads of polling, BSI, and BfV,
as well as home intelligence and cyber agencies.
Thiel noted “We don’t have the problems that the US sees…”
since “we use ballot paper…that gets counted”—not machines.
Thiel also stressed that any citizen can watch the counts,
not like the US party zealots where corruption mounts.
At this press conf’rence, Horst Seehofer laid out all the threats
to Germany’s elections, saying they won’t have that mess.

Uwe Carl Diebes is a poet of Germany. BSI is the German Federal Cyber Security Authority, BfV is the Federal office for the Protection of the Constitution. Horst Seehofer is the German Minister of the Interior, Georg Thiel is the Federal Returning Officer who oversees Germany’s elections. Surprisingly, recent elections in the oldest representative democracy—the USA—seem less free from fraud than those of the former German Reich and the Imperial Japanese—definitely not in America’s WW2 allies—preMaoist China and Stalinist Russia.

~~~

Q Shaman
          by Brice U. Lawseed
          “A man without persistence will never make a good shaman or physcian.”
              —Confucius

Q Shaman—Jake Angeli—went to Washington DC,
protesting in the Capitol, US democracy,
protesting Insurrection, the plague of Demonic Rats,
purloining an election for the Swamp Beast and his Bats.

Q Shaman wore war paint upon his face—red, white & blue—
a horned, fur headdress on his head, and on his chest tattoos.
He carried megaphone and spear-like flag-pole in the “raid”,
with a full-sized, American flag tied below the blade.

Q Shaman said that the police first blocked protesters there,
but then allowed them in—where some smashed windows—Dog beware!
He then implored companions, in “Christ’s holy name” to pray
for the rebirth of this his country, of the USA.

Q Shaman was arrested, then, on January 9th,
where he is still awaiting jury trial in July.
Why is there this delay, unnecessary as it seems?
There’s nothing speedy in the FBI, or DeepState schemes.

Q Shaman the Unviolent, replete with energy,
apparently was let in by the Capitol police,
but now dwells in a cell because he was too critical,
a captive of corruption, hostage-held, political.

Brice U. Lawseed is a poet of American law.

~~~

Nouveau Impoveriche
          by Brad Lee Suciew

The poor man sat in old black boots beside the gray-rock wall.
Although he was a bearded dude, not so unkempt o’erall.
But was he homeless out there on the street where anyone
could come and take advantage of him—dirty, hurting, numb?
His eyes were slits, his eyebrows fixed, his mouth hung open wide;
he looked like he perpertu’lly was rattled, agonized.
But who would care to help him out? the clean and manicured?
ambitious, business-suited fellows getting off to work?
Did they have time for him, the lowliest of lowly men?
Those pushy individuals—Would he get much from them?

Brad Lee Suciew is a poet of business. According to Beau Lecsi Werd, the neologism “impoveriche” is a word in opposition to “riche”.

~~~

Much More
          by Bud “Weasel” Rice

I still remember in my youth, when I went to the woods;
I felt so free out with the trees; with me—arrayed—they stood.
I was in awe at all I saw; there was so much to see;
like as large trunks, some timbered stumps, a vast mass of green leaves.
O, I was so content back then; although I did not know
how being thus and seeing such was more than I could hold—
much more, o, yes, I must confess, the tra-ils that I blazed
were fun to run upon for days on end—but left me dazed.
In summary, on summer morns, I rose up, nature’s wight,
to frolic in that forested green garden of delight.

Bud “Weasel” Rice is a poet of nature.