Hadean Eon
          by Rawc E. Sedilube

Hadean Eon lasted but six hundred million years,
from the beginning of formation of the planet Earth.
Named for the Greek god Hades, the god of the underworld,
describing the conditions into which this Globe was hurled.
It was so hot due to its then accretion as a bulk,
mass ra-di-o-ac-ti-vi-ty, and wrecks with other hulks.
Moon’s crust was formed, the lunar cataclysm taking place,
with asteroids colliding energetic’lly in space.

Earth was a churning ball of swirling, molten elements.
It was a time of movement. Not yet biogenesis?
As iron, silicon, and oxygen, around were tossed,
the iron sank and silicon-dioxide went up top.
So, sulfur too went to the crust, and joined the chalcophyles
below the oxygen and other gassy atmophyles.
And presto! n-clouds formed in pressed-on cloud formatted skies,
before Archean Eo and bright neon eon dyes.

Rawc E. Sedilube is a poet of geology. Mid-20th Century American cosmic-bio-geologist Preston Cloud (1912-1991) coined the term Hadean Eon.


          by “Clear Dew” Ibuse

High, over billions,
in dark night, the full moon shines,
with its cratered past.

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


          by “Wired Clues” Abe

Adults nearby are
planning terraforming Mars.
The new baby grows.

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


The ReEmergence of Chen Qiushi
          by Lu “Reed ABCs” Wei

Chen Qiushi has reappeared from twenty months ago,
when he was placed in “quarantine” for posting videos
about the deadly spread—coronavirus in Wuhan.
The Communists suppressed his pics and words. They banned this man.
Back then and now they don’t want thoughts from village idiots,
nor Beijing urban-dwelling, inner-city journalists.

Back in September 2019, when disease escaped,
the Communists put on a show—a deadly escapade.
Chen said, ‘I am afraid. In front of me is the disease.
Behind me is the massive power of the Red Chinese.
And yet as long as I’m alive, I’ll say what I have seen.
I’m not afraid of dying, or the Party. Should I be?’

In February 2020, he showed videos…
now in September 2021, hidden, though,
he recently expressed, that ‘over one year and eight months,
he had experienced a lot of things; yet only some
of them could be spoke of, and some of them could not’. He ends
his last known statement with ‘I do believe you understand.’

Lu “Reed ABCs” Wei is a poet of Chinese Communist oppression. According to Beau Lecsi Werd, an escapate is a malicious façade.


The Biden admin was surprised at China’s latest move.
a brand new undetected hypersonic missile—V-r-o-o-m!


Ivy Mike
          by Ed “Bear” C. U. Lewis

The Russian nuclear test, August 1949,
surprised the USA to build a super H-bomb nigh.
That first full-blown test of a thermonuclear device
destroyed Elugelab by operation Ivy Mike.
That detonation in November 1952
produced a crater where the island had been once in view.
The crater’s depth—so deep—one-hundred-seventy-five feet;
the blast more than ten megatons of bursting energy.
It stripped that small Pacific isle of vegetation, aye,
its mushroom cloud arising to the overarching sky.

Ed “Bear” C. U. Lewis is a poet of military equipment.


Each Step
          by B. Race Udlewise

Each step he took was hard to take. To walk was difficult.
And yet, he had to go some places…O, he needed pluck.
He had to pluck the awesome blossoms in his garden bed.
He definitely could use tougher skin and hardened head.
His tread was scrutinizingly absurd, but was required,
if he would ever get to where it was that he desired.
Although his strides were slow upon the balls of his lead feet,
they’d lead him to unusual sites he had not yet seen;
they led him to new revelations, up and down new streets
his gait would take him to the garden gate’s grand opening.

B. Race Udlewise is a poet of striding and advancing.


In Padmasana Mode
          by Sri Wele Cebuda

Beneath the filtered sunlight by the thick, gray tree-trunk’s base,
the palm fronds overhead, above the fierce and hardened face.
He’d left behind the gray walls and the bed spread, gray and square
to go outside into the fresh-and-warm, inviting air.
This dude was in the lotus pose, a mat flat on the ground.
O, he was meditating on life’s constant press and pound.
His eyes wide shut, his inner eye wide open to the sky,
internally there staring at the whirling round awry.
He stretched his legs out to each side in padmasana mode,
and firmly grabbed the moment of this passing-by abode.


          by Sri Wele Cebuda

He sat upon the airy seat, so satisfying, yes.
He longed to reach a higher elevation’s greater bless.
Intense and powerful, utkatasana could promote
acceptance, inner strength, and greater focus, less remote.
His arms extended, bended knees, he strove for benefits,
that come from seemingly fierce poses written in Sanskrit,
like activating svadisthana chakra, and as such,
thus sparking creativity and boldness in one’s touch,
as well as stimulating stamina within this stance,
as if one were about to join Lord Shiva in his dance.

Sri Wele Cebuda is a poet of India. Utkatasana is the chair pose. Sanskrit is a classical language of South Asia. The chakras number seven: root, sacral (svadisthana), solar-plexus, heart, throat, third-eye, and crown.


          by Aedile Cwerbus
          “me libertino natum patre et in tenui re
          maiores pinnas nido extendisse loqueris,
          ut quantum generi demas virtutibus addas…”
              —Horace, “Epistle I, XX”

You have no book. You have eyed Janus, not Vertumnus, though…
you have been to the Forum clogged with vendors and their rolls.
You do not like those tomes liked by the modest purchaser.
You grieve at private viewings, though you praise the public, sir.

You were not raised to be so. Go to where you want to go.
There’s no recall. What have you done? Pray, tell, what did you hope?
You say so many hurt you, but the truth is less than that;
you simply had no rooter hanging on your verbal chat.

You heard no augurs on your errors or your foolish ways.
You won’t be dear to Roma, when old age deserts your stay.
You won’t be thumbed by vulgar hands in the arena’s stage.
Though food for worms, you won’t be dirtied, when you have no page.

You have not been to Utica. Ilerda’s not your home.
You did not heed the many warning you, you should not moan.
You were not born a stubborn donkey, nor pushed off a cliff;
for who would help an animal against a will so stiff?

You have no fate to wait for, as you mumble till the end.
No men or women will be listening aft you descend.
But if one comes, when you are gone, and the hot sun heats up,
you knew you were a free man’s son, of modest means and pluck.

In war, or peace, you found no favour with the leading lights,
though early gray and slight of frame and fond of sunny flights,
quick-tempered, though placatable and placid to your core,
your age in this strange time replete with now, and daze of yore,

your seventy-first summer done, when August left you here,
long after Lepidus, and Lollius had disappeared,
restorers of the Pons Fabricius o’er Tiber’s g-rush,
you crossed in May with Maia, if but with a little shrug.

Aedile Cwerbus is a poet of Ancient Roma. This poem draws from the Golden Age Roman poet Horace (65 BC – 8 BC). According to Beau Lecsi Werd, “g-rush” is a gushing rushing.


Michelangelo’s David
          by Buceli da Werse

The World little cares what lies along the edge of space,
around this planet’s azure skies and blue seas’ chiseled face.
It barely sees the David there of Michelangelo
before the hammer of the blackness all around the globe.
The hunger, envy, apathy, aggression, agony,
continue still below the stony stare of ecstasy.
What does it matter that there is this lofty statue here
amongst the homeless, beggars, lunatics and bachelor,
a model of perfection just a plagued reminder of
how even that falls far below how far we have to shove.

Buceli da Werse is a poet of Classical Italian Renaissance art, like that of Italian Michelangelo (1475-1564).


Erigeron strigosus
          by Ileac Burweeds

Erigeron strigosus travels through grass prairie plains,
so versatile, o, curse it all, when its coarse course remains.
Its tiny yellow centers are surrounded by white rays
touched lavender and beautiful in summer’s humming days.
Across the unattended lawns, wild fleabane flourishes,
and though a weed, for honey bees, its nectar nourishes.
So busy, buzzing as they go, like little zipping jets.
O, one can see the honey bees among the flowerlets,
here at the lots, the plats and plots, along the gray paved lanes,
along with lots of people, parking cars and passing planes.

Ileac Burweeds is a poet of plants.


That Cat
          by Bud “Weasel” Rice
          “For he is of the tribe of Tiger.”
              —Christopher Smart, “Jubilate Agno”

He was as cute as all get out. He was a gorgeous cat.
But one was ever asking him to get out of one’s sack.
He packed a lot of spring into each leap that he would make,
but stuck his nose in where it was not wanted—Goodness sake.
His purr showed how content he was, his breathing rhythmical.
In moonlit nights his stalking ways seemed somewhat magical.
And yet his feral attitudes could take one by surprise,
when he rushed through the evening scape with wild roiling eyes.
Among the staunchest, on his haunches, he’d launch into air,
across the sky, his chest up high, and fly, o, here, and there.

Bud “Weasel” Rice is a poet of animals.