Flashback:
In 2022, the Nobel Prize in Physics went
to Anton Zeilinger, John Clauser and Alain Aspect,
for pioneering quantum information sciences,
establishing the break-hold of Bell’s inequalities,
quantúm entanglements, those “spooky-at-a-distance acts,”
so dubbed by Albert Einstein, strange among the cosmic facts.
Albert Einstein (1879-1955) was a noted Modernist German physicist. John Bell (1928-1990) was a PostModernist UK physicist.
~~~
Haiku
by “Clear Dew” Ibuse
Vibrating tymbals
scads of orchestral cymbals—
noisy cicadas.
Haiku
by “Clear Dew” Ibuse
All of a sudden,
a fleet of grasshoppers fly
up from the walkers.
“Clear Dew” Ibuse is a haikuist of the natural world.
~~~
Haiku
by “Wired Clues” Abe
Passing the houses,
one smells varied, delicious
barbecue aromas.
Haiku
by “Wired Clues” Abe
The ants are marching
to and from the dead crickets,
in orderly lines.
“Wired Clues” Abe is a trad haiku writer, following on the work of writers, such as Nakamura Kusatao (1901-1983), Kaneko Tôta (1919-2018), Nagata Kôi (1900-1997), Nakamura Sonoko (1911-2001), and Akao Tôshi (1925-1981).
~~~
Eight-Billion Tons
by Caud Sewer Bile
Since 1950, humans have produced eight-billion tons
of plastic, more than half, which is in landfill, sillion runs;
and plastic wreaks slow havoc on the Earth in many ways,
from leaching toxic chemicals into both clays and bays,
to leaching into soils and groundwater, poisoning
and choking animals ingesting it unwittingly.
A large percentage ends up in the oceans and the seas,
and killing the cetaceans there in varying degrees,
as well as many fish that swish about the salty brink.
Pick up another plastic bottle. Have another drink.
Just nine percent of it has been recycled on the Earth.
Of all this deadly toxic plastic waste there is no dearth.
Caud Sewer Bile is a poet of garbage. According to Beau Lecsi Werd, “sillion” is the thick, shiny voluminous soil turned over from a plow, revived by Gerard Manley Hopkins (1844-1889).
~~~
Newsreel:
Where has he gone—Qin Gang—the Chinese Foreign Minister—
on a vacation, or perhaps a place more sinister?
~~~
His Morning Ritual
by Sri Wele Cebuda
“Eins, zwei, drei, alarma, alarma…eins, zwei, drei, alarm…”
The ringtone clangs. It’s time to wake, to march forth and rearm.
He goes straight to the coconut oil on his pantry shelf,
and then begins his early regimen to start himself.
He oil-pulls by swishing stained teeth for a quarter hour,
before he brushes, flushing mouth, in his cool bathroom bower.
He opens shutters, turns on lights, and folds his bedding too.
The shave is next before the shower; he has things to do.
To get out of the door it takes a lot that must be done;
but once outside, and off to work, he sees the rising Sun.
Sri Wele Cebuda is a poet of life-knowledge and ayur-vedic practices.
~~~
One Ma-ni-fes-ta-tion
by Ra Bué Weel Disc
When in his vessel, out west, Ra went to the underworld,
attacked by vile Apophis, his futile vish unfurled;
out of th’ inert one Nun, th’ abyss of nothingness, he came,
out of that watery mass, flames, primordial Atem.
He took his daily trip across the sky, until he morphed,
in mighty night, transforming in…to his ram-headed form,
from falcon-headed, cobra-circled, sun-disk, head-dressed god,
Ra, who is Horus of the Two Horizons, good-luck lord.
Th’ Incandescent Sun
by Ra Bué Weel Disc
It sits in flaming, blazing glitz, at the horizon’s curve,
there flaring, glaring, through the air, with violence and verve,
all earthlings thankful for its power when we grasp its size,
but also wary of its discharge, blinding to the eyes.
This morning, though, one could observe that bright red-orange ball,
without obliterating retinas with gash-gold gall,
vermilion-amber in the atmosphere—dynamic glow—
the ever-busy Solar Disc that keeps the Earth in tow,
there dazzling in radiance and iridescent beams,
th’ incandescent Sun, our neighbour in eternity.
Ra Bué Weel Disc is a poet of the Sun. His favourite god is falcon-headed Ra, the deity of sun, order, kings and sky, the first phaRaoh of Egypt.
~~~
At the Beginning of His Life
by Eswer El Cubadi
A young boy in a filthy shirt and large straw hat
plays in the dirty street with beetles on a stick.
A dog walks by a puddle near where he is at.
He is quite happy, free from any worrying.
It is as if he has the future of his life
before him yet. There is no need for hurrying.
He comes upon a vulture, grounded, not in flight,
though spreading wide its wings. The boy walks up to it.
The humid air teems with mosquitoes, buzzing flies,
all manner of small insects flying right through it.
The young boy swings his stick, as if it were a bat,
then grabs a piece of dry grass and starts to chew it.
Eswer El Cubadi is a poet of Northwest Africa.
~~~
An Animated Man
by Sir Eel da Buwec
Was he a daft daredevil, mad to challenge Lucifer?
a zealot, crazed to laze about with staff and crucifer?
a waiter taking holy orders from some minister?
a saint, requesting from a menu at Cape Finisterre?
a hermit dehydrated, left with dead dry elements?
a waterfowler in the River Jordan’s sediments?
a thinker with a hypothetical imperative?
a Dublin windowshopper in a James Joyce narrative?
Whatever was the case he was an animated man,
who had not yet been to Sudan, Japan, or Pakistan.
Sir Eel da Buwec is a poet of dadaesque streams of consciousness. Cape Finisterre is in Western Spain. Dublin, the capital of Ireland, has a population of around 1,200,000. James Joyce (1882-1941) ((an early practitioner of streams) of consciousness), was an Irish Modernist proset.
~~~
Icelandic Glacial Water
by Lars U. Ice Bedew
Some of Icelandic’s Water sources comes from Ölphus Spring,
which filter through volcanic rock before the bot-tl-ing.
The water picks up minerals that boosts its pH score
to over 8, or there about, but with no fluoride roar.
In fact, it seems to be free of pollution unretrieved,
an icelike sculpted bottle neck, artistic’lly conceived.
Lars U. Ice Bedew is a poet of Iceland, a nation of around 380,000.
~~~
A Fixed-Wing Plane Mechanic
by Air Weelbed Suc
He’d trained to be a fixed-wing plane mechanic long ago;
but never got a job. Who honored him altissimo?
No, not D’Annunzio, who passed away before the War.
Because of when he lived, he never got to see him soar.
Nor ordinary soldiers who provided maintenance
on manned aircraft within the military ordinance.
And so he had to satisfy himself with working as
a missile crewman, later clerking, without much pizzazz.
But he was thankful for a job, for any job at all,
though not reflecting knowledge, paid for clothing, food and loft.
Air Weelbed Suc is a poet of aircraft. Gabriele D’Annunzio (1863-1938) was an Italian Modernist poet and proset.
~~~
Newsreel:
Concerns continue of the waste still in Coldwater Creek.
The Army Engineers still keep their work hid. You can’t peek?
~~~
Mad, South-Bound Traffic
by Bruc “Diesel” Awe
Mad, south-bound traffic, zinging past, a crazed calliope,
so many—myriads—trucks, vans, sedans and SUVs,
so many driving souls within that massive, flowing hell,
heroic’lly proceeding to their destinations quell,
their dog-filled, bird-filled neighbourhoods, where they can live
and rest,
free from the counsels of the gods, where they can feel blessed,
free from the the angry, speeding motorists and their road rage,
free from the plague and ague of the flagrant and the Age,
free from the quarreling of rigs, beneath the Sun’s bright reign,
the nonstop blood continuing along life’s varied veins.
Bruc “Diesel” Awe is a poet of transportation.
~~~
That Count
by Des Wercebauli
There are a lot of things in life that count for exercise,
like vacuuming with ácumén, or stocking of supplies,
like watering the roses with a bucket, back and forth,
like changing, washing, drying bedding, like a laundry Thor.
The lightning strikes, the thunder roars, one monitors the scene,
while loading dishes, or removing them from the machine,
like carrying a baby, placing him in the car seat,
or walking him around the block, down straight street after street,
like walking, too, one’s self around the block, when Sun goes down.
When one is adding up one’s chores, there are a lot that count.
Des Wercebauli is a poet of chores.
~~~
CEA
by Caleb Wuri Seed
Controlled environmental agriculture {CEA}
is growing, using vertical greenhousing tech today,
with hydroponic microclimate farming, just as well,
that’s good for the environment, and better for one’s health.
There’s less food waste, and transportation costs are not as great;
a lot less land and water used for safer, better taste.
The herbs and cooking greens possess a higher quality,
and can be customized as to desired jollity.
The growing “season” is quite quick, without the pesticides,
as well as any fungicides or wretched herbicides.
Is this the future wave that’s coming, Eden’s garden greens,
at distribution centers far from the Middle East.
Caleb Wuri Seed is a poet of farming.
~~~
Monday Evening
by Walice du Beers
It’s past late afternoon. He pauses at the garden bend.
Upon the concrete walkway, he is getting to the end.
He views the concrete statues, two gray ducks low to the ground,
upon the dark-brown barkdust, in the dirt-bed spread around.
The warmth is visceral, from toes up to his finger tips;
it goes into his shoulders and his head, down to his hips.
He stands in quiet awe, while gazing on the rosebush row,
the blossoms, white and pink to red, though small, the blooms all grow.
It’s long ago—last Sunday morning—he has moved beyond.
A memory from Rice appears, although its ghost is gone.
Walice du Beers is a poet of civilized settings. Rice is a university in Houston, TX.
~~~
That Silver Lake
by E. “Scuba” Wielder
He did not know if he was going back or forth or back
upon the lake where he was at in, okay, a kayak.
His watercraft appeared the same from right to left to right,
so he left thé remolded polyethylene in sight
up at the dock where he first learned to swim—that silver lake—
where his sweet mother pushed him so as to it he’d take.
E. “Scuba” Wielder is a poet of water sports.
~~~
The Foxgloves Found in Nature’s Beds
by Ubs Reece Idwal
“The foxglove with its stately bells
Of purple, shall adorn thy dells.”
—David Macbeth Moir
It is July, and foxgloves are in bloom.
Their flowers, tall, deep violet and white,
bedeck the roadsides and are quite a sight
for travelers with lots of time and room,
or idlers resting far from work or doom.
Amidst the green of Washington, their bright,
bold, coloured stalks stand lovely and upright.
They bring delight, whether one pause or zoom
past. Nature’s garden is not orderly,
and random flowers, like the foxgloves, grow
where they can find a place, not bordering
on the absurd. But what a lovely show.
I know there is no person gardening,
who does so much, as nature on its own.
Ubs Reece Idwal is a poet of the Pacific Northwest. David Macbeth Moir (1798-1851) was a Scottish Romantic doctor and writer.