Here at th’ Approaching Peak of Solar Cycle 25
by I. E. Sbace Weruld
Although outside was chilly—only eighteen cold degrees—
inside the temp’rature was close to seventy-three. Geez!
A difference of fifty-five; he was thank-full for that;
he loved the four walls of his house, and working thermostat.
He could work from his home on his computer monitor,
despite chapped lips and itchy legs—reputed sonneteer.
The Sun was glaring some—but true to form, he still dressed warm—
assiduously typing words in this magnetic storm.
Charged particles flung at the Earth, near the start of this year,
were triggering disturbances in the ionosphere.
Sunspots appeared—flares and coronal mass ejections—live—
here at th’ approaching peak of Solar Cycle 25.
Mr. I. E. Sbace Weruld is a poet of Outer Space.
~~~
Haiku
by “Clear Dew” Ibuse
In January,
at th’ edge of the Metroplex,
the Solar Disk shines.
Haiku
by “Clear Dew” Ibuse
Huddled in the cold,
no katana is needed.
It is a snow storm.
“Clear Dew” Ibuse is an haikuist. The above haiku were influenced by Yosa Buson (1716-1784).
~~~
Haiku
by E. Birdcaws Eule
He looked at a tree,
to where a group of birds flew:
one-two-three-four-five.
Haiku
by E. Birdcaws Eule
Dried leaves on the ground,
yellow, orange, red and brown.
The birds make no sound.
E. Birdcaws Eule is a haikuist on birds. The above two bird haiku were influenced by Iida Dakotsu (1885-1962), a Modernist Japanese haiku writer.
~~~
Haiku
by “Wired Clues” Abe
He went for a walk—
through province, realm and empire—
in his neighbourhood
“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).
~~~
This Hunter-Gatherer of Thought
by Carb Deliseuwe
The temporary temp’rature was twenty cold degrees.
He bundled up, and huddled in; he didn’t want to freeze.
In dark blue sweatshirt down to brown belt, black socks and black shoes,
he drank a cup of warmed-up coffee, MCT infused.
He stretched his torso, and, of course, so far as he could go,
he did some exercises standing by the heater’s glow.
He loved its flow of hot air, as he took another sip
of coffee, yes, th’ elixir of life’s changing comic strip.
He head the drip-drip-drip of faucet water in the sink,
while jotting down “the knotty pines” and other words in ink.
O, God he felt, like as a primitive, though he did not
eat only paleo, this hunter-gatherer of thought.
Carb Deliseuwe is a poet of food and drink.
~~~
Offshoot of Genghis Khan
by Si Ulec Badewer
He sat upon the high, hard stool, attempting to keep poised,
but he’d imbibed so much, o, God, to be one of the boys.
He tried to keep upright, but it was so hard not to fall.
He felt like he was in a wild, whirling free-for-all.
He grabbed the guy right next to him, but still his feet flew up.
How could he hold his stiff drink steady, shaking in his cup.
His head turned round. His back went tight. He lost control and fell,
it seemed to him, into some dim, infernal, swirling hell.
He thought the best thing he could do was hold securely on,
complete the ride—this tested, tried offshoot of Genghis Khan.
Si Ulec Badewer is a poet of Mongolia. Genghis Khan (c. 1162 – 1227) was the founder of the Mongolian Empire.
~~~
Newsreel:
In Ayodhya, the Ram Mandir was consecrated at
the site believed to be the birthplace of god Rama—Sāketa.
Ayodhya, historic’lly known as Sāketa, has a population of around 400,000. It is located in northern India.
~~~
Qaṣīda on Caleed Esweirb
by Bi Saeed Curlews
“…nobody can face the world with his eyes open all the time.”
—Salman Rushdie, “Midnight’s Children”
Caleed Esweirb was just an ordinary dude.
He did not seem extr’ordinary, kind or crude.
The vest and pants he wore were neither neat nor rude.
He did not walk around the house, if he were nude;
and yet he would take off his clothes, he was no prude.
He rarely smiled, but then again he didn’t brood.
He didn’t bottle feelings up; he never stewed.
He seemed to do no single thing he ever rued.
He seemed to do no single thing but what he should.
He never dared indulge in anything he could.
He seemed to do exactly what one thought he would.
Although he never cheered at games, he never booed.
He ate the proper portions when it came to food.
He never drew attention in the neighbourhood.
He never gave a leering look; he was not lewd.
He was a person who preferred an even mood.
He was no introvert, but he would not intrude.
He didn’t argue anything; he never spewed.
Though he could love, and would, he never oohed or cooed.
He loved round grassy hills, but also loved the wood.
Who’d ever think that he was either bad, or good?
Bi Saeed Curlews is a poet of Indian Ocean edges. Salman Rusdie is a contemporary Anglo-Indian proset.
~~~
Newsreel:
Two US Navy Seals died in Aden’s gulf this month,
when raiding an Iranian ship out warmongering.
~~~
A Song of Zephaniah
by Esecwiel Barud
Seek God, all of you humble of the land,
seek righteousness, and seek humility,
all of you who do follow His command,
perhaps you may be hidden carefully,
upon the day of God’s great wrath and ire;
for Gaza then shall be a desert dune
and Ashqelon a desolation, fire;
old Ashdod will be driven out at noon,
and poor Ekron uprooted like a tree.
Oh, woe to you inhabitants who dwell
upon the Mediterraean Sea,
your nation, Cherethites, shall be as hell.
The Word of God is now against all you,
oh, Canaan, land of Palestine and Jew.
Esecwiel Barud is a poet of Ancient Judah. Zephaniah was a prophetic poet of the 7th century BC.
~~~
Newsreel:
Gas Russian giant Novatek suspended ops at its
fuel export Baltic terminal due to Ukraine’s drone hits.
Ust-Luga, Russia, has a population of around 2,000.
~~~
Tank Battle in Stepove
Radice Lebewsu
It took place in a neighbourhood on a snow-covered lane,
between some trees and houses in Stepove, in Ukraine.
A Bradley tank advanced to do a drive-by shooting of
a large T-90M. It raked the Russian vehicle.
25-millimeter rounds shot through the air at it;
the Breakthrough fired two shots, but unfortunately missed.
T-90M’s crew then released a smoke-screen foggy-dull,
just as a second Bradley hit its back exposed rear hull.
And, then, apparently, a small flame detonated one
o’ th’ armoured panels, causing an EXPLOSION—it was done.
Radice Lebewsu is a poet of Ukraine. The village Stepove has a population of about 60.
~~~
Toga to Go
by Aedile Cwerbus
“non splendeat toga, ne sordeat quidem”
—Seneca, “Epistulae morales ad Lucilium”
Each day he had to put on clothes to be presentable
to others he’d meet; after all, it is quite sensible,
when getting ready to go out, put on your toga first.
One needs to cover nakedness, lest one be fiercely cursed.
O, yes, one can be violent, displaying vileness,
at any moment triggering some out of idleness.
And so, when one has recently come from one’s showering,
it’s best to dress, lest one face criticism, glowering.
Aedile Cwerbus is a poet of Roman manners. Seneca (4 BC – 65 AD) was a Stoic philosopher of Ancient Rome.
~~~
Umber Tones
by Bucalese Werdi
In an apartment in Milan, he owned
a library of thirty thousand books;
in Rimini, some twenty thousand tomes,
some tucked away in semi-hidden nooks,
this follower of Jorge Borges, this
Italian literary novelist,
this semiotic camped at the abyss,
this anthropological archivist,
whose library of Babel and James Joyce,
a labyrinthine sanitorium,
contained an echo, flat as Montale’s voice,
that flowed into the New Millennium
from falling through Postmodernism’s haunt,
an avalanche that started in Piedmont.
Bucalese Werdi is a poet of Italian literature and writers, like the proset in the above sonnet, Italian PostModernist Umberto Eco (1932-2016). James Joyce (1882-1941) was a Modernist Irish proset; Jorge Borges (1899-1988) was an Argentinian Modernist poet and proset. Milano is a city in northern Italy with a metro population of around 3,200,000, Rimini, on the east coast with about 150,000.
~~~
Katedrála by František Kupka, 1912-1913
by Red Was Iceblue
The beautiful blue hues between the whites and darks,
in thin, long rhombuses and parallelograms,
are touched in drops of red, their crystal spires stark,
triangles, clear and splotched, like airy telegrams.
Christ’s silent blood remains, almost an afterthought,
before the coming onslaught weighed in kilograms:
the warmer colours sink below—are not that hot—
the oranges, the browns, the yellows—World War I.
It hasn’t happened yet. How could it be forgot?
Prismatic and refracted light: Where is the Son
of Man? the Moon? What light through yonder window harks?
It is a beast that frantic Kupka sees undone
{and Franz Marc had to face}.
Red Was Iceblue is a poet of Modern, PostModern, and NewMillennial painting. František Kupka (1871-1957) was a Czech Modernist pioneer in abstract painting. Franz Marc (1880-1916) was a Modernist pioneer of German Expressionism, before he died in World War I.
~~~
Winter Landscape Without Ducks
by Eber L. Aucsidew
Here in the catchment, the cement retention pond is ice,
the frozen water standing still is white beneath the sky.
There’s no in-season duck that floats across its surface glitz,
no fountain spritz, nor zig-zags lit into bright tiny bits.
The January Sun is not austere, as it shines down,
no scornful, gold-eyed Cyclops here, at Sherman Crossing, now.
Though Herculean, in this seeing, under frigid blue,
there is no stalking, winter walking, only driving through.
The windshield’s clear, the window clean, the eye can see the scene,
an image of this frosty glazing, blazing in sheer sheen.
But this is true, there still is rue beneath this Solar Disc,
yet momentary solace too, by these green reeds at risk.
Eber L. Aucsidew is a poet of air and water. Sylvia Plath (1932-1963) was an American PostModernist poet and proset.
~~~
Sunday Morning Flock of Starlings
by E. “Birdcaws” Eule
He saw, while driving down the roadway, off 288,
a flock of starlings at th’ electrical substation gate.
It was on Sunday morning, and with serious intent,
they dropped down from a murmuration, in precise descent.
In҇ a dazzling swirl of undulations—unambiguous—
with closing wings, they sank so swiftly, it was marvelous.
Coordinating movements with their seven nearest birds,
they had achieved a scale-free correlation with no words,
and gracefully, as well as synchronously, paused to stand,
before they took off strenuously to another land.
E. “Birdcaws” Eule is a poet of birds.
~~~
A Quick Off and On
by Bruc “Diesel” Awe
He turned into the truck stop; it was open all the time.
He wanted food and gas, and didn’t mind the oily grime.
Along with eggs and bacon, some low-sulphur diesel fuel;
though he was quite content, some might have thought of it as gruel.
The parking lot was rough, the concrete cracks were fairly large;
around the pumps some had complained of gassy water sparge.
Lube services were offered, engine diagnostics too,
yet there were those who felt their workers lacked much spunk and
thew.
Still, he was glad for having had a changed new marker lamp,
as he drove off—well fed—on to the rainy highway ramp.
Bruc “Diesel” Awe is a poet of transportation.
~~~
Professor Lustig’s Hateful-Grateful Eight
by Dr. Weslie Ubeca
Professor Lustig lists subcellular pathologies,
the “hateful-grateful eight”, he says belie chronic disease:
the first, glycation, sugar binding to proteins or fats;
the second, oxidative stress, due to free radicals;
the third is mitochondrial dysfunction; one’s less spry;
the fourth, is insulin resistance, where blood sugars rise;
the fifth is membrane instability, salts overshoot;
the sixth is inflammation, troubles, chronic or acute;
the seventh, methylation, can inhibit certain genes;
and finally, the eighth, self-eating, is autophagy.
Dr. Weslie Ubeca is a poet of health and medicine, not a doctor of either. Robert Lustig is a NewMillennial writer and neuroendocrinologist, who frequently rails against Big Food, Big Pharma, and Big Government.
~~~
His Physical Activity
by Rudi E. Welec, “Abs”
He’d got a bit of sweat despite his morning lethargy.
He felt his exercising boosted up his energy.
His mood improved, his high anxiety dropped down somewhat.
He thought that it was fun to work out, even with bum butt.
Just yesterday he strained his leg, so he would have to go
much slower on th’ elliptical, and sleep it off, yes, o.
Strength training and aerobic exercise, he learned back then,
when he was just a college freshman, on life’s track and wend.
He hadn’t an idea how important it would be
to keep it up, that, is, his physical activity.
Rudi E. Welec, “Abs”, is a poet of mitochondria health.
~~~
Those Stacks of Books
by Wilee Read Bucs
Remember all those stacks of books one rifled through in vain.
How many myriads in tomes? How many tombs of pain?
How many strong souls left their words for other to regain,
who wrote so much in their attempt to point out and explain?
Book after book thrown in to Hades, with the birds and dogs;
so many heroes trying to begin their long prologs.
Thus was the plan of Zeus Almighty, evermore fulfilled,
when great Achilles strove against all that the gods had willed,
and jerks, like fearsome Agamemnon, and his gruesome curse.
What did one think one could attain when he combed through such
works?
Wilee Read Bucs is a poet of books.
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