by I. E. Sbace Weruld

Although the Big Bang Theory was accepted, it
could not account for uniform temperature;
but in the 1980s, A. Guth posited
the cosmic volume was condensed, miniature,
in the beginning. There, therefore, was time enough
for an event to normalize its furniture;
and in that tiny universal furnace, stuff
could travel faster than the speed of light, in short,
Inflation. At that moment in creation’s huff,
the four known forces were as one; but when that snort
occurred, and gravity broke off and split,
Inflation caused that uniformity and more.

I. E. Sbace Weruld is a poet of space. Alan Guth is a contemporary theoretical physicist and cosmologist.


          by “Clear Dew” Ibuse

The infant babbles
his meaningful expressions.
A morning dove calls.

“Clear Dew” Ibuse is a poet of Japan.


          by “Wired Clues” Abe

He stops on his walk,
to observe the tall stop sign.
It rises high up.

“Wired Clues” Abe is a poet of tradical haiku.


Zelensky went to the G-7, in Hiroshima,
to speak to nations there about the fifteen-month-old war.

Hiroshima is a city in Japan of about 1,200,000.


          by Sri Wele Cebuda

Around the Dharma Wheel spins,
around and round it goes.
It never pauses nor begins,
it simply travels, o.

Though millions fly off from its whirl,
and thousands perish too,
it draws in love from all the World,
the kind, the good and true.

And though some long to stop its turn,
they may as well attempt
to halt the Sun from its great burn
with nothing but contempt.

Sri Wele Cebuda is a poet of Dharma.


Beside the IED
          by Cid Wa’eeb El Sur

At noonish in the living room, a panting man
was waiting hard on history, his elbows tense,
and watching closely a particular road’s span,
as if some thing about to happen would rake sense.
He looked at something very near and dear to him,
that people could observe; an unimportant scene
was being acted out for little selves with vim
right at the flute-end of the guy in blue and green.
There was a ledge; he stretched his legs, his lips were tight,
beneath a picture of a careless, blasted sky.
He stood prepared, and waited for the dynamite.
His hands gripped on the head, like figs. His lips were dry.

Cid Wa’eeb El Sur is a poet of the living Lord of the South.


The Winner
          by Radice Lebewsu

Remembering the dryness in the throat—the dead man’s land—
no lilacs sprouting underneath the rubble’s massive span.
They shout out victory! This test of being, they’ve survived,
unfurling flags in slag, where evil’s naked power thrives.

They pose before the bombed-out site—a fence of such a shield—
in combat boots and camo pants on ceded battlefield.
The destiny of Bakhmut at this moment is to yield.
This fated wall, in the defenders’ eyes, though yet unsealed.

This moment’s come, the occupiers, with their unfair goals,
have pulverized the city, and their ring of seige is closed.
Around the World, people crowd to see what has occurred,
these darkened faces in the sun that triumph undeterred.

How marvellous they are—immortal lot upon this plot.
This chain of legends with its link—won’t it too be forgot?
It now is noon. No one who ‘s near to there can be at ease.
Please cease—the plea unheeded—O, when will Ukraine find peace?

Radice Lebewsu is a poet of Ukraine. This poem draws upon “The Winner” by Russian Modernist poet Boris Pasternak (1890-1960), and a picture of the Wagner Group. The once thriving city of Bakhmut, Ukraine, now has population of about 4,000.


As Anger Armed Archilochas
          by Acwiles Berude

As anger armed Archilochus with his iambic lines,
his foot fit both the comic and the tragic anodynes.
It suited dialogue, didactic, and the choral noise,
appropriate to drama, and as well to epic poise.

Acwiles Berude is a poet of Ancient Greece. Greek Archaic poet Archilochus (c. 680 BC – c. 645 BC) was an innovative craftsman in poetic meters.


I Caught a Glimpse
          by Wilbur Dee Case

I didn’t see him—Jeffers on his tower—like a ghost,
in overly dramatic prance, a grand Whit-manic boast,
with as much spirit as the father of Prince Hamlet’s brain,
collapsing on the California coast, a dodgy Dane,
nor White Cliffs hovering above Matt Arnold’s Dover Beach;
this pause on the Pacific out of Sophoclean reach,
or Aeschylus upon the escalator coming down
to see the continental shelf come crashing underground;
I saw another bloated figure, windier than Troy,
come riding on the foamy waves along with Sigmund Freud.

Robinson Jeffers (1887-1962) was and American Modernist poet, Matthew Arnold (1822-1888) was a British Victorian poet, Sophocles (c. 497 BC – c. 405 BC) and Aeschylus (c. 525 – c. 455 BC), Greek tragic poets, and Sigmund Freud (1856-1939) an Austrian psychoanalist.


Along the Circus Maximus
          by Aedile Cwerbus

Today it’s unattended by the crowds.
One only finds th’ occasional tourist
who ambles quietly along. The clouds
release some rain. A few are curious,
remembering what once it was; but few.
Its sandy-pebbled, grass-invaded stretch
around the oval’s sweep, for the most part,
is empty. Where are th’ charioteers who
used to speed past? Where is the bitter vetch?
Where is the pounding of each beating heart?
Just those few here who amble on that vast
and open track, while all around, beyond,
the city Rome whirls like a spun top cast,
a crazy, racing, madly rushing on.

Aedile Cwerbus is a poet of Rome, ancient and modern. The rhyme scheme of this American sonnet is ababcdecdefgfg. Rome is a city of around 2,800,000.


Each day society creates a trillion gigabytes
of brand new data, information, and profound insights.
It has become increasingly important storing such
in ever smaller, more compact things that can hold so much.
Some nanoscientists at Delft have built a memory,
8,000 bits upon a chlorine atom’s density.
Though in its current form this memory alone occurs
in clean vacuum conditions—liquid-nitro temper’tures;
still, all the books that people ever have created could
be placed upon a single stamp, and God see it as good.

Delft is a city in the Netherlands of around 100,000.


          by Ra Bué Weel Disc
          “You will not give forever.”
              —Drew U. A. Eclibse

It’s not a lion’s face suspended in unfurnished sky,
that stands still spilling at the center, golden, gleaming dye,
that pours unrecompensed, like as a single entity,
that stalkless flower showering forth in eternity.

O, split the lark in t(w)o, by distance measured off and mete,
that petalled head of flames exploding into light and heat.
coined there among these greedy, needy, lonely verticals
and horizontal angels circling thé monarchical.

Ra Bué Weel Disc is a poet of the Sun. This poem draws from English PostModernist poet Philip Larkin (1922-1985).


The plumes were rising over Atlixco, in Mexico;
Volcano Popocatepetl spewed gas, ash, and smoke.

Atlixco, Mexico, covered with ash this week, has a population of around 125,000.


Popocatepetl and Iztaccihuatl
          by Cesal Dwe Uribe

Two mountains lie southeast of Mexico City,
Popocatepetl and Iztaccihuatl;
the ‘smoking mountain’ and the ‘sleeping,’ or ‘white lady,’
are what their names mean in the language of Nahuatl.
One legend has it that the first, a great warrior,
in love with the fair maid, had to win a battle.
He was victorious, but a rival suitor
spread the rumor that Popocatepetl died.
She died of grief. When he returned, he placed her o’er
a mountain range, the woman he’d hoped for his bride,
and that is where one can see her, while nearby, he
forever watches over at his lost love’s side.


A 1522 Footnote
          by Cesal Dwe Uribe

Remembering that sulphur had been seen
in Popocatepetl’s crater, Cortez sent
a party thither, of whom one, F. Montaño,
was lowered down into the mouth o’ th’ smoky mount.
He feared that he would fall and go straight down to hell,
into that smoking, churning, choking, burning fount.
But these resourceful soldiers managed the quell,
and then were able to procure enough of it—
out of the pit of high Popocatepetl.
The climbing of the mount itself was quite a feat,
the highest peak achieved for some three centuries,
and pale yellow sulphur to make gunpowder spit.

Cesal Dwe Uribe is a poet of Mexico. Hernán Cortéz was a Spanish conquistador (1485-1547), Francisco Montaño (c. 1503 – c. 1576) was the first documented climber of Mount Popocatepetl.


          by Ira “Dweeb” Scule

They’re found in hadrons, mesons, QGP—these particles—
top, bottom, up, down, charm, and strange; there are six types of quarks.
They form composites in atomic nuclei, like as
the neutrons or the protons, micro entities encased.
They have intrinsic properties, electric charge and spin,
as well as colour charge and mass, all which are found within.
They do experience all fundamental forces known,
electromagnetism, gravatation, weak and strong.
Proposed by Gell-Mann and George Zweig in 1964,
from their initial three, they rose to four, and then two more.

Ira “Dweeb” Scule is a poet of scientific theories. QGP is an acronym for Quark-gluon plasma. Murray Gell-Mann (1929-2019) was a PostModern American physicist, George Zweig is a contemporary Russian-American particle physicist and neurobiologist.


NewMillennial Poetry
          Walice du Beers

The act of finding poems of the mind that will suffice,
discovering the scene that’s set and usage of its signs;
this theatre is ever changing, rearranging roles;
one has to use the past, but also reach new present goals.
One must be living for believing in this place’s speech.
One has to face the people of the time within one’s reach.
One has to think of wars, and building up a brand new stage,
an actor meditating on the trials of the age.
One must speak out to the most delicate of minds and ears
but also to th’ invisible hard audience that hears,
and finding words of satisfaction, though life’s strifes be harsh.
and sharp, in shoes that swim through deserts, like a crypto shark.

Walice du Beers is a NewMillennial poet, who admires poetic definitions of Modernist American Wallace Stevens (1879-1955) and PostModernist American Louis Simpson (1923-2012).


The Life You Save May Be Your Own
          by Cause Bewilder

The life you save may be your own, so drive defensively,
not really pensively, no, nor de trop offensively.
Avoid distractions, like The Hot Spot, or hitchhiking schmo,
and focus on the driving, not your phone or radio.

Until you reach your destination, Mobile or beyond,
be sharp and notice signs and lights, in order to respond.
Check mirrors frequently around your moving vehicle,
evading situations that give rise to piacle.

Scan far ahead to see what’s coming further down the road,
like hazards, fallen limbs or turns, some large descending cloud,
that crowds the golden Sun, and brings forth lightning, and a loud
guffawing crack of thunder, giant raindrops and a shroud.

Cause Bewilder is a poet of the South. This poem draws from “The Life You Save May Be Your Own” by American PostModernist writer Flannery O’Connor (1925-1964).


The Acrobat
          by Rudi E. Welec, “Abs”

I saw him balanced on a ball, contorted to its form.
The acrobat was having fun, despite the perfect storm.
It was as if he were upon a merry-go-round’s spin,
without a pole to hold on to, or saddle to sit in.
O, up and down and round he went, his back was slightly bent;
regardless of the hardness of his moves he seemed content;
for I could see sheer ecstasy arising from his soul,
as if what he had to contend with made him happy, whole;
and one could tell likewise his audience enjoyed his act,
one stern guy leaned back in his chair, and then his smile cracked.

Rudi E. Welec, “Abs”, is a poet of sport.