Leonard Comet: December 2021
by Drew U. A. Eclibse
He stood up as the night was passing, and the sky was dark,
attempting to locate the Leonard Comet’s fleeting spark,
while heading Sunward sweeping past the perihelion,
.6 AU, commuting, and somewhat abelian.
Binocular, before sunup, he stood in gazement awe,
amazed at where he was, o, yeah, amazed at what he saw.
Between Arcturas and the Earth’s horizon, it went on,
more like a fuzzy star with tail before the crack of dawn.
At 70 kilometers per sec, the fast orb goes;
though to our eyes its speed appears, a slo-mo-oval, o.
Drew U. A. Eclibse is a poet of heavenly bodies. Greg Leonard discovered the comet. One AU (astronomical unit) is roughly the distance of the Earth to the Sun.
by “Clear Dew” Ibuse
A saucer of milk—
by moonlight, he feeds the cat,
so the cat won’t bite.
“Clear Dew” Ibuse is a poet of Japanese poetic forms, like free-verse haiku.
by “Lice Brews” Ueda
Out in the middle
of the bathroom floor, it sits—
the spider, waiting.
“Lice Brews” Ueda is a poet the tiny.
by “Wired Clues” Abe
A paper ad-page
in the mailbox helped me kill
a jumping spider.
by “Wired Clues” Abe
War dead exit out
of a blue mathematics.
Leaves fall to the ground.
by “Wired Clues” Abe
Time stands still. It stopped.
Its main streets are still empty:
“Wired Clues” Abe is a poet using Japanese forms united with technology, who although he appreciates the Gendai movement and New Rising Haiku, very much admires traditional haiku.
This haiku owes its existence to Japanese poet Sumimura Seirinshi (1912-1990). Masaoka Shiki (1867-1902) coined the term “haiku”. Namie-machi remains mostly deserted since the Fukushima tsunami.
The variant named omicron—is it a global risk,
in more than eighty lands in this coronapocalypse?
Inflation rages cross the USA—a Build Back Shill,
as bad as Turkey, Argentina, Russia and Brazil.
It’s heading for a Ven’zuela nightmare case on swill,
totalitarian, and socialist—this bolus pill.
The Queen of Asia
by Esala “Cu” d’ Abrew
A jewel company, located on Sri Lanka’s isle,
unveiled a giant blue sapphire, which found in one rock lies.
The heavy gemstone weighs three-hundred-ten in kilograms,
south of Columbo, in Horana, beautiful its mass.
That corundum oxide-aluminum is scarce indeed,
a very rare-sized specimen found in geology.
That Queen of Asia, found in Ratnapura, is quite large,
but last July the Serendipity Sapphire “barge”
was even bigger, when discovered in a brand new well,
the biggest ever cluster that the Earth had yet expelled.
Esala “Cu” d’ Abrew is a poet of Sri Lanka. Ratnapura is a city of around 45,000. The Queen of Asia may be valued at up to $100,000,000.
At the Pantry Door
by W. Israel Ebecud
He stood upon his tiptoes just to reach the upper shelf.
he was attempting to get something for his very self.
He grabbed the ledge’s edge, so that he would be balanced there,
so high up in the sky, o, yes, out in that lovely air.
He held on fast to do this task, to get his hands upon
the item he was seeking in time’s ever changing brawn.
His hips were cool, his glutes were tight, as he stretched for his goal.
Was it a loaf of sliced, French bread? or just a single roll?
There was a shadow on the pantry door where he was at,
and then he snatched it, yes, the item, o, Jehoshaphat.
W. Israel Ebecud is a poet of Israel. Jehoshaphat was an Israeli ruler, who reigned in Judah from about 870 BC to 850 BC.
by SubCIA Weedler
The Soviet ballistic missile sub—K129—
sank in the Cold-War Central-North Pacific-Ocean brine,
in 1968 with 98 shipmates aboard,
commanded by its Captain First Rank Vládimir Kobzar.
Attempting to recover it, the US CIA
used Hughes Glomar within its project called Azorian.
The complex operation, lifting cradle and the ship,
required great precision and stability equipped.
Although it was a bust, two nuke torpedos may have been
recovered with some code books and the bronze or brass ship’s bell.
SubCIA Weedler is a poet of clandestine operations. Vladimir Kozbar (1930-1968) was a member of the Soviet military. Howard Hughes (1905-1976) was an American pilot, film director, and business magnate.
by Bieder C. Weslau
“Footfalls echo in the memory…”
—T. S. Eliot, Four Quartets
He pulled abs in, he squeezed glutes tight, he tensed his triceps too,
while he marched in parade in Neckarsulm in full review.
Each step thrown forth, each heart throb felt, as he marched down
It was as if, in his ear drums, he heard each heart thrum’s beat.
He still recalls the clear footfalls of he-els on the road.
o, out the door, and round the houses, lined, along, in rows.
He lifted up his head, and shoved his chest out to the fore.
It was an episode he knows, he wore his uniform.
He yanked his belt—such angst he felt—he kept his hips in tow,
while hankering for somewhere else, some place where he could…go.
Bieder C. Weslau is a poet of Germany. Neckarsulm is a city of around 25,000, in northern Baden-Württemberg, Deutschland.
eiπ + 1 = 0
by Euclidrew Base
How beautiful the formula—Euler’s Identity—
set like a group of jewels, shining in serenity,
with basic, vital numbers, zero, one, i, π, and e,
wi’ th’ operation of addition, and equality.
How beautiful it is, how fascinating is its link,
that grand relation on the edge of what it is to think,
that exponential power of simplicity revealed,
that majesty of multiplying in a complex field.
How beautiful the formula—Euler’s Identity—
set like a group of tiny stars swept through eternity.
Euclidrew Base is a poet of mathematics. Leonhard Euler (1707-1783) was a Swiss mathematician, logician, engineer, geographer, physiscist, astronomer, etc.
by B. S. Eliud Acrewe
He was a vile individual, quite villainous,
like as a James Bond, evildoer, slimy bilious.
His hair was white, his eyes were black, his face was cavernous;
his head rectangled, angular and supercilious.
Though pale white, his countenance was filled with shadowed pools.
His cheeks were cratered, like the Moon, acquainted, yes, with ghouls.
Although his clothes were trim and neat, no tie about his neck,
too much about his character seemed callous, leprous, spent,
a cypher, just a number on a passport, nothing more,
distasteful, wasteful, and displaced, so easy to abhor.
A cross between a statue, from the Abu Temple site
at Tel Asmar, and Edgar Allan Poe aroused at night.
B. S. Eliud Acrewe is a poet, essayist, and literary critic. James Bond was a character introduced in “Casino Royale” by PostModernist British novelist Ian Fleming (1908-1964). The statues from the Abu Temple at Tel Asmar date from about 2600 BC. Edgar Allan Poe (1809-1949) was an American Romantic poets, short story writer, and literary critic.
Not the 3:10 to Yuma
by “Wild” E. S. Bucaree
There is a lonely train, not the 3:10 to Yuma, aye,
whose pounding, grating whe-els are more like a mournful sigh,
and rumble on through desert lands and grassy, prairie plains,
in rumour and in legend, oh, as ra-ils go…his name.
And when you hear that train, not the 3:10 to Yuma, roar,
you may observe there passing—ghosts of passengers before,
high, riding by, up in the sky, like clouds, faint shrouds in time,
where buzzards circle and the seconds tick…ah, yes, you might.
It is so true—that train—not the 3:10 to Yuma, no.
They say the soul must meet its fate, whenever it may go.
And though you have no reason to go there, fate will be there,
to wait for you, wherever you may be…out in that air.
“Wild” E. S. Bucaree is a poet of the American Southwest. In his youth, his mother told him that one of the singers she liked the most was PostModernist American song-stylist Frankie Laine (1913-2007), who composed and sang in many genres, including pop, gospel, rock, folk, jazz, blues, and western, from which this dodeca draws. A singer for over 60 years, his last charted work was “Hits”, which went to 16th on the UK Albums Chart.
by Bruc “Diesel” Awe
“We do not ride on the railroad; it rides on us.”
—Henry David Thoreau, Walden
He saw the rough terrain down which the train was travelling.
Above him overhead, he saw the skies unraveling.
He drank a cup of coffee, as he waited for the train.
O, Lord, he would be happy if he could take it again.
He heard the groaning, moaning of the whee-ls on the tracks,
that crossed those distant hills and rills, those grassy plains and backs.
He waited at the station, stationary, patiently.
He longed to come aboard that horrid soar insatiently.
He turned to look, to see it grind, o, up the track, aligned.
But for his strength, its length would drive him, o, out of his mind.
Bruc “Diesel” Awe is a poet of transportation.
On the Battlefield
by War di Belecuse
One has to fight until the end, because there is no end,
until one dies; but others will continue to defend.
O, friend or foe, one has to go on bat-tl-ing for life;
for in this Universe the watchword is, and must be, strife.
So that is why it is important to take time to rest,
to savour any respite from the tasks at hand, this geste.
Be glad for joys, for girls and boys, for any pause in grace;
for time destroys both happiness and horrors that we face.
O, men and women, rise to these occasions that we meet,
so we can be our very best, see what we can defeat.
War di Belecuse is a poet of conflict.
That Private Eye
by Des Wercebauli
He was a rowdy in-di-vi-du-al that private eye.
When he was in the military, quite a wi-ld guy.
But now that he was in a job he had to go to work.
He have to get up off his rump, o, jump and hump, that jerk.
He had to solve the problems that his clients brought to him.
He couldn’t lay down on the job; he had to show some vim.
He needed to pursue the leads that brought finality.
He had to be his toughest, tough beyond banality.
He’d shout out to co-workers, urging them to rock and roll.
O, he showed vigour, lots of rigour, in his dingy hole.
Des Wercebauli is a poet of labour.
by Ileac Burweeds
On Hinkelstrasse in December on the tall oak trees,
one sees large mistletoe clumps hanging, where there are no leaves,
attached by their haustoriums, extracting nutrients,
and penetrating tissue of their hosts’ ringed beauty tents.
This ribosome inactivating protein evergreen,
aloof, with roof, up in their houses on the street, is seen.
The toxic lectin viscumin binds to cell residues;
these lovely residents plague trees and people with their goos.
Yet one may see there strolling underneath th’ white-berried clumps,
o, lovers catching kisses in between sweet grinds and bumps.
Ileac Burweeds is a poet of flora.
Inside the Sleeping Bag
by Cu Ebide Aswerl
He lay inside the sleeping bag inside the backyard tent,
and woke…up…to the ecstasy of an unbless’d event.
He didn’t understand the feeling, reeling, wheeling round,
like as a cosmic galaxy, a nitrous-oxide drown.
He wondered what had happened had not happened once before,
nor would it happen once again; it could not happen more.
He felt quite warm in that cool morn, still in his sleeping bag.
How could it be he would begin to be where he began.
The moem drifted from this time, emitting mighty vibes,
that took him from the bivouac to a newfound buzzing bive.
by Cu Ebide Aswerl
The loading and unloading o’ th’ dishwasher brings to mind,
a game we used to play, when we were kids, called pick-up-sticks.
We played it at my grandma’s house. It was a thoughtful game.
Coordination was required; dexterity the same.
One held the plastic sticks together, then let them fall down
into a clump on a flat surface, table, counter, floor.
Then each contestant took their turn to move them carefully;
but if you made the ones not touched…move, then your turn was done,
and the next person took their chance to pull them one by one.
The expertise involved was patience, with some steadiness,
like someone stacking dishes or a doc in surgery.
Find, fix, and score, airily, ready, yes—win, foraging.
Cu Ebide Aswerl is a poet of games. A bive is a bee hive.
by Drausee W. Ebcil
It was time to get out of bed; he couldn’t stay all day.
He’d tossed and turned all through the night; he had to get away.
His boss was waiting, as were fellow workers at the plant.
It wouldn’t do to stick around and take just one more nap.
He had to face that fateful gaze, embrace that bracing crew.
He had to leave behind, o, rest and join that noisome group.
He stretched his arms—good-bye, sweet charms. He lifted up his back.
Though he could come back later, it was time to get on track.
His arms pushed up, his body moved above the bedding, yes.
O, he was done. He must go on. O, Lord, how he was pressed.
Drausee W. Ebcil is a poet of sleep.