The Comet 29P
          by I. E. Sbace Weruld

The Comet 29P has been unpredictable,
erupting with bright outbursts as it makes orbital.
One of the largest comets known, as big as Hale Bopp,
some sixty sum kilometers, across its pale prop.
This Centaur orbits the great Sun between the planets of
ringed Saturn and huge Jupiter, a glowing maniplove.
As it proceeds in space to the gateway, from where it is,
aft Io, the most active body in the Solar Sys.
Into the realms of outer space, spectacular spews spout.
But why is it erupting, sending cryomagma out?

The poet I. E. Sbace Weruld writes of outer space. According to Beau Lecsi Werd, the neologism “maniplove” means “sailing gem”, and “sys” is a trunc (clipping) of “system”. A Centaur is a small Solar System body with a perihelion or a semi-major axis with the outer planets. Io, discovered by Galileo in 1610, is the most geologically active object in the Solar Sys.


A Note
          by Ira “Dweeb” Scule

No theory that rejects sound science, objectivity,
equality, integrity, and rationality,
should e’er be counted valu’ble or countenanced at all.
When quality or excellence is dropped, it’s folderol.

Ira “Dweeb” Scule is a poet of Science.


          by “Clear Dew” Ibuse

Oaks soaking sunlight,
aft night’s light-flashing rainstorm—
jewels glittering.


          by “Clear Dew” Ibuse

The baby stretches,
rounded belly and clenched fists,
sack of potatoes.

“Clear Dew” Ibuse is a poet of Japanese poetic forms.


          by “Wired Clues” Abe

In an astrosuit,
within an array of stars,
the small baby leaps.

“Wired Clues” Abe is a poet of Japanese forms and traditions with a modern twist.


The Black Belt
          by Bruce Lee Wisda
          “I don’t have any belt whatsoever.”
              —Bruce Lee (1940-1973)

The black belt wore his black belt when he came in through the door.
His dog tags hung from round his neck, he was a hard core boar.
All those around him wondered if he would come up to them.
They wondered if he would. They wished he wouldn’t screw with them.
O, let somebody else take care of his unruly ways.
They wanted peace, not chaos, love, not fighting, hope, not daze.
But then, one saw that black belt come up to his narrow space,
and shove that massive mass of bastard muscle in his face.
What could he do, but go upon attack, and shove that goon,
who then proceeded in repeated hits to blast him to
……………………….the Moon.

Bruce Lee Wisda is a poet of self-defense.


Two-hundred-fifty-million cases of the Wuhan flu
have been recorded round the Globe since the disease was new.


The Chinese Communists responded angrily this week,
because US lawmakers went to Taiwan—just to speak.


New Delhi Air
          by Eber L. Aucsidew

Pollution has been hitting danger zones in India;
New Delhi’s air conditions are becoming vindicky.
Crop burning and Diwali firecrackers form new shrouds;
rice-paddy stubble-burns are choking skies with smoky clouds.
Upon a scale of five-hundred, th’ AQI has hit:
four-fifty-one—severe—a toxic, cake-fumed, pie-waste kit.
On India’s vast northern plain, already dusty, dry,
pollutants from Afghanistan and Pakistan fly by;
and all together, with the weather getting cooler too:
a one-two knock-out punch that leaves one like a flattened flue.

Eber L. Aucsidew is a poet of air and water. According to Beau Lecsi Werd, “vindicky” is a neologism meaning vindictively icky. The AQI is the Air Quality Index. New Delhi is the capital of India with a metro of around 28,000,000.


Salamba Bhujangasana
              by Sri Wele Cebuda

He got into the sphinx asana on a broad white mat;
his raised head up upon his elbows was where he was at.
Although his eyes were open to the blue skies over head,
his inner eye was open too, to hope’s bright flowerbed.

He stretched his psoas muscle in his hips and lower back;
he toned his glutes, supporting pelvis and the spinal track;
he strengthened all the tightness in the muscles thereabout,
a prep for cobra, or the upward-facing dog’s stout snout.

He lay upon his stomach, legs stretched out, arms at his side,
his elbows base, his forearms forth, extended breaths in stride,
th’ iconic, pharaonic, enigmatic guardian,
neck, shoulders, chest, his lats and abs ignited, hardy one.

Sri Wele Cebuda writes poesy on asana poses.


A Hapless Note
          by Alecsei Burdew

A zeal for happiness by gods was given unto me.
I wanted happiness from heaven and from earth to be.
In vain, I chased its ghosts, that lured me far away from home,
and led me through half of my life to wonder and to roam.
But now—no more—no longer do I serve the whims of fate,
enjoying happiness as if it were a holidate;
instead I push keen eyes upon its field, upon its sky,
and modestly bow to occasion’s latest passerby—
Yevgeny Baratynsky with his pessimystic tone,
his elegaic shift to hopelessness and hapless note.

Alecsei Burdew is a poet of Russian literature. Romantic/Classical Russian poet Yevgeny Baratynsky (1800-1844) was a near contemporary of Alexandr Pushkin (1799-1837). According to Beau Lecsi Werd, neologisms in this poem are self-explanatory.


The Day Is Coming
          by W. Israel Ebecud

Behold, the day is coming, burning like a furnace, when
the arrogant and evil will be stubble—o, yes, then.
Behold, that day is coming, when they’ll all be set ablaze.
No root or branch will be left to them in those firey days.
But you who fear the Sun of Righteousness will rise, like Saul.
With healing in those wings, you’ll leap like calves from farmyard stalls.

You’ll trample out the wicked; they’ll be ashes under soles.
Remember all his ordinances, statutes and his laws.
Remember Moses in Horeb, receiver of the Word.
The prophet shall appear, Elijah come before the Lord.
The hearts of fathers and their children, on that dreadful day,
shall be turned each to each, lest sheer destruction come their way.

W. Israel Ebecud is a poet of Hebrew literature, as in this imitation (Dryden) from Malachi 4.


          by Aedile Cwerbus

Maecenas, did you drink with Horace modest Sabine wines,
which he had se-al’d in his Grecian jugs from his own vines,
at that same date when great applause was given unto you,
there at that Theatre, famed horseman, honoured for your view,
there on the banks of that great river, from Etruria,
in sportive echo from the Vatican hill’s curia,
or his Caecubean from his Calenian wine press—
did you drink them with Horace for a bit of happiness,
before you both were buried on the Esquiline in Rome,
and could no longer share a wine in that eternal home.

Aedile Cwerbus is a poet of Ancient Rome. Maecenas (70 BC – 8 BC) and Horace (65 BC – 8 BC) were important figures in the literature of Ancient Rome.


That Slope
          by Bucalese Werdi

That slope was smooth he came upon, that rose up to the sky,
so beautiful and brown, as it rose up before his eyes.
At sunrise, pink and gold, from steeps and curves down to its base,
green sweeping scapes that lie below those lines along its face.
He longed to climb its passive height, like Reinhold Messner climbed
Mount Everest and thirteen more, eight-thousand meters high.
Beginning at the bottom, he proceeded to ascend
up to its top—What would he see?—below, beyond, the b-end.
O, Mount Sebasio above Assisi on its west,
the birthplace of Propertius, and by Saint Francis blessed.

Bucalese Werdi is a book-reading wordsmith fond of Italy. Mount Subasio, in central Italy, is about 1290 meters. Reinhold Messner is an Italian PostModernist climber, explorer and writer. Propertius (c. 50 BC – 15 BC) was a Golden Age Roman elegiac poet, Saint Francis (1181/1182 – 1226) an Italian mystic preacher.


Beethoven’s Piano Sonata #12
          by Ewald E. Eisbruc
          “Napoleon is dead—but Beethoven lives.”
              —Bruno Walter

He stood at the beginning of the 19th century,
Beethoven, o, emboldened in his soul’s adventuring,
Sonata #12 in A-flat major, near the time,
when he’d completed his 1st Symphony in might and breadth.

He opened with a relatively slow first movement’s pace,
with subito piano in its theme, sublime, its space;
the frisky second movement’s scherzo pressing briskly on,
like as a skiff upon a bay, or skipping lamb at dawn;

then thé third movement’s walking speed moves forth majestic’lly,
as that befits a funeral, a march of dignity;
and finally a fourth, a rondo, energized esprit,
surprisingly, a rounding, generated, whirling spree.

Ewald E. Eisbruc (E. E. E.) is a poet of musical criticism. The German Classical/Romantic composer Ludwig van Beethoven (1770-1827) transformed the piano sonata. Bruno Walter (1876-1962) was a Modernist German composer. In Germany, in his twenties, Ewald E. Eisbruc passionately believed Beethoven was the greatest composer of all time, but now he intellectually believes it.


The Bard
          by Bard Eucewelis

He was a crude and callous dude, emotionally hard,
a person who composed heroic lays, an epic bard.
He stood, uprist, that rhapsodist. He gestured and he spoke.
In a commanding voice he rumbled, that crass, forceful bloke.
His audience, before him listened, o, attentively,
and hung upon his every word and phrase aesthetic’lly.
His gathering absorbed each utterance, like edicts cast,
in golden notes, emboldened tones, exquisite, unsurpassed.
And the response was magical, astonishing and grand,
like as they had, both bard and yard, just entered wonderland.

Bard Eucewelis is a poet of Greek and Celtic cultures.


The Snow Child: a Prophecy
          by Seer Ablicudew

One does not need a mind of winter to regard the Frost,
or boughs of pines, encrusted with the awesome snows englossed;
nor need one have been cold for long to see the junipers.
Blue spruces in the distance glitter under Jupiter.
Of Janus and the windy downs of dead leaves on the ground,
one does not need to hear them where they are, burnt out and browned,
or covered by the blankness of the blanket, wide and white,
nor need one think of nothingness, the brilliance of the sight.
One can discover brand new things, beholding what is there:
blue spruces glittering beneath the stars and Jupiter.

Seer Ablicudew is a poet of prophecy, here drawn from the annals of Walice de Beers.


The Cavalry Rider
          by War di Belecuse

I saw him standing, not commanding, at his army post,
his clock, tick-tocking, shaking, shocking, yet not walking, no.
O, like a ghostly host preparing for a fierce assault,
the company alarmed to action on the coarse basalt.
Along Columbia in Washington and Oregon,
‘Bonzai!’ the epic battle cry. Ho, can the war be won?
From Portland to Spokane, from Ellensburg on down to Bend—
the war waged on, continu’lly. Lord, will it never end?
Upon his Pinto going eighty-five on Ninety’s stretch—
with Tyuchev at the World’s Fair—that vile idle wretch.

Four cities in the CRBG (the Columbia River Basalt Group), the youngest and one of the best preserved continental flood basalt provinces on Earth, though still covering over 200,000 km2, including cities, like Portland, 650,000; Spokane, 200,000; Ellensburg, 20,000; and Bend, 100,000. Russian Romantic/Realist Fyodor Tyutchev (1803-1873) was a poet and diplomat.


An Early Morning Breakfast
          by Carb Deliseuwe
          “Wasn’t that a tasty dish to set before a king.”
              —Bruce Weasel Id, “Brother Bruce’s Cursory Crimes”

How wonderful it is, an early morning breakfast treat,
an omelet filled—pico de gallo—savoury to eat;
a veggie-protein, sausage patty, honeyed keto toast;
so beautiful before a kingly appetite so set.
How wonderful it is, a zero-sugar, power rinse,
mixed berry with potassium, and some B vitamins;
an overwhelming, taste explosion, but with basic food;
so beautiful before a royal appetite—so good.
How wonderful, o, seated at the dining table, no?
there in between the table legs upon that regal throne.

Carb Deliseuwe is a poet of food and drink. Pico de gallo (rooster’s beak) is often made from tomato, onion, chili peppers, lime juice, salt and cilantro.


Each Day
          by Rudi E. Welec, “Abs”
          “δῶς μοι πᾶ στῶ καὶ τὰν γᾶν κινάσω”

Each day’s a struggle, as one goes through every single thing;
one grinds along, gig after gig, through rough-ness, tin-gl-ing.
What peace there is, is momentary, foment-flaring bliss;
and yet, o, yeh, when it shows, is sweet, rarest happiness.
One longs to linger there, but one is ever drawn away
to other realms that overwhelm the dawning of each day.
Come take me, o, to heaven, where such anguish does not haunt,
where ecstasy and joy are regular, and do not flaunt,
where merry minutes pass in leverlasting cleverness,
and one’s content to nudge and thrust each continental press.

Rudi E. Welec, “Abs”, is a poet of exercising. According to Pappus of Alexandria (c. 290 – c. 350), the Greek astronomer, physicist, mathematician, engineer, and inventor Archimedes (c. 287 BC – c. 212 BC) stated, “Give me a place to stand upon, and I will move the Earth”


          by Ileac Burweeds

He saw red-orange browning leaves of Autumn leave their trees,
those lovely browns that moved around, when shaken by the breeze.
Those gorgeous earth-tones, ah, reflected in the Solar light,
so beautif’lly, they dutif’lly swirled in their lusty flight.
O, grasp them as they fall to Earth and drop into its lap,
the heavy smell of lived decay; so musty, rich, they pass.
It’s obvious that Winter’s coming for another year,
as they come down to lawn and ground, to garden bed—right here.
Perhaps the mowing is now done, the watering as well,
the heavenly and happy, o, must both give way to quell.

Ileac Burweeds is a poet of p-l-a-n-t-s.