by I . E. Sbace Weruld
No matter how the astrophysicists compute their facts,
the Cosmos keeps expanding outward, gravity contracts.
Is it unseen, dark energy that’s driving us apart?
To find what is invisible will take a lot of heart.
And what about dark matter? Hey, does such a thing exist,
if darkness falls and none can find an astrophysicist?
And why does time go only in one way, and can’t go back?
Are universes parallel within a parallax?
Is there less antimatter than there’s matter in this place?
Does anybody know what is the Universe’s fate?
And are these particles or waves in theoretic strings
that make chaotic order of the mind’s imaginings?
Monsieur I. E. Sbace Weruld is a poet of the cosmos.
by “Clear Dew” Ibuse
An old man watches,
as a black fly walks, Issa,
on his black jacket.
by “Clear Dew” Ibuse
An earwig travels
across the dining room floor.
It has come to eat.
by “Clear Dew” Ibuse
A perched adult’s wish
mingles with a breeze’s whish
and a bird’s wee chirp.
by “Clear Dew” Ibuse
When combed, the cat purrs,
perhaps reminding him of
his mother’s tongue cleans.
“Clear Dew” Ibuse is a haikuist. Kobayashi Issa “cup of tea” (1763-1828) was a noted haikuist.
by “Wired Clues” Abe
Carefully he steps;
a toddler surmounts a curb—
“Wired Clues” Abe is a NewMillennial haiku writer.
Did Hamas terrorists have USB drives at their sides,
with planned instructions how to manufacture cyanide?
Barbarossa Was Begun
by War di Belecuse
When Timur died, he had no son that would become his heir.
Some buried him beneath green jade in Samarcand’s clear air.
His sealed tomb remained unopened till June ’41,
when Russian archaeologists dared do it in the sun.
There was a message there engraved, a caution to the folk:
“whoever dares to open this will face a fiercer foe.”
The next day Hitler’s military soldiers started on
their largest operation, Barbarossa was begun.
War di Belecuse is a poet of conflict. Timur (1336-1405) was a Turco-Mongol conqueror.
An Old Leaf…Falling
by Radice Lebewsu
“Wie lange werden wir diese Last und Qual ertragen?”
—Franz Kafka, “Ein altes Blatt”
Who can imagine how Ukrainians endure their fate,
with hard barbarians still loitering inside their gate?
That mechanized and miltant industrial complex
has wrecked their country with its infantry, and still it wrecks.
With missiles, drones and bombs, it ravages their urban sites;
it’s hardly any wonder millions left in headlong flight;
and those remaining fighting still to claim their homes and towns,
outrageous fortune’s constant shocks continue to astound.
Yet somehow they go on, as does the suffering they face.
But for the grace of God, who would exchange their place…with them?
Radice Lebewsu is a poet of Ukraine. Franz Kafka (1883-1924) was a Modernist German writer.
The Yellow Phlegm
by Dr. Weslie Ubeca
The yellow phlegm that you find in your nose or in your spit,
means that your illness is progressing normally—to wit,
it means your mighty white blood cells have come to save the day
to fight against the germs thick snot is helping wash away.
Dr. Weslie Ubeca is a poet, who is not a medical doctor.
by B. S. Eliud Acrewe
Descending into afternoon amidst the barbecues.
A grilled hamburger would be so delicious—he would choose:
romaine, tomato, and dill pickle, on a fluffy bun,
with yellow mustard radiating, like the setting Sun.
Past Halloween décor and coiffeured lawn, the old man walks;
Chopin is at one of the doors. There are no crowing caws.
The warm, fresh evening settles into quiet revery.
A lady in her squeeky sneakers passes rapidly.
Amidst brief conversations, greetings and acknowledgments,
he breathes in breezes, oak leaves quivering, and peppermint.
It’s after six, and soon will come the lighting of the lamps;
the golden moons atop tall posts turn on to time-mapped plans.
B. S. Eliud Acrewe is a poet of preludes, interludes and postludes. Frédéric Chopin (1810-1849) was a Polish composer and pianist.
by Beadle Crew, USI
“She posts another letter to the sound of five…
People gather ‘round her and she finds it hard to stay alive.”
—Paul and Linda McCartney
He loved the early morning cloud-strewn rise of speckled dew,
that blocked the brazen Solar Disk and its attendant blue;
though, as for that, one could see red occasionally shine
between the overcast gray drizzle, seemingly divine.
It made the tasks that wanted doing, easier to do,
with air so fresh, and the spanned atmospheric light subdued.
The driving, carting, and diurnal chores were less involved,
and, therefore, they were more amenable and likely solved.
It was a way he liked to start another thankful day,
amidst dim mist and estimated…gradioactive decay.
Beadle Crew, USI, is a group.
A Prosem (prosepoem)
by Euclidrew Base
The role of mathematics is one of systematizing, summarizing, in symbolic language what has been observed or found out by experimentation. Then from those formulae, things are produced,
as information that cannot be known except by what the symbols have produced; something that you cannot see has been shown. But not all mathematics—only that which cleverly predicts what’s happening. Just then will we willingly claim such fact. This mental mapping’s an amazing thing. It leaves us often with a mystery, cleared only up by ohs of history.
Euclidrew Base is a poet of math.
Hiders Love a Wall
by “Wild” E. S. Bucaree
November 22nd he was standing on top of
the triple underpass, awaiting the parade…above…
Policemen said to say if any should not be allowed,
as track and signal supervisor for the railroad.
He took a look o’er where he thought the shot came from, and saw
a puff of smoke still lingering beneath the trees—not gone—
in front of the wood fence. It sounded like the gun’s report
came from behind the fence. Someone from the police ran towards
the fence with his gun drawn; another, too, soon afterwards
came running towards that picket fence. He had no doubt at all.
He made it very plain there was a shot behind that fence,
to both the sheriff and Commision. Hiders love a wall.
“Wild” E. S. Bucaree is a poet o Texas. Samuel “Skinny” M, Holland (1906-1975) was a railroad supervisor.
Prosem in ChatGeePeeTee
by Esca Webuilder
Something is always happening to my computer: I am disconnected to the Internet; emails pile up sky high; my printer interrupts. I am hexed too. I lose files that are unretrievable. I am rejected continuously, as if I have a communicable disease. Ill at ease, little do I see. Getting and sending ever is a chore. Whenever I can master one new task another one appears to tax me more, and dumbly do I dare to ask a question on-line. Idiot I am, and thus I am assaulted next by spam.
Esca Webuilder is a poet of the Internet.
Samantha Woll was stabbed to death in Detroit, Michigan,
the trail of blood led from her home, not at her synagogue.
by Bud “Weasel” Rice
Old mouldywarp dirt tosser throws the soil around,
as he proceeds to dig and delve with his forefeet,
and excavates his soft earth tunnels underground.
But though he’s almost blind, Old Mister Mole must eat,
to stay alive down in his moist and musty realm,
an enormous amount of food. What is his meat?
He snacks on spiders, grubs, and bugs, also the worm.
Yet he must eat his own weight every day nearly.
But to do so he must toil through the gloaming loam
without the benefit of keen eyesight to see
where he must part his particles up in a mound,
some 6.02 x 10 to the 23.
Bud “Weasel” Rice is a poet of animals.
by E. Birdcaws Eule
He was the lightning creature of the sky—the Thunderbird—
who flew on high above the clouds and flashed with loud claps heard.
He was so powerful none dared to face him face to face,
lest they would be obliterated from that fated place.
He rose into the atmosphere, like as a roaring force,
who could not be surmounted in the power of his course.
E. Birdcaws Eule is a poet of Aves.
by Eber L.Aucsidew
He wanted to lie back upon his brown reclining chair,
his arms stretched over his head, and his feet up in the air.
He sipped a water with potassium, zinc, calcium,
as well as manganese, magnesium, and sodium.
Free of GMO, sugar, gluten, dairy, wheat and egg,
fish, soy, tree nuts, shell fish, and peanuts, barely but a dreg.
It had a subtle lime-and-lemon taste, so pure and clean,
he loved to drink it in the morning, noon, or evening swing.
Eber E. Aucsidew is a poet of the elixir of life—water.
by Carb Deliseuwe
He loved how peppermint tea felt against raw passages;
it soothed his nasal cavities with speechless messages,
especi’lly after having a great molar tooth ripped out
much to the physical chagrin of his astonished mouth.
He loved the menthol decongestant shrinking swollen tish,
promoting healing with an an-ti-mi-cro-bi-al swish.
by Carb Deliseuwe
You’re like an aged wine
that flames me like a fire
and leaves me drowning.
Carb Deliseuwe is a poet of drink.
by Seer Ablicadew
Don’t dwell upon the bad that you have done,
but take that energy to do the good.
Shun wallowing. Do something for someone.
There’s always something you could do—and should.
And learn from your mistakes. Don’t do again
that which should be avoided. Get and grow.
Don’t live in the past either. Let it go.
There’s always something else to do—and then
Seer Ablicadew is a poet of wizardry.