The Horsehead Nebula
          by I. E. Sbace Weruld

He saw the Horsehead Nebula, o, near Orion’s Belt,
four-twenty parsecs from the Earth—that bronco-busting Celt.
Deep red originated from its ion-hydrogen,
the gas behind it lit by Sigma-Ori’s open end.
He rode upon that Pegasus, those mad, magnetic fields,
like as grand magma streams from some vast, mass volcano’s yields.
Around, the interstellar clouds, transparent to the eye,
were filled with dark and dusty shadows, blocking starry light.
It reared up on its hind legs, like a mustang’s bursting bang;
he hung about its neck, bare-chested, pec-deck draped to hang.

Writer I. E. Sbace Weruld is a poet of space. 1 parsec is equal to 30,856,780,000,000 kilometers.


The Moon Illusion, December 19, 2021
          by Drew “AU” Eclibse

Why does the Moon look huge sometimes when setting on the Earth?
What is the reason that it seems to change its gorgeous girth?
The width’s the same, near the horizon, or high in the sky;
but some see it as larger, when espied with mooning eyes.
It’s an illusion rooted in the way our brains perceive,
when peeking over city scapes or looming, blooming trees.
To prove it isn’t true compare a finger, tube, or, yes,
bend over and look backwards in between one’s spreading legs;
and then perhaps, within that lens and in that atmosphere,
one will observe the Moon’s size, o, as it is there or here.

Drew “AU” Eclibse is a poet of the Moon. The Moon has a mean radius of 1737 kilometers.


          by “Clear Dew” Ibuse

Leaves scattered round,
brown, green, yellow, orange, red:
ornamental pears.

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


          by “Wired Clues” Abe

Dry, stiff, dead leaves are
pi-led with the plas-tic rake:
so easy to take.


          by “Wired Clues” Abe

Five-plus kilograms:
the baby gets congrats at
the weight of a cat.

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


Japan and the United States have drawn up a draft plan
for a joint operation, if it’s needed, in Taiwan.


          by Aw “Curbside” Lee

In Xinjiang, west China’s arid desert area,
huge TBMs are drilling tunnels, deep and very long,
from Altai glaciers to the Irtysh River’s upstream lands,
with large robotic moles that cut through hardest rock and sand.
But unexpectedly the engineers came up against
some gushing streams of water underneath the dry expanse.
Such setbacks threaten safety of all workers at such sites;
but downstream Kazakhstan and Russia worry of such bites.
So far it is two years into the project as of now;
its route is classified; no deadline yet has been announced.

Aw “Curbside” Lee is a poet of Chinese industry. TBMs are tunnel boring machines.


Authorities warn Indonesia’s Semeru could blow,
four-dozen dead this month already in its overflow.

Active volcano Mount Semeru, in eastern Java, is named after Sumeru, the central world-mountain in Hinduism.


The Chinese drone, downed by BSF, near Ferozepur,
along the Pakistani border, in that hazen zone.
That flying object, looked ferocious, black and red in hue,
three-hundred metres from the border, monster spying view.

The BSF is India’s border guard. Ferozepur (Firozpur) is a city in western India of about 110,000.


Not by rate, led by Peru’s 6,000 per 1,000,000,
the top “recorded” covid deaths by number are as such:
       1.   USA 813,000
       2.   Brazil 618,000
       3.   Russia 600,000
As millions seek out covid tests, some say a better mark,
would be to test the antibodies—facing Omicron,
that variant that seems to spread more quickly than the rest,
as break-through-re infections grow upon its viral quest.


Igor Safarevich
          by Alecsei Burdeew

There was the threat of execution, when some came to town.
If one had boots, one could be taken out…and shot…for nought.
Two times his father had been taken out to be shot down,
but he was just inspected, since he just had shoes—not shot.
They came to see what they could take from him. Did he have boots?
Since no, he was let go; he wasn’t worthy of a shoot.
Those were bad times, the Russian Revolution in full force;
one dare not study history; that was a risky course.
And so he studied mathematics from the age of ten,
Igor Safarevich, the Russian mathemáticían.

Alecsei Burdeew is a poet of Russia. Igor Safarevich (1923-2017) was a noted Russian mathematician and anticommunist writer.


During a meeting with the Russian Defense Ministry,
Vladimir Putin said, “We’ve nowhere further to retreat…
Do they think that we’ll idly sit by as they make their threats?”
Is this speech crazy and unhinged? Ukraine is taking bets.
More than 250,000 troops are now within
250 miles of its border with Ukraine.


Winter Solstice
          by Bard Eucewelis

It was the brumal solstice; he was inside looking out.
December 21st at 4 o’clock, in total tao.
He had the heater on; it felt so warm upon his legs;
he finished up his coffee cup, down to its very dregs.
He toasted it up to the sky, and took a deep long sip;
his dogtags hung between his pecs; he tightened abs and hips.
Although it lasted only but a moem of the day,
o, it was nice, that single trice…came quickly, went away.
He felt that special in-stant pass, o, Stonehenge trilithon,
that Neolithic doorway in Dawn’s lovely, gorgeous Bronze.

Bard Eucewelis is a poet of Celtic realms. Victorian archaeologist John Lubbock (1834-1913) coined the terms Paleolithic and Neolithic to denote the Old and New Stone Ages.


Though Biden’s admin says religious freedom’s no concern,
the war on Christian farmers in Nigeria goes on.
This week Nigerian Tiv farmers have been murdered by
Fulani militants—the number more than forty-five.


The War—on Christmas
          by War di Belecuse

He still remembers it—the War—on Christmas—with a gun.
They had to march into the harsh, parched land. It was no fun.
His dogtags hung about his neck, like as a hangman’s noose,
as if he were tied up for dinner—prepped and cooked—a goose.
He looked ahead. He looked behind. He had to, yes, assess.
O, all around, by time’s strings bound to utter wretchedness.
What hope was there for him, he wondered; dun—the shrubby hills.
The enemy was fast approaching. There would be no thrills.
He had to get down on his abs. What did he not abhor?
But still he had to press on forth, like as a wi-ld boar.

War di Belecuse is a poet of war.


In Broadview, Illinois, Dem leader Lightford’s car was snatched.
In Philadelphia, House Dem M. Scanlon was carjacked.

Broadview, Illinois is a suburb of Chicago of about 8,000.


America’s Gulag
          by Caud Sewer Bile
          “The simple step of a courageous individual is not to take part in the lie.”
              —Aleksandr Solzhenitsyn

In Washington DC, one finds America’s gulag,
the prisoners held by G-Mafiat, Gog and Magog,
the FBI, the DOJ, of monstrous appetoll,
at the Department of Corruptions in the Capitol,

Americans in s-t-e-e-l boxes—10-by-7 cells—
detention for trespassing or Just-being infidels,
protestors of the Insurrection—January 6th,
locked up in solitary for their freedom-loving tricks,

denied a chance for ba-il, held for months against their wills,
so many unconvicted by their overlording shills.
Their tri-als have begun, though there’s no judge or jury seen,
in freedom’s land, where they now stand, ignored, unheard, demeaned.

Caud Sewer Bile is a poet of the Swamp. The DOJ (Dept. of Joe) and the FBI (Federal Biden Investigators) are two of the many corrupt Swamp organizations. According to Beau Lecsi Werd, an “appetoll” is an uncontrolled appetite that takes a toll.


O. Henry
          by Wil Cedes Bauer
          “Don’t write poetry.”
              —O. Henry, “The Poet and the Peasant”

North Carolina reader of One-Thousand-and-One Nights,
as well as Burton’s An-atomic Melan-cholic flights,
from pharmacist, he left for Texas to improve a cough,
which worked, and where he worked, upon a sheep farm, on and off.

In Austin, met wife Athol; daughter Margaret came next;
first draftsman, later banking teller, fabricating text.
Th’ em-bez-zl-er then moved to Houston, writing for the Post,
till Feds caught up with him, and he fled to th’ Honduran coast.

He spent three years in an Ohio penitentiary,
still scribbling stories at the close o’ th’ 19th Century.
Word-play-ful yarns continued after his release from jail,
at Baghdad-on-the-Subway, master of the twisty tale.

Wil Cedes Bauer is a poet of tales. William Sidney Porter (1862-1910), known as O. Henry, was an American Realist prose writer noted for his terse and witty tales. Wil Cedes Bauers’s favourite O. Henry Christmas tale is “The Gift of the Magi.”


The Thin King
          by Delica Ubweser

He was trapped by a single way of thinking—that thin king—
whose thoughts were closing in, condensing to a single thing.
Some tried to rescue him from where he was, but they could not.
They tried to do their very best; at least that’s what they thought.
He really never tried to see another point of view,
because he was sure what he thought was all that could be true.
One way, one way, he feared the day he’d drive down two-way streets,
for he might crash into a median filled up with trees.
He had been caught in youthful days to follow just one route,
and that is where he passed away…complacently, no doubt.

Delica Ubweser is a poet of fragility.


The Wandering Ambivert
          by Cur A. Wildebees

He is known as an ambivert, and wandering, at that,
Hannes van Eeden, living in Cape Town, South Africa.
He’s motivated to take pictures with his camera,
a Nikon D5300 aids his stamina.

He uses symmetry, the rule of thirds and leading lines,
in composition of the pictures that he takes and finds.
He likes to shoot through something, blurring edges that he nears,
and keeps his cam’ra in his hand to capture what appears.

He goes about out in bad weather, even mountain heights,
and turns around to see what’s been there waiting all the time.
His focus can be anything—perhaps amphibia—
but certainly large beasts, like fauna in Namibia.

Cur A. Wildebees is a poet of African animalia. Cape Town is a city of around 4,000,000 is western South Africa. Namibia is a nation north of South Africa, with a population of about 2,500,000. Hannes van Eeden is a contemporary photographer, whose attention to details can be inspiring.


Raspberries and Blueberries
          by Carb Deliseuwe

He stood up, standing, not commanding, at the open door;
for though it was in cold December, he was very warm.
Raspberries and blueberries filled his white and blue-lined bowl,
their polyphenol anthocyanins—so tasty, lo.
But did they help his cognitive performance in the least,
dilating and relaxing the blood vessels of the beast?
and did ellagic acid and pteróstilbene make sense,
as helpful stress-reducing, yes, good antioxidents?
He stood up at the pub. What drink would be the best for him?
Perhaps a juicy smoothie, working abs down at the gym?

Carb Deliseuwe is a poet of frood, that is, fruit-foods.