The Hubble Telescope
by I. E. Sbace Weruld
The Hubble Telescope surpassed one billion secs in space,
and still is going strong and long, at its exploring pace.
On January 1st in 2022, it reached
this milestone and others while it orbited its niche.
With more than fifteen-hundred-thousand observations made,
it has produced a lot o’ data from its optic aid:
the Universe’s age of over thirteen-billion years;
the rate at which it is expanding; finding black hole weirs;
the fifth moon of the “planet” Pluto; deep-field images;
as well as gravitation lensing, dark or luminous.
Mr. I. E. Sbace Weruld is a poet of cosmic consequences. Gravitation lensing is the bending or redirection of light rays traveling in an object’s field. Edwin Hubble (1889-1953) was a Modernist American astronomer who discovered the Universe goes far beyond the Milky Way and that the Universe is expanding.
That Bionic Man
by Slider Cubeawe
His head was like a giant cube; his stare was square and bare;
his neck so thick, it was as if it fit rectangular.
His shoulders, and his pec-deck too, seemed compact, solid, dense;
like as a mad, mod scientist, unfeeling, but intense.
His muscles seemed mechanical, his movements fixed, routine,
as if he were a smooth, well-tuned, and finely-lubed machine.
But though he seemed robotic, he seemed primitive as well,
o, there before the monitor, cyborg, primordial.
I longed to ask him many questions—that bionic man;
but would he even deign to answer an automaton?
Slider Cubeawe is a poet of alternate realities.
by “Clear Dew” Ibuse
A pigeon lands on
that wood beam, cradled aloft,
unharmed in the drizzle, o.
“Clear Dew” Ibuse is a poet of Japanese poetic forms, like the katuata (side poem).
by “Wired Clues” Abe
The baby looks up
at the bright hues and shapes of
the baby mobile.
“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.
In China, the producer of the novel Wuhan flu,
three cities are in lockdown: Anyang, Xi’an, and Yuzhou.
Anyang, 5,500,000, Xi’an, 13,000,000, and Yuzhou, 1,100,000.
by Urbawel Cidese
“Use well your architectural debuts.”
I love the mighty cities of this New Millennium,
their gray and silver buildings, shining like aluminum,
their geodesic domes that rise up high in nippy airs,
their hard, but lovely, silhouettes against bright solar flares.
I love the mighty cities on this planet that I love,
their complex, high-tech, and connected proofs of push and shove,
their fine, eye-popping shapes, o, yes, and varied purposes,
their sleek, unique, smooth surfaces and offered services.
I love the mighty cities strewn across this global orb;
their gorgeous forms, and horrid morphs, that awe, and shock, and bore.
Urbawel Cidese is a poet of urban spaces.
As Hong Kong loses freedom, China’s Communists appoint
a former Xinjiang official tó crush people’s rights.
Padmasana on a Pale Pad
by Sri Wele Cebuda
He got into the padmasana on his pale pad.
He sat up tall with a long spine. He stretched his span. Egad.
The walls were drab, agreeable-gray-hued, so bland and plain;
but he was very happy there, alive, aligned, and sane.
He turned his head off to the right, to look about the room.
Beyond, he saw there in the sky, the bright and shiny Moon.
O, it was full and beautiful; it rose up rose and high;
and then, while looking back, he opened, o, his inner eye.
And what he saw was gorgeous, gorges, like Grand Canyon’s depths,
despair evaporating as he took in deeper breaths.
He was in love with life, elapsing into happiness,
which, if it only lasted but a little bit, still blessed.
Sri Wele Cebuda is a poet of India.
Near Murree, Pakistan
by Sawceeb Dureli
Around one-thousand vehicles near Murree, Pakistan,
were stranded in the heavy snow that trapped them in its path.
One-hundred-thousand vehicles appeared in recent days,
and people posted pics in social media displays.
But tourists, caught in Saturday’s wild winter wonderland,
were soon stuck in a nightmare, a disaster zone unplanned.
All routes were blocked; and the authorities were truly shocked,
as the death toll rose higher there north of Islamabad.
The Pakistani Army and civilian rescue teams
said people died of heater fumes, while they had gone to sleep.
Sawceeb Dureli is a poet of Pakistan. Murree, Pakistan, is a city of approximately 25,000, Islamabad, 1,000,000.
In Shahr-e Kord, a Soleimani statue was destroyed.
Some arsonist struck in the night. The tyrants were annoyed.
The brash act, burning it to cinders, took place in the night.
For hours—less than twenty four—the bust had been in sight.
So many do not like the tyranny; they wish it gone.
Not long ago in Yasuj, yes, another was burned down.
by Delir Ecwabeus
In Tehran, in Iran, the poet died—Baktash Abtin—
and all we got to see of him were pictures on a screen:
one image shows his ankles chained to a hos-pit-al bed,
as he is reading in a prison uniform’s blue thread;
another shows him in a coma—O, how could he thrive?
with breathing tubes, equipment too, just keeping him alive.
Convicted for six years in prison for his poetry,
he died from Covid-19 complications woefully.
It seems he wasn’t able in his j-a-i-l cell to cope.
A few roofs on the other side, the Moon hung on a rope.
Delir Ecwabeus is a poet of Iran. Baktash Abtin (1974-2022) was an Iranian poet.
The Russian Paratrooper
by War di Belecuse
He stood up at attention, socks and shoes at ten till two,
Chest out there in that firm formation, taut abs tightened too.
His belt was snug upon his pants. O, yes, he felt chapped lips.
His dog-tags hung. He felt the winter hoar frost on his hips.
The Russian paratroopers came to help security.
O, God, Almighty, temps were cold in old Almaty’s streets.
He stretched his arms. His weapon poised, prepared and propped for use.
He was quite ready to use force, if needed, harsh abuse.
His head was square. His neck was thick. His chin jut in the air.
What would he do if ordered to shoot those protesting there.
Alibec Rusedew is a poet of Kazakhstan. Almaty, a city of 2,000,000, was the scene of the deaths of over a hundred protesters.
A Light Show in Tunisia
by Eswer El Cubadi
A light show in the night sky in Tunisia—Swo8 blues,
a swoosh, a swirling, rustling sound, relaxing jazz, late fuse,
deep focus on a coffee cup, that whirls around, so warm,
a momentary pause from the great power of the storm.
Eswer El Cubadi is a poet of North Africa.
Much, at the Factory
by Des Wercebauli
One thing he hated much about his job was when he worked;
the night shift threw him off; the half-lit tasks were hardly percs.
The pay was low, but he would go about his work each night
with willed enthusiasm and a touch of sweet delight.
A castle lit by lights, the factory seemed magical,
although at times, because he ached, his mood was tragical,
like as he was caught up within a Sophoclean play,
and had to do his part until the end and break of day.
Yet sometimes there beneath the Moon, his sense of time all warped,
he’d get so much into his chores, o, he was quite absorbed;
and though those times were brief, his inward eye filled up with love,
while plumes of particles expanded high and up above.
Des Wercebauli is a woraholic poet. Sophocles (496 BC – 406 BC) was a poetic dramatist of the Classical era in Ancient Greece.
by Esca Webuilder
It was read from some on-line site, such as the Guardian,
that centre-left news source owned by the Scott Trust Limited,
that story on the Interpol, big data ark they’d stored,
unlawfully hacked from encrypted phones and crime reports—
at least four petabytes of mass surveillance, black-heart holes,
like that accumulated by dark MSS’s moles.
I do not cry aloud, or wring my hands in such a place;
I watch the station lights rush by with care upon my face.
What can one do, but leave a message somewhere in a po’m,
or text somebody one may know upon one’s traced, tracked phone?
Esca Webuilder is a poet of the Internet. FSZH is a Hungarian data collection group. MSS is China’s Ministry of State Security. This tennos draws from a Edna Millay (1892-1950) sonnet.
The annual inflation rate in the United States
back in December rose up to some 7+ percent,
the highest since last 1982, and the forecast
is that it is continuing to grow, and go up fast.
They Had Talked to Ray.
by Caud Sewer Bile
“The force that through the green fuse drives the flower…”
Ray Epps told DC protesters they needed to go in
the Capitol on January 6th—again, again.
The next day then, on January 6th he was upon
the Capitol grounds. He was still there. No, he was not gone.
Ray Epps was suddenly and subsequently taken off
the FBI’s most wanted list. Why did he leave that trough?
Was he an FBI informant actively involved,
encouraging some violence to come out of the mob?
And now we hear the January 6th Committee say
already they had interviewed Epps. They had talked to Ray.
How strange it is they seem to be involved in his PR.
Why would they do that? Why do they think he should not be charged?
Caud Sewer Bile is a poet of the Swamp. Dylan Thomas (1914-1953) was a Modernist British poet.
The Military Clerk
by Ed “Bear” C. U. Lewis
He was a military clerk, dressed in his uniform,
all neat and tidy as was wanted, in the wartorn dorm.
He sat upright next to the desk where he was working at.
He tended to each soldier’s need; he was a perky lad.
But he did not enjoy his job, continual the tasks.
Each soldier had a problem, needing answers. Must they ask?
He did his best to solve each test, though quite indifferent.
He tried to show he gave a damn, but didn’t—not a bit.
The flag nearby, there was no sky, but just the bland gray walls.
He felt like Bartleby the scrivner, working in a stall.
The Soldier at His Monitor
Ed “Bear” C. U. Lewis
I saw the soldier at his monitor. He typed out words.
They flew across the white, wide screen, not like a flock of birds,
but like a military secretary’s codes and specs,
his shiny silver dogtags hung between his covered pecs.
While looking to his right, he typed away his sentences,
in boots and socks, in belt and pants, tees from the government?
His square head focused on the document before his eyes,
rectangular and angular, outside the bright gray skies.
He lifted up his chest, he took a sip of sweet caffeine.
He sat upright, uptight, fatigued; one would not call him green.
Ed “Bear” C. U. Lewis is a poet of military matters. “Bartleby, the Scrivener” is a short story by 19th century American writer Herman Melville (1819-1891).
The Car Lover Speaks
by Bruc “Diesel” Awe
O, beautiful the lubed-up car that runs efficiently,
its motor humming—going, coming—so proficiently.
One longs to have a vehicle that carries one away,
that takes one to the store and back—o, yes, without delay.
One loves a fine stream-lined design, with every part in place,
o, whether one desires to…loll…long…along, or race.
So gorgeous is its shape, with maintenance that’s minimal,
like as a spirited machine, a metal animal,
decked out, high-tech, with power wheels, ready for the road,
just waiting, parked, in one’s garage attached to one’s abode.
Bruc “Diesel” Awe is a poet of transportation.
The leaders of G-Mafiat fear honesty and truth;
“Blood on my Hands” has been removed by Google from YouTube.
Here is another protest song that takes a heartfelt stand;
the song by John Ondrasik on the Taliban now banned.
The Admin plans to send $300,000,000 to
the Taliban, flush with fresh US arms, to distribute.
A Giant M
by Rudi E. Welec, “Abs”
I saw a shadow on the floor, like as a giant M.
I wondered what it was, there moving at the muscle gym.
It seemed a giant monster, waiting to attack some dude,
like as a barge beside the margin of a magic mood.
I turned aside to get a better view from where I was;
I didn’t want to be devoured by its mouth and lips.
I kept on working out, avoiding it where it was at;
but yet, o, yeh, I kept encountering its crass contact.
I kept on stepping, peppy, prepping, doing dips and squats,
but still it followed me wherever I was—filled my thoughts.
I thought of D. H. Lawrence, that gold snake in Siciliy;
and then I threw myself into the bow’ls of Italy.
Rudi E. Welec, “Abs”, is a sport poet. Lawrence (1885-1930) was a Modernist British writer.
The Coffee Drinker
by Carb Deliseuwe
I never knew him, no, not ever, nor did I want to;
I didn’t like his attitude, or share his points of view.
But I was quite impressed that every time I saw his face,
he had a cup of coffee at his cheeks—the dude had taste.
It didn’t matter when I looked, a coffee cup was there:
in winter in his cap and jacket in the ice-cold air;
in camo by a ebon wall, his full beard turning gray;
in straw hat by a bright, white wall within the realms of day;
with pencil on his ear, or down upon the railway track;
or looking at his phone; or bul-lét-in board at his back;
I even saw him standing by a road sign—Coffee Street;
he wasn’t rolli-ng, only t-rolli-ng, one more cup to drink.
At the Pantry Door
by Carb Deliseuwe
He stood up on his tip-toes at the kitchen pantry door,
attempting to attain the items highest from the floor.
He longed to get the sugar-free, sweet syrups at the top,
beside the pressure cooker, and the deep, round-bottomed pot.
They stood there with their fruity zests, raspberry, chocolate,
strawberry, peach, vanilla, caramel and hazelnut.
O, coffee served with these would make a racy, tasty drink
into which one would love to focus, as one dropped to sink.
He steadied with his hands, chest out, as he reached up for them,
o, plastic bottles shaped like wattles, bright, clear diadems.
by Carb Deliseuwe
I love to wake up to the dawn, and night-time rest depart,
to have a cup of coffee, creamer added a la carte.
I love to make a breakfast omelet in the morning light;
upon concocting this delight, the sunshine’s warm and bright.
I love to break the light-brown eggs and see their yellow yolks,
poured out into the pan pammed up in radiating spokes.
I love to take pico-de-gallo, dark-green, white and red,
as if the flag of Mexico was flapping in that spread.
I love to shake the pepper on, and also have some toast,
perhaps some jelly or some jam, and plant-based sausages.
Carb Deliseuwe is a poet of foo/d/rink. Charles Anderson is a contemporary Canadian cartoonist, who drinks some 25 cups of coffee a day, not unlike the father of French Realism, Honoré de Balzac (1799-1850), who supposedly drank dozens of cups of coffee a day. But what kind of cups did Balzac use in composing his novel sequence “La Comédie humaine”?
On the Cushy Chair
by Cu Ebide Aswerl
He leaned back in the cushy chair, its leather warm and soft.
He pulled the handle back, his legs and feet upheld, aloft.
He loved to be back in the flexible upholstery.
His abs weren’t taut, his chest not hot; he loved such bolstering.
Yes, he could stay here for forever—No, he’d want to change;
but it was still quite wonderful to reach this awesome range.
He focused on his breaths, which were both deep and feeling, lo,
fulfilling lungs and willing lunges in his comfort zone.
His hands against his thighs, his elbows resting on its arms,
he felt like as a treasure chest that held rich, golden charms.
Cu Abide Aswerl is a poet of leisure.