Deep in the Core of the Crab Nebula
          by I. E. Sbace Weruld

Deep in the core of the Crab Nebula exploding star,
the inner regions send out pulsing particles afar,
about the same mass as the Sun, but more intensely dense,
a sphere of only a few miles, incredibly compressed.
While spinning thirty times a sec, the neutron star shoots out
the energetic beams detectable as cosmic shout.
The Hubble Telescope snapshot shows glowing gas in red
that shows a swirling swarm of cavities and filaments.
Inside the shell, the ghostly blue in radiations glow,
electrons spiralling light speed around the stellar core.

Mr. I. E. Sbace Weruld is a poet of the Universe. Edwin Hubble (1889-1953) was a Modernist American cosmologist. In 1923, Hubble deduced that the Andromeda Nebula was not a nearby star cluster, but another galaxy, among many others; and later, with his data collected, that the Universe was expanding. The expansion rate has come to be known as the Hubble constant.


          by “Clear Dew” Ibuse

A robin pauses
a barbed-wire fence.

“Clear Dew” Ibuse is a haiku poet.


          by “Wired Clues” Abe

Beside the tree-grove
a purple trillium grows
near card, cans, and sacks.

“Wired Clues” Abe is a poet combining technology (even in its junk phase) and nature.


Tao Yuanming
          by Wu “Sacred Bee” Li

The Master of Five Willows lived in Jiangxi near Mount Lu.
Mulberry-Bramble was his village, Lake Poyang his view.
A man of few words, and retiring by nature, he
did not desire fame or money, only books to read.
Whenever he found certain books, he would forget his meals.
Though he could not afford wine always, it was his ideal.
He drank to his content, but when too drunk, he’d leave at once.
The walls around his house did not protect from wind or sun.
His clothes though frayed, he would not bow to fill his bowl of rice.
He was content with writing, for that was his way of life.

Wu “Sacred Bee” Li is a poet of ancient Chinese literature. Tao Yuanming (365-427) was a Chinese poet during the Six-Dynasties Period.


Song of the Bowmen of Shu
          by Li “Sacred Bee” Du
          for Burton Watson

There they were picking first fern-shoots, and saying, ‘When shall we
return to home?’ as they were there because of th’ enemy.
They had no comfort due to Xianyun; they grubbed on fern-shoots.
When any said ‘return,’ the others filled up on sad roots.

Their minds were strong with sorrow. They did thirst and hunger too.
Yet their defence was still unsure. Can none return? Is ‘t true?
They grubbed on old fern-stalks, and said, “Will we go back in fall?”
There is no ease in the affairs of royalty at all.

Their bitter sorrow kept them from returning to their land.
What flower had come into bloom? Whose chariot at hand?
It was the general’s, his horses. They were tir’d, each one.
They once were strong. They had no rest, three battles every month.

The generals were on the horses, soldiers were by them.
They rode with arrows made of iv’ry, quivers of fish-skin.
The enemy was swift. They must be shrewd maneuvering.
When they set out, the willow trees were drooping with the spring.

Then they were coming back in snow, and they went very slow.
They thirsted, hungered. They were sad. Yes, they were feeling low.
Their minds were full of sorrow. O. Bu’ no one knew their grief,
though Pound through Fenollosa mention it last century.

Wu “Sacred Bee” Li is a poet of Ancient Chinese literature. Burton Watson (1925-2017) was a PostModernist American translator. Ezra Pound (1885-1972) was a Modernist American poet. Ernest Fenollosa (1853-1908) was an American Realist Orientalist.


The Holi celebrations were exuberant and flush
with flowers, coloured powders, fervour, flourishing and lush.


Upon the Light-Gray Couch
          by Sri Wele Cebuda

He got into the lotus pose upon the light-gray couch.
He spread his legs out to each side; he didn’t want to slouch…
to Bethlehem, the House of Bread. Instead he was at home.
And he was quite content. O, this was not a time to roam.
Although he was still in athletic shoes and baseball cap,
he was quite snug, like as a hiker with an outdoor pack.

The door was open, as was he, his inner eye agape,
filled with agapē, but not eros, philia or rape.
He simply wanted to connect to awesome cosmic flux,
and contemplate the mysteries, like as the Northern Crux,
that asterism in the Constellation of the Swan,
and think about the backbone of the Milky Way…Beyond.

He sat upon that light-gray couch, a man just holding on,
above the brown and wooden floor there in the shining dawn.
He saw such light as could excite him from the hood of night;
but it was not in realms of love, nor overwhelmed delight.
It was more like a serious, delirious respect,
or shock and awe at all there was, and all that was unchecked.

Still, he continued meditating on this place and time,
astonishment upon his face, amazement in his mind.
He took deep breaths, inhale, exhale, as he fell through the day,
there in his situation on that sofa of light-gray,
his back pushed in against its cushioning and pelotage,
without a pillow comforting or rhythmic heart massage.

Sri Wele Cebuda is a poet of meditation. Identified as the city of the birthplace of Jesus of Nazareth, Bethlehem has a population today of around 28,000.


Passing Through Dimensions
          by Crise de Abu Wel

Forgive us our trespasses in the twilight of our lives,
as we forgive those who trespass against these ivy vines,
along the wall where grow the trees up to the open sky.
Deliver us from evil, o, my Father, and all vice.
You are in heaven. Hallowed is your name among the clouds.
Beyond the fallen leaves upon the floor of distant shrouds.
Your kingdom come, your will is done, on earth as it is in
eternity, around us as the stars and planets spin.
Give us this day our daily bread, this day our daily wine;
and lead us through dimensions of intelligent design.

Crise de Abu Wel is a poet of the Good Father.


Across Iran, young girls are being poisoned in their schools,
a noxious smell and toxic mix of baleful molecules,
that leads to dizziness, heart palpitations, teary eyes:
How many hundreds, as of yet, have bín hospitalized?
Both numbed and frozen legs and hands result in burning stings.
Are some attempting to keep girls out of learning things?


Loose Change
          by Erisbawdle Cue
          τὰ ὄντα ἰέναι τε πάντα καὶ μένειν οὐδέν
              —Plato, “Cratylus”

That change is constant seems to be eternal, אֶמֶת, truth;
the Universe is in a constant state of moving through…
therefore it seems adaptability is good for health,
and comfort with both risk and ambiguity for thell.

Erisbawdle Cue is a poet of philosophy. This quote from Heraclitus (c. 540 BC – c. 480 BC) appears in the “Cratylus” of Plato (c. 428 BC – c. 348 BC). The philosopher Cratylus (c. 5th century BC) was a follower of Heraclitus, who pressed the doctrine of flux extremely hard, denying to things even the slightest fixity. According to Beau Lecsi Werd, thell means fortune.


Speaking to the Dead
          by Waldeci Erebus

I think that Allan Johnston’s right, when speaking to the dead,
we aren’t forgiven, and they cannot hear what we have said.
Consignments for the dead, among the living, are for us;
their words are borrowed from their varied, harried, buried fuss.
Dead voices echo in our heads, but we can’t comfort them,
since stones are stones and seas are seas and ashes are not phlegm.
Molecular activities in asphodels announce
that Charon’s barge draws near whatever floral spray we flounce.
Don’t think you are alone, dear traveler; we all must go;
and evening blesses all the Earth with what we cannot know.

Waldeci Erebus is a poet of Central Europe. Allan Johnston is a contemporary poet.


On What Is Known and How It’s Known
          by Euclidrew Base

In Proclus’ Commentary, that on Euclid’s Elements,
we learn that Thales was the first named mathematician;
hence Thales’ fame depends upon some one commenting on
Eudemus History of Math that Proclus mentioned once.
The commentator, the recorder, and creative one
were all important in accumulating what is known;
as well, the one commented on, each made a difference;
so finally the writer and the reader could make sense,
of all of this before it was put in to sentences.


In Harmony and Strife
          by Euclidrew Base

I do agree with William Rowan Hamilton that math
is as artistic as poetics, on a truth-filled path.
I don’t agree with William Wordsworth science only is
applied to the material and crushes images.
It seems to me all knowledge is based on our languages,
symbolic, aural, visual; all are advantages;
the alphabetic, hieroglyphic, algebraic, and
equations, similarities; all help us understand.
I dream of the confluence of all ways of seeing life,
the universal energy in harmony and strife.

Euclidrew Base is a poet of mathematics. Proclus (412-485) was a Greek NeoPlatonist philosopher. Euclid (c. 325 BC – c. 265 BC) was a noted Greek geometer. Eudemus of Rhodes (c. 370 BC – c. 300 BC) was an historian of science. William Wordworth (1770-1850) was a British Romantic poet and William Rowan Hamilton (1805-1865) was an Irish Romantic astronomer and mathematican.


Richard C.
          by B. S. Eliud Acrewe

His wit is swift; it flickers, like a liquored flickertail,
a windy, craven parodist, nine on the beaufort scale.
He’s willing to attack the grandiose in novel style,
like as his book narrated by Mark Strand, and titled “Bile”.
Then others came, like Melville parody “Amoeba Dick;
and “Pretty Poli”, Hardy parody of Casterbridge.
And also Homer, in his “Odour Issues” odyssey,
geORge Eliot in “Helix Folt”, a …tory of the streets.
His crude Jacobean revenge “The Senseless Counterfeit”
found company with poetry; and that’s not all he writ.
“Montpeliad” upon Bristolean dégringolade,
short stories and philosophy in Gringo-Anglo-lang.

B. S. Eliud Acrewe is a poet and literary critic. Richard C. is a NewMillennial proset and poet. Francis Beaumont (1774-1857) was an Irish hydrographer. Herman Melville (1819-1891) wrote the novel of “Moby Dick”, Thomas Hardy (1840-1928) wrote “The Mayor of Casterbridge”, George Eliot (1819-1880) wrote “Felix Holt”, and Homer (fl. 8th century BC) wrote “The Odyssey”.


It has been one month since a Norfolk Southern train derailed
onto East Palestine, Ohio, water, air and soil.
The huge catastrophe remains concerning to the folk,
this fiery, environmental cataclysmic choke.
Authorities proclaim the air is clean, the water’s safe;
but very few are rushing to a vinyl chloride fate.

East Palestine, Ohio, was a city of around 4,700; but after this environmental disaster, it is difficult to say how many are staying.


With Captain Guy in Klock-Klock
          by R. Lee Ubicwedas
          “Ol biche de mer we oli stap expotem…”
              —Stephen C. Battaglene

He sat up tall beside the window gazing at the lawn.
Ah, it was dawn, and then he yawned, as time was going on.
It seemed, this life, ephemeral, as things went passing by.
He looked out to the Sun-suffused blue-colour of the sky.
Was it azure? He wasn’t sure. He was distracted some.
He heard somebody somewhere talking. But they would not come?
There was no radio nearby, nor any screen at all.
He rose his head up somewhat, and his back, as well. On call?
There was no phone. Was he alone in this unblissful niche?
Abundant was the biche-de-mer. Indeed it was quite rich.

R. Lee Ubicwedas is a poet of anything. Stephen C. Battaglene is a contemporary writer and researcher from Tasmania. One of his favourite poets is the American Romantic Earl Dolan Page.


He heard a boom, he saw a flash, he had a brush with death,
when he was walking down the college path; it shook his breath;
for it was shocking and nerve wracking, when he felt the jolt;
th’ umbrella flying from his hand from the fierce lightning bolt.


PostModernism’s Mockingbird
          by Cause Bewilder

Postmodernism’s mockingbird has fallen from the tree
at an assisted living eldercare facility,
gray upper feathers and a paler body falling down,
down in Monroeville, Alabama, down, on to the ground.
She sang all through our day, a lyric, whistling chireep,
up in the chinaberry trees, so sweetly, clear and deep,
a simple serenade, her mimic, many-tongued descant,
a soulful sound that could be heard across America…
And now as per her wishes, her death ashes can be placed
into the crook of our oak tree where she may rest in peace.

Cause Bewilder is a poet of Southern landscapes. Harper Lee (1926-2016) was an American PostModernist proset. Monroeville, Alabama is a town of around 6,000.


The Bronco Trainer
          by “Wild” E. S. Bucaree

The bronco trainer came into the bare and gray-brick room.
He gripped a whip within his fist, for he was going soon.
He thought to have a demitasse, before he left that place,
a small cup of black coffee, strong. He loved its bitter taste.
He picked it up, and put it to his lips, not carefully,
then placed it back upon the saucer, unaware, but pleased.
He mused upon a roasted mallard duck, he once had charged,
a bottle of chablis and camembert with a cigar.
But now he was much cleaner in his smooth and tight black pants,
and so he went off to his work with brant and confidence.

“Wild” E. S. Bucaree is a poet and proset, who did not leave Texas, like O. Henry did, but came to it. O. Henry (1862-1910) was a Realist American proset who located to New York City. L7 & L8 allude to “The Cop and the Anthem.”


In the Car Garage
          by Des Wercebauli

He got so dirty in the car garage where he once worked.
While there he he focused on his chores, the which he never shirked
No matter what it was, he stepped up to the job at hand.
there at the beck and call of boss or customer’s command.
His white tank top got browner as each long day did him in;
but he kept up enthusiasm, if with some chagrin.
O, yes, he felt so blessed to have a job he could go to,
though it be just a concrete floor, and gray-white doors in view.
His fav’rite times were when he had a chance to take a break,
to sit beside an auto or a truck of any make;
for then he could relax a little bit and catch his breath,
to scan his bare surroundings, quite content and circumspect

Des Wercebauli is a poet of work.


To the Sandy Beach
          by Sea Curlew Bide

He’d gone out to the sandy beach; the surf and turf was grand.
He sat beside the ocean wide. He stretched his arms and hands.
The sky was gray and overcast, the water, foamy, flush.
He faced it in his dark sunglasses. Was it quite a rush?
He loved the dark gray sand beneath his thighs, his knees and shins.
He wondered of the UV radiation on his skin.
But he was quite content and pleased to be out in that air.
It was so fresh against his flesh, he loved that he was there.
He saw a kite up in the sky rise high and higher yet,
though where it went he would forget, and too that flying jet.

Sea Curlew Bide is a poet of the sea.