by I. E. Sbace Weruld
As daylight turns to night, and the street lamps turn on to bright,
the brilliant, blinding, orange Sun turns round another time.
The heat is sti-fl-ing—one-hundred-eight degrees, or more.
The rocket lift-off’s ready with its transport soaring roar.
It’s finally connected to the rocket area,
past the electric station and utilitaria.
The giant poles rise up into the sky one-hundred feet,
on to the Moon, Mars, Jupiter, or somewhere in between.
There’s Atlas and Apollo, Neptune, Titan, and Redstone.
Was that a Pershing missile with a nuclear nose cone?
Mr. I. E. Sbace Weruld is a poet of space, who once worked with Pershing missiles.
The World’s Busiest Airports in 2022 by Passengers
by Air Weelbed Suc
1. Atlanta Hartsfield-Jackson 93,700,000
2. Dallas-Fort Worth 73,400,000
3. Denver 69,300,000
4. Chicago-O’Hare 68,300,000
5. Dubai 66,100,000
6. Los Angeles 65,900,000
7. Istanbul 64,300,000
8. London-Heathrow 61,600,000
9. Indira Gandhi New Delhi 59,500,000
10. Paris-Charles de Gaulle 57,500,000
The total number of passengers worldwide was almost 7,000,000,000 in 2022.
by “Clear Dew” Ibuse
In the solar glare,
the infant observes a jet,
“Clear Dew” Ibuse is a haikuist of the natural world.
by “Wired Clues” Abe
At the water park,
the infant draws his fingers
through whirling sprinklers.
by “Wired Clues” Abe
In the summer heat,
at the spinning umbrella,
the infant chortles.
“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).
by “Clear Dew” Ibuse
He loved the smell of Matcha Green; it smelled like licorice.
To frequently drink its fresh flavour was his fervent wish.
It has a little kick within its polyphenol broth,
and mild mint aromas without any frouze or froth.
Ingredients include both chamomile and cayenne,
turmeric, dandelion root, and matcha catechins,
some fennel, nettle and cracked pepper, in the rich green tea,
as well as a good dose of caffeine and L-theanine.
From the Camellia sinensis plant its essence flows;
as it glides down, it satisfies and makes one’s insides glow.
“Clear Dew” Ibuse is a poet of Japan.
Japan will soon begin releasing its wastewater from
its Fukushima nuke plant to the ocean in this month;
for tanks are filling up; and they need a controlled release,
of radioactive sieved tritium into the sea.
Near Noon in Naselle, Washington
by Li “Web Crease” Du
Beside green grasses,
motionless in the warm calm,
the sun beats down on
where I sit alone today.
There are no clouds up
in the bright, wide, pure azure.
A faint, white half-moon
floats along this vast highway.
Among the poets
living now I have no name.
leaves me out despite my health.
I’m drifting, and yet,
really, what more am I than
a single swallow
here between the sky and earth?
Li “Web Crease” Du is a poet of China. The above free verse poem draws on a poem by Du Fu (712-770).
by Wu “Sacred Bee” Li
As Hong Yin notes, we tourists flock to see
the Everlasting Mountain, North Mount Heng,
an ancient monastery, in Shanxi,
in hopes of reaching It, by visiting.
Wu “Sacred Bee” Li is a poet of China. Hong Yin is a contemporary writer.
Chandrayaan-3 has landed on the south pole of the Moon,
deploying its new rover over cratered, rocky lune.
by Israel E. Ebecud
Though all he had was but a sling that hung upon
his shoulder, David took a stone out of his bag
and slung it. Wearing but a loin cloth, David spun
and swung. He struck Goliath on his forehead’s crag,
and down that giant fell, face-flat on to the ground.
Young David had prevailed with but string, rock and rag.
Throughout millennia, o, how it did resound—
that shepherd’s sweet swing. Bravery’s hard to forget.
It was an act that could not help but to astound,
a guy, who killed both bear and lion with his jet-
propelled arm-hurling hand and slender tawny brawn,
had taken out the military man he met[who wore a coat of mail and helmet made of bronze].
Israel E. Ebecud is a poet of Israel. David (flourished 1000 BC) was a noted writer of ancient Israel.
BRICS nations have met in Johannesburg, South Africa,
to blunt the economic strength of Western capital.
By the Waters of Hatab
by Eswer El Cubadi
We were not on our stomachs
on the burning sands
with machine guns in our hands,
when by the waters of Hatab
we sat among the invisible rocks
and spoke of Kasserine,
as though we could not see
troops moving along the road,
the enemy all around,
the light falling, the night calling.
Eswer El Cubadi is a poet of North Africa. This free verse refers to Tunisia.
Scales Fell From Off His Eyes
by Crise de Abu Wel
He was as blind, as Homer must have been—reputedly—
He could not see; he was typlotic—undisputedly.
And then, some thing like scales fell, immediately dropped,
and he arose, baptized with vision, and his eyeballs popped.
O, he could see again. He was not sightless anymore.
And in the bright light of the Sun, the glory was threescore.
Much safer than before, he could maneuver curves and speed,
past vehicles, including the laydown velocipedes.
No longer darkly looking, yes, he said so verily;
for he was happy more than merely momentarily.
Crise de Abu Wel is a poet of the Good Father. Homer (flourished 8th century BC) was a noted Greek poet.
The Russian Luna 25 has crashed into the Moon,
like as its current currency, it adds one touch of gloom.
by Brice U. Lawseed
“From my mother’s sleep I fell into the State…”
—Randall Jarrell, “The Death of the Ball Turret Gunner”
So frequently the main stream media speaks with one voice,
I can’t help thinking how much of their “news” is merely noise.
Antagonistic to contrarians it’s so extreme,
it seems to me, it is “a threat to our democracy”.
Like core inflation, their corruption grows by bounds and leaps,
and seeps into our deepest state, and interrupts our sleep.
I had not thought we were so fraught with fraud. It’s like a plague.
I had not thought death had undone so many in this place.
It’s times, like these, I feel like I am living in a herd
that’s not at all aware of Operation Mockingbird.
Brice U. Lawseed is a poet of the Washington DC.
DC Police Deny
by Caud Sewer Bile
DC police deny that they have beaten anyone
who ‘s been in jail since January 2021.
It may be true that some, like Ryan Samsel, were zip-tied;
but they weren’t beaten savagely or viciously inside.
DC police deny that they have tortured anyone,
including Samsel in a tiny, filthy, stinking room;
nor have they covered windows with black mats to block the sun,
there is no constant deprivation; his room’s not a tomb.
DC police deny they are abusing human rights,
though it may be that Samsel lost some of his right eye’s sight;
and though no future trial date has yet been set for him,
he ‘s got a bucket toilet and bright, constant light within.
DC police deny that prisoners are suffering;
there are no broken bones or jaws, or other broken things.
No, the DC Department of Corrections makes that clear;
to be in such a place is safe for any prisoner.
Caud Sewer Bile is a poet of the Swamp.
by Earl W. Sidecube
“I was commended by my good master, Mr. Bates…”
Jonathan Swift, “Gulliver’s Travels”
He was born and raised up in Pittsburg, Pennsylvania,
and started working for Will Clayton and pulp mania.
Result—Astounding Science Fiction was the name they chose,
relating science to their thoughts, decrying awful prose.
Yes, he continued on to Farewell to the Master, Bates;
by 1960, though, quite harried and disabled by
arthritis that progressively made it so hard to write.
The Day the Earth Stood Still became a symbol of his fate.
Eventually he passed into the annals of his day,
sci-fi he came to understand, and then appreciate.
Earl W. Sidecube is a poet of sci fi.
The Sun Above the Highways of the Metroplex
by “Wild” E. S. Bucaree
A man observed the huge, red Sun, through thick, horizon air,
there due to Rayleigh scattering within the atmosphere.
Below, immense machines were working with their human brains,
like giant dinosaurs across cross timbers and the plains.
The star-toothed astrodon, an excavator near the ferns,
was munching up the plants and lands, besides the conifers.
The roof-high stegosaurus, cement mixer’s roiling gut,
was filled with rocks, cycads, coarse aggregates, and other stuff.
The brontosaurus, ponderous, its snout squared off and low,
a Sinclair Oil logo, stomped out a road-roller stroll,
while curve-fused anklosaurus, with its built-in wrecking ball,
was knocking down all in its path, wrath at its beck and call.
Triceratops, a horned fork-lifter, with gigantic skull,
was cropping vegetation, its wide frill spread out and full;
but monster paralititans, like semis climbing ramps,
could not ply mangrove swamps, not here, without tide-flatland damps.
Tyannosaurus rex, that great, big apex preditor,
drove by, a huge-jawed garbage-truck, compacting scavenger,
past dump trucks and bulldozers, and that motor-driving Tex,
who saw the Sun above the highways of the Metroplex.
“Wild E. S. Bucaree is a poet of Texas. John William Strutt (1842-1919) was a British Victorian mathematician and scientist for who Rayleigh scattering in named.
by Swuce Balideer
When he was younger, in his preteen years, he loved to ride
his bike in lengthy ovals, on light-traveled Olson Road;
and he’d narrate inventive stories just to please himself,
adventures that came to his mind, and varied chronicles.
To go around…around…around…he felt so satisfied;
unwinding tales seemed the thing to do to make him smide.
There on that asphalt, flat and straight, he rode and rode and rode,
not for some distant El Dorado, but for present dore.
So on he rode for many years, till life took him afar;
and there were other roads he had to take…in…via car.
Swuce Balideer is a poet of ballads. According to Beau Lecsi Werd, the word “smide” comes from smithing and forging, “dore” a trunc for that which is adored.