The Perseverence Rover has collected regolith
on planet Mars from windblown sand, say NASA Earth wordsmiths.
Unidentified Flying Objects
by I. E. Sbace Weruld
UFOs do not have to be spaceships driven by aliens; they could just be government weather balloons. Little blips on radar do not require lunacy. Whatever—in 1947, the people at Roswell, New Mexico, saw flying through the blue light of heaven, it doesn’t have to be a hexagon or a flying saucer that crashed into consciousness with Greek glyphs upon I-bars, elephtheria, freedom, and then, too, ishrigmos, high-frequency sound. The stars aren’t necessarily yielding up their secrets up high over the desert air.
by I. E. Sbace Weruld
Out of Area 51 have come unspeakable things: stealth technologies, alien sightings, toxic waste burns. Some stories seem like modern mythologies. Are there antimatter reactors or gravity amplifiers? Who knows what one might find if one dare click the cursor on the computer one is sitting at?
Mr. I. E. Sbace Weruld is a poet of space. Roswell, New Mexico, is a community of around 48,000. The above prosepoems attend to flights of fancy.
by “Clear Dew” Ibuse
After raking leaves,
he goes inside to get warm
and to sweep the floors.
by “Clear Dew” Ibuse
Dada and Mama,
the baby learn new concepts:
on, off, and in, out.
by “Clear Dew” Ibuse
Planet Earth is huge.
There’s so much to deal with here,
so much to take in.
“Clear Dew” Ibuse is a haiku poet.
At the End of His Rope
by Sri Wele Cebuda
He got into the lotus pose upon the light grey couch.
He longed to meditate long on the realms he could avouch.
He closed his outer eyes, but opened up his inner one.
Outside was dark but light inside shone like a winter sun.
From the supine, he raised his spine, and stretched this way and that.
Ah, he was quite content where he was at, yes, where he sat.
He thought of stoic warriors as he clenched the sofa’s back.
He thought of pines above him in this scene he had been cast.
He longed to hold on to the hawser in that house, heave, ho.
He did not want to flounder in the universal flow.
And though he kept upright, he knew that he was moving, o,
held by just hands, upon commands, that held him from the low.
Sri Wele Cebuda is a poet of meditation.
by Badri Suwecele
Francis Yeats-Brown served in India, in the early decades of the 20th, at and around Bareilly, in present-day central Uttar Pradesh, and wrote a memoir, which was published in 1930, of his experience there, including polo and pig sticking, titled The Lives of a Bengal Lancer. Loosely adapted from that book was a 1935 film of the same name; but the Hollywood crew takes a buzz saw to it, and creates its own kind of fame, th’ Academy nominating it for seven awards, including best picture.
Badri Suwecele is a poet of India. Francis Yeats-Brown (1886-1944) was an English Modernist proset. Bareilly, in Uttar Pradesh, has a population of around 900,000.
Although inflation in the USA is higher than
it ‘s been for forty years, it’s not as bad as in Iran,
Zimbabwe, Syria, Sri Lanka, or in Lebanon
Venezuela, Argentina, Turkey, or Sudan;
inflation in each of those lands more than 50%.
One wonders when inflation will inaugurate descent.
US inflation is around 7.1%, UK inflation is around 10.7.
A Snapshot at th’ HQ
by Radice Lebewsu
“War is God’s way of teaching Americans geography.”
—Ambrose Bierce, “The Devil’s Dictionary”
Last week, pro-Kremlin correspondent Sergei Sreda took
a pic which gave away the address of the Wagner group.
The shoot showed five men in their military uniforms,
with a street sign found in the top left corner of the shot.
Thanks to the Russian journalist, the posted photo showed
“Popasna, Mironovskaya 12” [Severodonetsk].
The post on Telegram had been removed, but copies still
were circulating on the social media at will.
A question still remained if Prigozhin was living yet.
But look, HQ ‘s been purged, morphed to a desk-top HIMARS blot:
the rubble strewn around the building, grey brick crum-bl-ing,
while four men hold a stretcher, carrying some bodied thing.
Radice Lebewsu is a poet of Ukraine. Ambrose Bierce (1842-1914) was an American Realist proset.
That Blue Bird
by War di Belecuse
He still remembered that blue bird of happiness he saw,
when he was in the miltary, long ago and raw.
His dogtags hanging, clanging up against his olive drab;
but he hung on—for years, it seemed. He wasn’t feeling fab.
In fact, at times, he felt like he was far from heaven’s heights;
and yet he kept it up—day after day—the fights and flights.
He hoped one day these thoughts of war would leave him, o, alone;
but they kept coming back again for more and more. Ho, go.
It was not all that easy to forget what had been done.
Be gone, he longed to cry out, yes, what has been done is done.
The Fighter in the Foxhole
by War di Belecuse
He hated being in a foxhole; he felt dirty there;
but it was needed for protection from the land and air.
He’d fall into depths of despair. He felt hard, horrid hell.
Why must he ever be at war? This he could not tell.
He fell through levels of despond, but he had to go on.
Somehow he had to face the horrors, though sweet love be gone.
He couldn’t get it back—that time before the battles came.
He had been changed—for sure—and he would never be the same.
Yet on he went, and would do so, with all his energy,
attempting to obtain more breadth and generality.
In this way, he’d combat the vile invading enemies,
with wiles, bitter bile, his only known home remedies.
War di Belecuse is a poet of conflict.
A Flight of Stairs
by Erisbawdle Cue
He had come to a flight of stairs. Did he dare climb those steps?
He felt constrained by stares and strains. He feared he might collapse.
He wondered where they went to in that dark, stark, empty gloom.
He wasn’t sure the floor that he was on was in a room.
He felt like as he was pulled down by something gold and black.
What was that uniform in which he found that he was clad?
He tried to call out to a passerby. Why was he stopped?
He felt like as he was tied up in knots, but he was not.
Was that a cop? a prop? Was he a target for psy ops?
How could he spot where he was at, if he was stuck in stops?
He longed to ask, o, anyone how he could get away;
but no one seemed concerned about this impasse or his fate.
by Erisbawdle Cue
He was back stage, that philosage, in his athletic shoes.
The hall was narrow, dark and stark, the exit sign subdued.
He leaned against the wall while contemplating logic’s bent.
Would he be able to escape his mind’s predicament?
He stretched his spine. He was so tall. He longed to reach a place,
where he could clearly think about his situation’s space.
Time was, indeed, yes, of the essence. This he really knew.
He was plagued by the beautiful, the good, the just and true.
His cheeks were sallow, lips unclosed, he gazed upon his fate;
but he knew that it was important, o, to meditate.
The Animated Sage
He activated his autophagy with coffee cups,
some intermittent fasting and some exercising spunk.
O, he felt funky when he swallowed some MCT oil,
like as a fancy emcee toiling in a disco broil.
He loved key tones in music, when his ketones took the stage,
and then he would watusi like an animated sage.
He felt post his consumption there was autophagic flux
in liver, muscle, heart, due to these polyphenol chucks.
All this, and more, helped feed his core and brought him some delight;
and so he danced away the day, and went to sleep at night.
Erisbawdle Cue is an animated sage and poet. His favourite sages include the peripatetics, especially Aristotle (c. 384 BC – 322 BC). Hermippus of Smyrna (mid 3rd century BC), a follwer of the poet-scholar Callimachus (c. 310 BC – c. 240 BC), may have been the first to suggest Aristotle’s habit of walking while lecturing.
One finds that EU Socialists from Greece and Italy,
with the Qataris, were involved in wholesale bribery.
Alessandro Marcello’s D Minor Oboe Concerto
by Ewald E. Eisbruc
Alessandro Marcello’s D Minor Oboe Concerto, transcribed for trumpet, could hardly be finer, or diviner; and it, so profound and deeply heart-felt, is “one of the supremely beautiful works,” Hutchings wrote “of the Venetian school.”
The Music of Carl Ditters von Dittersdorf
by Ewald E. Eisbruc
In the music of Carl Ditters von Dittersdorf, one can hear echoes and portents of Vivaldi, Handel, Haydn, Mozart, and Beethoven, who dwarf him historically; and yet, his Ovid delights with a fine classical light suffused throughout. The six remaining symphonies do vividly scatter the brilliant classical light all about; and their essence is quite remarkable for itsshimmering quality, which leaves not any doubt that there is in them more than merely pomp and glitz, despite the programming to his Metamorphoses. There shine bright extraordinary bits.
Ewald E. Eisbruc is a poet of European music. Marcello (1673-1747) was an Italian Baroque composer, Dittersdorf (1739-1799) a Classical Austrian composer and silvologist. Arthur Hutchings (1906-1989) was a PostModernist British musicologist.
A Chance Meeting
by Basil Drew Eceu
It was some time ago, and, it was such a chance
meeting that happened so fast, I cannot be sure
that I have all the facts correct; so, in advance,
I must ask for forgiveness if I have misconstrued
the events as I remember them. Forgive me,
dear reader, for those parts that I am certain to
bungle. In addition, the whole thing was eerie
in itself; for it was as if I met Sherlock Holmes
from beyond the grave, truly an absurdity
in itself. This happened so many years ago
that I cannot be exact as to the precise
year, but it was some time after sighting the Thames
and my arrival in London. Perhaps my eyes
were playing tricks on me when I first saw him in
one of his disguises. He was about my size.
He was in tweed and getting his picture taken.
But that was a fleeting moment, and there was no
communication. That encounter was air-thin.
But then later, a day came; I wanted to go
visit the inimitable Holmes to ask for
help about some trouble that was starting to show.
Anxious, I walked up the flight of stairs to the door,
seventeen steps above Baker Street to his flat.
I can’t remember if I knocked or not, but before
too long he offered me a place to sit. I sat,
id est, upon an upright, rather bumpy chair,
which he quite brusquely shoved forward where I was at.
On the other hand, upon a divan near there,
he sat, so he could stretch out his legs and lean back,
as if, in the entire world, he hadn’t a care.
It was very disconcerting to ask him about the case,
with him so uninterested, as if I talked squack.
Instead of getting answers from out of his face,
I got grilled, and none too pleasantly. When I left,
I felt I’d been ill used, and I quickened my pace.
Afterwards I felt badly, but hardly bereft.
I don’t know if it was because he’d taken drugs,
if he had been too brisk, or if I wasn’t deft
enough to field his repartees. It still bugs
me. Yet I feel nothing but relief that he’s gone.
I don’t ever want to stand upon those old rugs
again and meet with Holmes. How could Dr. Watson
stand it, being harried by such sharp arrogance?
I wondered, but only shortly; then I was done.
The Red Queen’s Racing Groove
by Basil Drew Eceu
The ground was pale brown scrub brush, where very little grew.
The sky above seemed infinite; it was an azure blue.
The dude was thirsty for a drink—o, just a little bit—
up there beside the rocky mountain slope, yes, he did sweat.
He was so hot. Relentless was the Sun upon his back.
He wondered if he could take it, make it…or would he crack?
Surrounded by the dirt and dust, he moved along the trail;
but he was beat, there in that heat, that only would assail.
He kept on going, but, at times, it seemed he did not move.
He felt like as he was within the Red Queen’s racing groove.
He tightened lips, he held his hip, the agony was real.
O, Lord, his limbs were very sore, each step was an ordeal.
Basil Drew Eceu is a poet of Britain. Red Queen’s Race draws from Lewis Carroll (1832-1898), a Victorian poet and mathematician; Arthur Conan Doyle (1859-1930) was a writer and doctor.
by Dr. Weslie Ubeca
He went…off…to the dentist; a check up was required;
but certainly not anything he really had desired.
He always was a bit uptight whenever he went in.
He could not go without chagrin, but he put forth his chin.
He had just gotten…off…from work, from servicing and lubes,
so he was still attired in his work pants and his boots.
Though dirty, the clean dentist didn’t seem all that concerned.
Methodic’lly he went about his business taciturn.
The patient’s body lifted up, his feet up…off…the floor.
With sober face, he looked about. O, he stared at the door.
As he was there, his legs in air, his mood and doom went south.
The dentist said to open up his tight and lip-clenched mouth.
He looked…off…in the distance, as th’ assistant there looked on.
He felt like as some specimen investigated—yawn.
He opened up his mouth as wide as he was able to,
and then he closed his eyes and mind to th’ overwhelming view.
Dr. Weslie Ubeca is a poet of dentistry.
The New York Times day-walk-out didn’t pan out all that well
they could not keep the people from their online wordle’s spell.
The No Man
by Walice du Beers
“Full of the same wind/ That is blowing in the same bare place…”
—Wallace Stevens, “The Snowman”
“No man is an island.”
—John Donne, “Meditation 17”
One need no mind of winter to regard the frosty firs,
the boughs of pines, encrusted snow, or ice-shagged junipers,
nor spruces in the distant glitter of December’s Sun;
one can enjoy the fallen…leaves…and love remembered fun.
I saw him in the neighbour’s yard. He stood up round and tall.
He was a snowman, globular, of three bright bulging balls.
His huge head could not hear the wind that wound around his hat,
nor could he see with pebbled eyes his big butt where he sat.
His feeble hands, on twig-thin arms, could not feel there was cold,
nor could his carrot nose smell anything he could behold.
His rocky mouth could not taste snow, found powdering no tongue.
O, naught himself, beholding naught, no air could fill no lungs.
Walice du Beers is a poet of Modernist tendencies in the NewMillennium.
Fascism is the merger of the state and corporot,
e. g., the kind of government found here, abroad, a lot.
That Hunting Venator
by Rudi E. Welec, “Abs”
I still remember seeing him; he was no Santa Claus.
He had no reindeer sleigh, but drove a van with packages.
He came one day, and parked beside no sidewalk and no curb.
It was no urban setting, no, not even some damned burg.
In fact, he had arrived at some drab, vacant cul-de-sac.
What presents was he bringing? O, not any. None, alack.
Still I was interested in his curt delivery.
He dropped some bundles off the road. There was no thievery.
It was December, near the very end of that long year.
There was no snow, there were no pines, no Merry Christmas cheer.
But I recall that dude, like as some florid’ senator,
who left some gifts in nature’s drifts, that hunting venator.
Rudi E. Welec, “Abs”, is a poet of sport.
At Lawrence Livermore in California in this hour
though USA officials have announced that fusion’s now,
it will be decades and some billions till it comes to pow’r.