He Heard the Learn’d Astronomer
by I. E. Sbace Weruld
“Look’d up in perfect silence at the stars.”
The student sat up at his desk in that hard physics class.
He would prefer a good grade, but he’d be glad just to pass.
He listened to the lecturer, and took down careful notes.
He focused on the words of the professor, as he spoke.
He heard the learn’d astronomer speak out aloud about
his figures, charts and diagrams, with very little doubt.
But he dared not be sick or ti-r’d; hé had to keep keen,
and stay the course, while drinking in all of the things he’d seen—
no mystical moist night air in that room where he was at.
He simply faced th’ acute professor’s scientific facts.
Mr. I. E. Sbace Weruld is a poet of the Universe. In pursuit of a math-computer science degree at the university, he distinctly remembers his physics teacher’s alarming, gnarly expressions. This is a NewMillennial take on a Walt Whitman (1819-1892) poem.
by “Clear Dew” Ibuse
Lots of honey bees
land on and rapidly leave
the roadside asters.
“Clear Dew” Ibuse is a haiku poet.
E. Birdcaws Eule
He sat securely on a mustard yellow accent chair—
a W precariously balanced in the air—
and stared upon fair day. He barely had a care at all,
except that flapping wing’d design of lightness to appall.
O, there beyond the bright, white curtains, high up in the sky.
He gazed up at a whippoorwill go flipping-flapping by.
It flew past, o, so suddenly; he didn’t have a chance
to catch the colours of its plumage in aerial, sun dance.
Its flight was lovely, o, above. He watched it from his seat.
Its movement was mysterious, so curious to see.
He wondered to where that quick whippoorwill was traveling.
Without its acrobatics he felt he was grovelling.
E. Birdcaws Eule is a poet of birds.
The CCP is formally returning Xi Jinping
to power over all of China. He’s been made their king.
by Sri Wele Cebuda
O, it was evening, he was feeling, low and all alone.
He drove into the dark, until he reached that neon zone.
He parked and walked, down streets, up steps, until he found a place
to pause and meditate, a peaceful contemplative space.
He got into the lotus pose; he spread his legs and knees.
He loved it when he felt contentment, with a bit of breeze.
He ruminated in that narrow room up in the night,
and lifted up his head and spine from the supine and tight.
He loved to concentrate upon the beautiful and true.
He opened up his inner eye to a majestic view.
The city sparkling all around, and he here thinking of
the adumbration and elation of, o, lovely love.
Sri Wele Cebuda is a poet of meditation.
Chad floods are making victims; Chari River burst its banks;
and some are looting from wrecked homes from those now drenched
Chad is a nation of around 17,000,000.
by Bic Ewel, “Erased”
He was a spy in a department which had little clout,
in short, it was a unit organized, but down and out.
He was a member o’ th’ intelligence community,
but plagued by bureaucratic ennui and jejunity.
He took his present job because he failed life at large.
Inconsequential desk work was his mainstay and his charge.
The information that he passed was rarely idolized;
in fact, one could say it was disregarded, hardly prized.
But he went on despite it all, revealing secrets to
whoever would or could retrieve them from the data stew.
Bic Ewel, “Erased” is a poet of spydom.
The Madagascar foreign minister has just been sacked
for voting to condemn the Russian annexation act.
Madagascar, an island nation off the east coast of Africa has a population of about 30,000,000.
by Radice Lebewsu
It was a sandy flat relieved by hillocks, o, and heath,
waste stretches and bush patches, with some shaped like as a wreath.
Although the climate could be raw, good soil could be rare,
the heath was not unfertile, no, o, there in th’ open air.
One happily discovered bedstraw, yellow bartsia,
as well as ling, bell heather, and the bristle bent grass—yeh.
One wanted to remain there in the early morning light.
It was so beautiful, so gorgeous, pearly, rough and bright.
But one could not stay there, one had to move along quite fast;
for once the missile had been launched, one had to leave the blast;
lest th’ enemy had since located from where it was cast,
and he was wanting to last so it would not be his last.
Radice Lebewsu is a poet of Ukraine.
The kamekazi sneak attacks, done with drones from Iran,
are Russia’s latest killers come from Moscow and Tehran.
The Russians terrorize the citizens of the Ukraine,
attacking people in apartments with their deadly rain.
A Member of the Greens
by Caud Sewer Bile
He was a member of the Greens. He longed t’improve the Earth—
that man there on life’s giant steps, upon that brutal turf.
Although what he could do was very little, in his case;
as he was just one man in this vast universal space.
Still, he would focus on the realm in which he found himself,
and do what he could to improve his place, his base, his pelf.
He saw the blackness overhead. O, were those distant stars?
He saw the greenery around, so beautiful, but sparse.
He felt like as he was within a concrete bunker now,
so at this stage and in this Age, he’d have to hunker down.
Caud Sewer Bile is a poet of politics.
Environmentalists defaced “Sunflowers” by Van Gogh.
Right at the picture, they threw two tomato soup cans. Ach.
Van Gogh (1853-1890) was a Dutch PostImpressionist painter. The painting was protected by glass.
Out of the Cradle Rocking
by Red Was Iceblue
Out of the cradle, rocking endlessly in golden light,
down from the showered halo of infinity and might,
up from the mystic play of twisting, twining, moving on,
from under yellow moon, arriving in the amber dawn,
to those beginning notes of love and yearning in the mist,
above, the bright lamp shining over orange, red, and bliss,
the scene revisited, and passing in the throes of strife,
there on the auburn sands of time, within the throws of life,
uniter of the here and now, but quietly engaged,
within eternity and ecstasy, assuaged, and then…away.
Red Was Iceblue is a poet of New Millennial art.
Is it true social media app Parler’s being bought
by recently banned, Kanye West for an unknown amount?
A Hitched-Up Sled Dog
by Eb “Walrus” De Ice
Before him lay a shiny sheen of cellophane and snow,
he was a hitched-up sled dog, o, and he was on the go.
He didn’t want to be there in that drab environment,
but he was held by harness; here was no retirement.
So he pressed on, to night from dawn, all four appendages,
in motion on that gleaming lawn of icy vantages.
He didn’t love it, no, he wasn’t happy there at all;
yet still he kept on traveling with but his will in thrall.
How could he be content in such a wretched place as this?
He couldn’t and he wouldn’t be. Lord God, o, where was bliss?
A World of Club and Fang
by Eb “Walrus” De Ice
Set in the Yukon, Canada, the Klondike Gold Rush times,
Jack London’s “The Call of the Wild” runs through might and mind.
It was tough Buck, who lost his luck, but made it in the end;
survival of the fittest was what got him round the bend.
This cosmos does not care for us. Pity poor flesh and trees.
A world of club and fang is not a world of love and peace.
Eb “Walrus” De Ice is a poet of the North. Jack London (1876-1916) was an American writer on the cusp between Realism and Modernism.
by Bud “Weasel” Rice
He placed his animals in cages, where they faced the bars,
with collars round their necks, forlorn, for lovely freedom starved.
He only let them out to give them shots, when such were due.
They howled a lot; it was a yipping, yelping, yapping zoo.
But he had to be careful too; for they could snap at him,
o, get him back—those pent up pups—and do so at a whim.
So he would take his time when dealing with his brolio,
attending to each one of them as if each was a foe;
yet trying to improve their health in any way he could.
O, what he offered them each day was help, and it was good.
Bud “Weasel” Rice is a poet of Animalia.
Despite all that the Fed has done, inflation keeps up high;
and month on month up .04 %, the CPI.
September ’22, is as September ’21.
So, prices now continue at the same clip—on a run.
CPI is the Consumer Prive Index.
Early Morning Exercise Routine
by Rudi E. Welec, “Abs”
It was time for his early morning exercise routine;
but he did not feel all that good. O, he felt low and mean.
He did his stretches in light clothing, warming up for work
He wanted a transition to the slamming and the jerk.
O, he pressed on with pushups, going up and down, alas.
At times he felt sheer agony. O, would it never pass?
He did his squats and dips, he exercised his hips and thighs;
but he was happiest when he reached momentary highs.
At times he felt like as a gladiator in the ring,
by pushing, pressing, pulling, pounding, and, yes, en-dur-ing.
An Evening Walk
by Rudi E. Welec, “Abs”
He went out for an evening walk around the neighbourhood.
Gray clouds were slowly moving…in…the sky; and it was good.
Beneath his feet, the sidewalks and the concrete streets remain.
His eyes were dry and tearin’ up; he felt some drops of rain.
He walked beside the plain, close houses, brand-new wood, and fresh;
the smell of turpentine, each small garage served as a shed.
It was October, Halloween decor was all around:
the skeletons, the pumpkins, and huge cobwebs hanging down.
He kept on walking briskly past the varied points of life,
some cars and trucks, parked here and there, so neatly flush and filed.
Up, overhead, the jets were lowering, in landing mode,
and on the near horizon was the water tower dome.
Rudi E. Welec, “Abs” is a poet of walking and running.
Why are there GPS disruptions—DFW—
and now, as well, the west and east locales of Waco too?
by Carb Deliseuwe
He loved to have a cup of coffee in dawn’s dimmest light.
It helped clear cobwebs from those heavy eyelids of the night.
His narrow pumpkin head could start to gaze with orange eyes.
His skeleton could once again experience surprise.
The ghost-white sheets of sleepy deeps could be left in the bed
with dreams of candy corn and broom-stick witches in his head.
His crow’s feet could begin to move; life’s candles could be lit.
The horrors of the dark could be freed from the cauldron’s pit.
The black cat and the ebon bat could go back with the owl,
and with that bitter drink he could unsmock the frocked monk’s cowl.
Carb Deliseuwe is a poet of food and drink. According to Beau Lecsi Werd, the neologism “unsmock” suggests taking off.
So quietly the Fed has sent three billion dollars to
Swiss National Bank covering a dollar shortfall—Whew.
One wonders just how many people in the World could use
some extra money from the Fed that they would not refuse.
A Note frrom Archer-Daniels-Midlands
by Caleb Wuri Seed
He stood up straight and tall, that slender man upon the barge.
The piles of beans and other goods were getting very large.
Along the Mississippi, farmers had been piling crops;
because it’s closed in many places where its level drops.
He couldn’t fully load the barge; and limits, fore and aft,
were needed to reduce the weight, and so improve the draft.
Although he didn’t love it, money made it worth the while,
so he hauled ass, with fellow lads, though no one lade a smile.
On Monday, at Stack Island, southbound traffic could resume;
as they were able to completely clear the northbound queue.
Caleb Wuri Seed is a poet of farming.
It’s not po-li-ti-cál-ly mo-ti-va-ted—in the least.
They still won’t drill, but will fulfill a pledge t’ appease the Beast.
Strategic oil reserves they will deplete. Enjoy the feast.
Unfortunately people must pay more for groceries.
by Des Wercebauli
A plumber who is hired to install pipes by a firm
is a contractor who negotiates the price paid him,
but an employee of a firm is guaranteed a wage,
the minimum allowed or more, depending on the gauge.
As such the question rises should gig workers now become
employees altering how income’s designated some?
There is no easy answer as such folks have varied needs;
ironic’lly gig workers oft make more than guaranteeds.
The focus now is on the DoorDash, Lyft, and Uber crews;
The fed rule changes shift the scene, but how none knows for sure.
Des Wercebauli is a poet of labour.
The Arcade King
by Cu Ebide Aswerl
He still remembers playing pinball at the dark arcade.
He spent his quarters trying to keep his balls from being staid.
He’d play for hours, hitting bumpers, saucers, holes, and ramps.
He tried to get as many points as he could in his romps.
He’d pull the plunger back, spring-loaded, for a skill-shot launch—
that calculating stallion, tight croup, dock, hip, shoulders, haunch.
He’d keep his balls…continuing…with fine dexterity,
by using flippers, kickers and slingshots—flexed clarity.
O, on and on he’d play for hours at that captive game
that kept him from his studies, but improved his shooting aim.
Cu Ebide Aswerl is a poet of leisure.