21st Century Lazer
          by R. Lee Ubicwedas
          “I lean and loafe at my ease…”
              —Walt Whitman

He just kicked back, reclining on his folded arms,
and thought about the starting of the universe.
He was not taken in by false alarms or charms.
He’d heard the cosmos was expanding, and the stars
were travelling at ex-tra-or-di-na-ry speeds.
He stretched his muscles just a little more and sighed.
He picked a nearby dandelion…blew its seeds…
above his face they flew out far and white and wide.
He smiled to think upon the Hubble telescope,
then rested his left leg upon his still right one.
He was not contemplating hope or how to cope,
but only moved his face a bit t’ avoid the Sun.
He watched a furry squirrel wrestle with a crumb.
He cradled his thick neck with fingers underneath
to get more comfterble, and moved his shoulders some.
He picked a piece of straw to stick between his teeth.
He saw the clouds up in the sky go scudding by,
then pressed his lower back against the grassy ground.
He ruminated happily and wondered why
he found himself right here. To where would he be bound?
He looked away from the bright light upon a pond
ablaze, that nearly burned his eye; and then he yawned.

R. Lee Ubicwedas is a poet of something, anything, everything. The Hubble Space Telescope was launched in 1990, named after American astronomer Edwin Hubble (1889-1953).


          by “Clear Dew” Ibuse

In the lotus pose,
he lifted up his spine, to feel
the wind in the pines.


          by “Clear Dew” Ibuse

As fleeting as are
Japanese cherry blossoms,
is the brief haiku.

“Clear Dew” Ibuse is a haiku poet.


          by “Wired Clues” Abe

Kung Fu grasshopper,
that armoured hulk, leaps and slams
bright dewdropped pearls.

“Wired Clues” Abe is a NewMillennial haiku poet. This is a NewMillennial take on an Issa haiku.


Eugene Yu, CEO of Konnech, software company.
for voter data sent, was taken into custody,
American poll-worker facts sent to the CCP.


          by Rus Ciel Badeew

O, myriads of Russians have been relocating to
so many places in the Wor-ld, lest they be dra-g-ooned.
They do not want to fight in Putin’s actions in Ukraine,
his “special operation”—not a war! said with disdain.
Some have gone to Bishkek in Kyrgyzstan, to flee the land,
because they do not want to be caught under his command,
nor part of Putin’s “partial mobilization” as such:
300,000 was the number of the call-up bunch.
And yet, at least that many have since rushed—they can today—
despairing, flying, busing, driving, leaving a-n-y-w-a-y.

Rus Ciel Badeew is a poet of Russia. Bishkek, with a population of around 1,000,000, is the capital of Kyrgyzstan.


          by Radice Lebewsu

The back and forth upon the battlefield continues on
this week it took place at the city, in Donetsk—Lyman.
According to the Russians, Russian troops were redeployed,
as soldiers from Ukraine pressed on to fill the power void.
O, once upon a time, Lyman was á rail-way depot,
a transport hub with varied cargo always on the go,
engaged in food processing, and quarry management,
with silicate brick factory and asphalt-making bent,
a concrete manufacturer and creature
where more than 40,000 mink skins were produced each year.

Radice Lebewsu is a poet of Ukraine. Lyman, Ukraine, is a city of about 20,000.


On a Battle of 331 BC
          by Esiad L. Werecub

The flat plain, where Darius placed his groups,
by some called Camel’s House, Gaugamela,
was filled with an array of sorted troops,
one hundred twenty miles from Arbela,
in that part of Iraq, qua Kurdistan,
331 BC. The total size
of Persia’s army or the Macedon
may ne’er be known, still they were grand. The prize
was nothing less than all the Middle East,
those lands that held the spells of Babylon,
Assyria, and minions of the Beast,
as well as all the seed of Abraham.
Here Alexander marched and put his stamp
on history’s long, royal road and map.


After Aeschylus
          by Esiad L. Werecub
          “…άλκην δ’ εύδόκιμον Μαραθώνιον άλσος άν είποι
          και βαθυχαιτήεις Μηδος επιστάμενος.”

In 490 BC, Darius had sent
emissaries to Athens and Sparta to ask
for gifts of earth and water. But on their advent,
they were thrown into a ravine and well. This tasked
the Persian king. He had a servant remind him
him every meal not to forget. With Hippias,
the former Athenian tyrant who would mind him,
six hundred ships, and thirty thousand Persian men
led by Datis and Artaphernes, he’d grind them
up. And so these came to the plain of Marathon,
six miles long, two miles broad, the place to crush the Greeks.
Datis unloaded his ships between the marshes.
Meanwhile, eleven thousand and Miltiades
gathered on the overlooking hills, outnumbered.
He sent to Sparta swift runner Phillipides,
who, though he flew o’er the rocky trails like a bird,
since it wasn’t a full moon, Sparta had to wait.
(Twenty-five-hundred years hence, that is still absurd.)
For four days the two forces stood in a stalemate.
Then Datis loaded on his ships his cavalry
and some infantry. He thought he could change this fate.
But Miltiades saw an opportunity.
Artaphernes had only twelve thousand troops left.
So he sent his thinned lines of Hoplites to the sea.
Once th’ arrows came, they began to run, to heft.
At first, it seemed the Persians would crush the center,
but the thick Greek wings outflanked the Persians, and cleft
their brave lines in the blazing heat of September.
The Persians broke and ran; but they were hammered hard.
Thery tried their best to get away to the water.
Thousands of the Persians were killed, cut down, or scarred.
And now, though the Greeks had won and they were famished,
Miltiades knew they had to keep up their guard.
So they marched the twenty-two miles back to Athens,
and set up just in time to keep Datis away;
nor then did Datis dare to risk his troops again.
The Persians would have to wait for another day;
and even then, they’d not inflict their punishment,
as Aeschylus has told us in our oldest play.

Esiad L. Werecub is a poet of Ancient Greece.


After J. E. Edmonds
          by War di Belecuse

It looked like “mist…seen over water meadows on
a frosty night,” two greenish yellow chlorine clouds
in front of Ypres. And when its shadows were all gone,
five thousand soldiers had been wrapped in linen shrouds
once they had died their long and agonizing deaths.
The numbers maimed were in the thousands, and whole crowds
were crazed and panicked, struggling hard to catch their breaths.
Fritz Haber looked upon his work and thought it good.
Yet Germans too were shocked at such strange vantages,
and did not take advantage of them as they could;
but knew that they had come into a brave new dawn,
before they’d reach Chateau Thierry and Belleau Wood.

War di Belecuse is a poet of conflict. J. E. Edmonds (1861-1956) was a British officer in the Royal Engineers. Fritz Haber (1868-1934) was a German chemist, who received the Nobel Prize in Chemistry in 1918. Ypres is a town in western Belgium of about 34,000.


Bertozzi, Sharpless, and Meldal received the Nobel Prize
for “click”/bioorthogonal chem they helped mobilize.


On James Hutton
          by Basil Drew Eceu

James Hutton was an 18th Century
geologist, physician, and then, when
his father died and left him property,
experimental farmer. Genuine
in his pursuit of truth, this Scot is known
for advocating plutonism, for
his understanding of deep time’s zone,
and a uniformitarian yore.
John Playfair said that he “…was in no haste
to publish his theory…for he was one
of those who are much more delighted with
the contemplation of the truth than…praise.”
A friend to Hume and Smith and Black, Hutton,
like them, cut through the o’ergrown maze of myth.

Basil Drew Eceu is a poet of historical Britain. James Hutton (1726-1797) was a Scottish agriculturist, chemical manufacturer, geologist, naturalist, and physician.


          by Caud Sewer Bile
          “He’s the smartest man I know.”
              —Joe Biden, on his son

PolitiFact states that Joe Biden was not more involved
than in the business dealings of his son than he’s let on.
They noted too Joe Biden was not that entangled in
a Chinese venture in a 2017 trade win.
They also pointed out no mainstream media revealed
emails from the hard drive of the CPU unsealed.
They likewise mentioned that Joe Biden was not the “big guy”,
nor was there any smoking gun; that was just a “big lie”.
They showed no benefits accrued from his known policies,
nor was there evidence Joe Biden orchestrated deals.

Cud Sewer Bile is a poet of DC politics.


The Criminal
          by Bilee Wad Curse

He wasn’t feeling very happy standing by the couch.
In fact, he was there cursing hard words from his open mouth.
He felt hemmed in and jerked around. He looked off to the right.
His lips were pressing up against the agony of might.
He lifted up his head and spine, while keeping its fine curve.
He sought divine love with his total being, strength and verve.
He longed to reach nirvana frequently. This would not do.
He felt like as a glutinous and rapt, trapped carcajou.
How could he gain sweet happiness within life’s suffering?
Amidst continual stress, he could use some buffering.
Perhaps he could find momentary peace here at the couch,
if he could stand uncuffed and free, like as a holy cow.

Bilee Wad Curse is a poet of crime.


          by Brad Lee Suciew
          “O, rollercoasters are a lot of fun, if you don’t puke.”
              —Sirc de Wee Balu
          “The restaurant is closing, and it’s time to pay the check;
          but there’s a lot of whiners, saying, I’m still drinking yet.”
              —Carb Deliseuwe

The market is unfun and ugly, Ronald Alder says;
the print is mixed, the top-line strong, is Brian Heavey’s guess;
the quarter’s bad, the guide is worse, so Stuart Humphrey notes;
while Nikolaos Panigirtzoglou warns bond yields rose;
and Mike Feroli stresses surging dollar breadth and breath,
in context with the Kung Fu movies’ “délayed touch of death”.

Brad Lee Suciew is a poet of the economy. Alder, Heavey, Humphrey, Panigirtzoglou, and Feroli are contemporary economists.


The Zig-Zagger
          by Wic E. Ruse Blade

He slid across the floor, like as a skater on the ice;
but it was warm as he zig-zagged along from side to side.
In low-cut, black socks, he was sliding, riding o’er the floors,
the rich, dark choc’late walnut, biding by the walls and doors.
Veneered and engineered, he loved its grainy luxury,
it made his chores upon it nicer, less like drudgery.
And though he didn’t reach telomerase activity,
it made him glad, like drinking ginger and turmeric tea.
O, whisking round and flapping down that smooth, room’s wooden stage,
he didn’t ruminate nor try to modulate his age.

Wic E. Ruse Blade is a skater.


His Garage
          by Bruc “Diesel” Awe

Although it barely held two cars, he still loved his garage.
It was so warm when he was cold, like as a too-cool raj.
It warmed the cockles of his heart; it made him fe-el great,
when heat beat down upon its door, to pound and penetrate.
He loved its gray and concrete floor, especially when swept.
White walls and ceiling added to a state of being kempt.
He felt like as a driver in his pit stop in a race.
It kept him feeling cozy even on chill autumn days.
He was renewed, invigourated, ready to move on,
two hundred bones or more prepared to trek and go along.

Bruc “Diesel” Awe is a poet of driving.


The Dragonfly
          by Earwic Beeduls

He saw the dragonfly—red, white, and blue, it caught his eye,
while lounging on a cushioned couch—o, God, up in the sky.
He was so hot, he wore a tank top there beneath the Sun.
He felt as though it was a show, so beautiful and fun.
Like an intent geometer, it flapped about the yard,
in straight lines and right angles, seemingly rectangulard.
He gazed upon its passing form, fat-assing it, and warm,
there in the sunny afternoon before the coming storm.
He was so happy it was eating insects on the sly,
o, quicker than a butterfly, or the bat of an eye.

Earwic Beeduls is a poet of insects.


Annie Ernaux
          by Cews Baudelier

She is not trying to remember, as the years go by,
she’s trying to be at the very instant…there, inside…
not spilling over into the before or afterwards,
to be within a moment’s immanence in purest words.

Cews Baudelier is a poet of French literature. Annie Ernaux was given the 2022 Nobel Prize for Literature.