Binary Stars
          by I. E. Sbace Weruld

Binary stars go orbitting their common central mass,
appearing to the naked eye a single point of gas.
Research suggests perhaps as many as one half all stars
are systems of two, three or more, throughout the universe.
Binary stars were first discovered in 1802
by Herschel, the astronomer who found Uranus too.
They seem to travel on a curved path or a partial arc;
John Michell had felt some were linked out in the spatial dark.
Binary stars,denoted by a suffix A or B,
show which is secondary, which primary, both unfree.
They also can be designated either hot or cool,
like supergiant red Antares paired t’ its hotter Blue.


Dark Stars
          by I. E. Sbace Weruld

John Michell first proposed there were these things he called dark stars,
where gravitation’s pull could be so strong, but light so sparse,
whose light could not reach the escape velocity’s horize,
as in the case of stars more than 500 times Sun’s size.
John Michell also noted these could be detectable,
if one could find a star behave, as if it were a double.
He also thought there could be many in the universe,
which now is the belief of numerous astronomers.
John Michell was, in truth, a scientific pioneer,
that English clergyman and natural philosopher;
for ‘t seems there are perhaps black holes in countless galaxies
in x-ray-compact, star-binary, system-balanced scenes.

Mr. I. E. Sbace Weruld is a poet of Outer & Inner Space. John Michell (1724-1793) was a Neoclassical British philosopher and clergyman who influenced a wide range of fields, like astronomy, geology, optics, gravitation.


          by “Clear Dew” Ibuse

The reedy catchment
doesn’t have enough water
for one or two ducks.


          by “Clear Dew” Ibuse

Grasshoppers leap forth
from an infant walking through
the meadow grasses.

“Clear Dew” Ibuse is a haikuist of the natural world.


          by “Wired Clues” Abe

The infant points out,
a jet proceeding to land,
in the azure sky.

“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).


That Solar Wolf
          by Ra Bué Weel Disc

The Sun was glaring in his eyes; he could not see a thing.
The problem was—that moment he was driving up a street.
The flaring blaze, so incandescent, blinded him at once…
upon a time, when climbing up a hill…it was the Sun.

He was so glad there was no traffic on that avenue—
three lanes upon each side. What could he do? He had no view.
He slowly veered into the lane from which he could escape,
and turned away from that harsh glow, that golden, flaming shape.

Whew! he was driving north through shady trees and neighbourhoods,
like Little Red delivering good food through welcome woods.
He felt like as he’d managed to flee from that Solar Wolf,
whose raging violence would overpower…and engulf.

Ra Bué Weel Disc is a poet of the Sun. Two noted retellings of “Little Red Riding Hood” are those of the French writer Charles Perrault (1628-1703) “Le Petit Chaperon Rouge” and the German writers, the Brothers Grimm, Jacob (1785-1863) and Wilhelm (1786-1859) “Rottkäppchen.”


Canadian Sikh leader Hardeep Singh Nijjar was killed
in June, in a Vancouver suburb. Was his passing willed?


That Rumi-Native Mensch
          by Sri Wele Cebuda

He sat beside the roses in the garden in the Sun,
de-liberation, meditation—Purchase hotdog buns—
While elongating his long spine, he lifted up his head:
he stretched his neck and spread his chest beside the dull brick red.
The sunlight lit his body up; he stretched his arms and hips;
though he was slightly stressed, he was at rest, in sweet eclipse.
He saw an image in the window, rising from the glass;
the dewy lawn was spar-kl-ing, so beautiful en masse.
He took a sip—unsweetened tea—sucked in his abdomen.
The Sun’s rays raised his consciousness, as well as androgen.
Positioning himself upon his brown and plastic bench,
he was content to contemplate—that rumi-native mensch.

Sri Wele Cebuda is a poet of meditation.


Dylan Thomas
          by Bard Eucewelis

No, he did not go gentle into that bad night.
He went out idiotically, drinking, mad,
up in a puff of smoke. Hey, buddy, have a light?
Egad, he was a damned pontificating cad,
a womanizing, fighting and impulsive soul.
What was the purple promise of the gift he had?
He turned upon a dime, and dropped into a hole,
a trace of life expressed in timeless words, words, words,
upon the green, green grass of Wales, mining coal,
beneath behemoth vermuth skies with vees of birds.
He stepped onto the stage, a meteor in flight,
and rode out of the cosmos in a sweep of worlds.

Bard Eucewelis is a poet of Wales. Dylan Thomas (1914-1953) was a Modernist Welsh poet.


In the Hot-air Balloon
          by Eber L. Aucsidew

Away we went, up in the beautiful hot-air balloon,
suspended there beneath the gorgeous, pale golden moon.
We stood up in the gondola, the wicker basket weave.
Though were were slightly frightened, we were ready still to leave.
We rose up in the atmosphere, up on the heated air,
o, buoyant in the upward thrust, above the stones of care.
We rode in joy, exhilarated by the lighting flight,
the burner mounted just above, injecting flames of light.
The polyester dacron fabric, seal’d wi’ silicone,
rose high above the grassy knoll that rolled out green and on.


The Rain
          by Eber L. Aucsidew
          “O thou lord of life, send my roots rain.”
              —Gerard Manley Hopkins

Upon a deep-brown armed, black-cushioned chair, he saw the rain
come pouring down the driveways, streets, and heading for the drains.
It thrilled his heart to see it fall on roses, grass and trees,
which jostled in the wind, like animated figurines.
He heard the grumbling thunder after crashing lightning strikes,
so like as will be, in his time, the coming reign of Christ;
yet who among the people here will hear his pealing words—
perhaps none but the perching birds, who shelter from the storm,
like messengers, those passengers, who stay close to the ground
and there remain warm till the rain no longer falls hard down.

Eber L. Aucsidew is a poet of water. Gerard Manley Hopkins (1844-1889) was a Victorian British poet.


Humanity has opened up the gates of hell he says—
UN’s António Guterres—heat, disease, and rains.


Metafloors of a Magnifico
          by Walice du Beers

He blandly walked across a bridge of sighs
and knew, in sooth, not why he was so sad,
until he lost his ships. That made him wise,
for then he thus could see what made him glad.
Canals are less secure than streets paved gold.
So Shylock falls to cry, “I am content,”
but not at th’ Realto. That song is old,
and is sung most when all the money’s spent.
In truth, Antonio’s an older form
of the much younger County Palatine;
and hence, unloved, alone. That is the norm
for those who frown on e’en Saints Valentine,
those martyrs buried along the Via
Flamminia, from Rome through Umbria.


How many FBI employees worked the J-6 crowd?
Director Wray refused to say. He was a clear as cloud.


A Spiritual Arkansas
          by Walice du Beers

It is in the obscure arts one finds traits that he observed,
distinguishing life’s features in his featured space-time curves.
He was entranced right at the entrance, as life is complex,
interpreting reality a verbal haruspex.
He loved opacity and lengthy titles in his pitch;
it made him feel like an Edgar Allan with a twitch;
so when he nods at us, astounds, amazes, causes awe,
each ritual of his a spiritual Arkansas.


The Gastrointenstinal Tract
          by Walice du Beers
          “Not only can one not step in to the same river twice, but one is
          like a river too, and that is more than nice.”
              —Erisbawdle Cue

He heard the rumble-grumbling of a distant passing train,
ass-sitting at his monitor, head-thinking in his brain.
He wondered how ideas came…a miracle of sorts…
and went…he heard squirts shooting in his microbiome store.
Those trillions of bacteria—what were they all up to,
in his gas-tro-in-tes-tine tract and sub-a-to-mic zoo?
More vital than gall bladder, tonsils, spleen, appendix tail:
the microbes living in the colon: heavy, rich, in weight.
O, heavier, in fact, than kidneys, human brain, or heart,
wherein th’ entrails are dropped into that which entails art.

Walice du Beers is a poet of poetic diamonds. Edgar Allan Poe (1809-1849) was an American Romantic poet and proset. Wallace Stevens (1879-1955) was an American Modernist poet, his first poetic work Harmonium.


Black Grackles
          by E. Birdcaws Eule

A large flock of black grackles filled the market parking lot,
all foraging for food to eat from off the asphault top.
Omniverous, they go for outdoor eating neighbourhoods,
and eagerly will wait until somebody drops some food;
and they’ll snatch food from any beak of unsuspecting birds,
adducing that the focused and the purposeful endures.

Within the keels of their bills they can crack hard-core nuts;
their sharp and horny palates are unique for acorn cuts;
their keels go below the level of the tomium,
and there is used to saw seed, kernel, or syconium.
In trash, as in Harmonium, the grackles blatter on,
and when the car is started, scatter in magnetic dawn.

E. Birdcaws Eule is a poet of birds.


Arthur Kopit’s Play
          by Wilbur Dee Case

The time was almost noon. He thought of Arthur Kopit’s play—
low-down “O Dad, Poor Dad…” he had to read back in the day.
He liked the author’s selfless writing, targetting instead
just what it was his characters would say—and what they said,
without the author butting in, except, of course, when he
would put his lengthy titles on one of his farced absurdities.

PostModernist American surreal dramatist Arthur Kopit (1937-2021). Wilbur Dee Case is a poet and literary critic.


A Cup of Macha Green
          by Carb Deliseuwe

He had a cup of macha green to shake torpidity.
He was within a stupor’s murky stream’s turbidity.
He longed to leave his drowsiness upon the countertop,
wherein the boiling water sat within the heated pot.

He didn’t mind his feet were cold; he wasn’t wearing socks;
because the tea would warm him up, a mini firebox.
He held the warm cup in his hands, and took another sip.
O, it was lovely drinking it in on the mute tongue’s tip.

He lifted it up to his lips. He loved its welcome mist.
He felt like as a happy thoughtful, thirl theosophist.
He wondered how his mitochondria helped him to think;
then lifted up his macha cup, and took another drink.


A Quenched and Plucky Puck
          by Carb Deliseuwe

He had a cup of Earl Gray—black tea and bergamot—
with not as much caffeine as he got from his coffee pot;
so though not Floyd, he still enjoyed to drink up flavonoids,
here near these local spheroids, fairly far from th’ asteroids.
He didn’t care that low-dense lipoproteins had been blocked,
or that his levels of cholesterol decreased, and dropped;
nor did he worry that his hypertension was reduced;
he just loved all the precious fluid. It made him pumped and juiced.
He didn’t think of sensitivity to insulin,
nor antioxidants, like epigallocatechin,
but he felt he could stay hydrated with a nice, warm cup,
that satisfied his thirsty quest, a quenched a plucky Puck.

Carb Deliseuwe is a poet of drink.


He Just Moved On
          by Caleb Wuri Seed

Amidst post, live and Shumard oaks, the honey locust trees,
American and cedar elms, box elder and mesquite,
along the highway arching off the farm-to-market road,
he saw black angus munching grasses in that shady node.
He wondered if those cows were happy munching on that grass,
here in sun-bright, late summer, as he drove his auto past.

He passed them by beneath blue sky and and buildings scattered nigh,
as well as a cell tower—its transceivers up so high.
He didn’t say good-bye. He left them on that slanting knoll,
continuing upon his drive; that day his goal was home.
He rode down concrete streets, through sugarberry and pecan,
loblolly pines and cottonwood—and then he just moved on.

Caleb Wuri Seed is a farm-to-market poet.