“Okay, Houston…we’ve had a problem here.”
—Jack Swigert (1931-1982), American NASA astronaut
Newsreel:
Intuitive Machines reported it’s “alive and well”,
Moon Lander, dubbed Odysseus, upon a Lunar tel;
but it has landed on its side, because a safety lock
fail’d on the spacecraft’s laser-based range finders, and was blocked,
encountering an obstacle that caused it to tip o-
ver, said the company’s co-founding prez and CEO.
Stephen Altimus is Intuitive Machines’ “company’s co-founder, president, and CEO.”
~~~
Haiku
by “Clear Dew” Ibuse
The wild ducks gather
at the flush detention pond,
omnivorously.
Haiku
by “Clear Dew” Ibuse
Branching limbs and twigs,
in blue, blast beaucoup white blooms
in th’ ornate pear tree.
“Clear Dew” Ibuse is a haiku poet.
~~~
Haiku
by “Wired Clues” Abe
The boy sees the card
of the frog and the princess.
It’s a fairy tale.
Haiku
by “Wired Clues” Abe
Looking for a nest,
a morning dove got trapped in
an opened garage.
“Wired Clues” Abe is a NewMillennial haiku writer.
~~~
The 25 Most Polluted Cities, February 2024, according to WHO
1. Dhaka, Bangladesh
2. Lahore, Pakistan
3. Patna, India
4. New Delhi, India
5. Delhi, India
6. Urumqi, China
7. Muzaffarnagar, India
8. Xi’an, China
9. Xuchang, China
10. Peshawar, Pakistan
11. Anyang, China
12. Dushanbe, Tajikistan
13. Ghaziabad, India
14. Zhengzhou, China
15. Lucknow, India
16. Xinxiang, China
17. Lanzhou, China
18. Shijiazhuang, China
19. Katmandu, Nepal
20. Dubai, United Arab Emirates
21. Visakhapatnam, India
22. Chandigarh, India
23. Taiyuan, China
24. Baghdad, Iraq
25. Tianjin, China
~~~
The Bogus Google AI ChatBox Gemini
by Esca Webuilder
How bogus is the Google AI ChatBox Gemini?
It seems the only thing it can do properly is lie.
So is it any wonder Google would apologize;
and go back to the drawing board to work on better lies?
acknowledging Tiananmen Square actually exists,
where Chinese citizens were butchered by the Communists,
while paying publishers to test the Gen AI Platform;
who must obey to print out stories, three per day at norm.
One question is: How much is Google paying others to
regurgitate news articles, those false or somewhat true?
Esca Webuilder is a poet of the Internet.
~~~
Flashback:
By June 4th 1989,
Tiananmen Square had been cleared.
~~~
Making Poetry
by Cadwel E. Bruise
He says it’s not about the money. He does it for love…
for family, for his survival. What does he know of
survival? Silently they gaze. They think of marching boots
that snapped rib cages, stomped on broken hands, that they withstood.
They think of lizards, crickets, silkworms—delicacies then;
and being tied up like a hog, or butchered like a hen.
What does he know about the heart, when hearing loved ones’ deaths—
that crushing news, the rushing blood, those painful hurting breaths?
Disbursed like dust, they walked through jungles in the night, still hurt.
The stars so bright—Could they touch them? They slept upon the dirt.
To thankful Thai-camp refugees, the freedom bird appeared,
and dropped them north of Boston. Honking cars and taxis neared.
Cadwel E. Bruise is a poet of New England. This poem draws from “How Much Does Poetry Make?” by Bunkong Tuon, a contemporary Cambodian-American writer.
~~~
Fighting Skulking
by Ra Bué Weel Disc
Although Egyptian pharaohs sitting on their stony thrones,
appear as stilted statues in red granite or limestone,
positioned in such á staid way is quite appropriate,
if not as realistic or idealisticate,
as figures found in Ancient Greek and Roman sculpted cuts;
it is a form that is condusive to more pulpy structs,
like that which is the human body shaped by exercise
and all manifestations of a thriving enterprise;
for it is proper spine alignment rising up on high
to Earth’s controlling, ever-changing, constant Solar Eye.
Ra Bué Weel Disc is a poet of the Sun.
~~~
The Hidden Noiseless Lionesses
by Cur A. Wildebees
The hidden, noiseless lionesses stalk their prey in groups;
they creep on bellies in savannah grasses, like shock troops.
With their enormous speed and powerful claws they possess,
they chase, then tackle, paralyze and kill with fierce finesse.
Compared to humans they are far more sensitive to light;
they have exceptional night vision, and oft hunt at night.
Well camoflaged and flexible, their hunts are quite a sight.
Woe to giraffes and zebras facing their explosive might.
The wildebeest and buffalo are targets for their hunts.
Beware, beware that savagery, each fatal hungry lunge.
Cur A. Wildebees is a poet of animals in Africa.
~~~
Newsreel:
From Spain to Poland, farmers are protesting cheap imports,
as well as Green New Deal red tape and European courts.
~~~
Italian in an Orange Suit
by Uberde Ascweli
He romped upon the bright, light plains of Arcady
enthusiastic’lly, as if he were a son
of Hercules—that dark bronze man from Italy,
big armed, big heart. It was a joy to watch him run.
At dawn, he’d don his orange suit, and carry on,
as if he were kinetic energy undone;
vast Arcady was all his, and his Rubicon.
He frolicked like a wild bull—that uncouth brute—
content within the confines of his orange suit,
as if he planned to take command of all he saw.
To say the very least, he was an awesome dude,
a creature filled with life, rambunctious, rash, and raw.
I wished that I could be like him, and he like me;
for then, I, too, could have his kilter and his yaw.
Uberdi Ascweli is a poet of Italy.
~~~
Newsreal:
And now Big Ben is hosting laser letters on its side
proclaiming “from the river to sea”—Jew genocide.
Is this the Neo-Holocaust’s vile, virulent discharge—
new Palestine protester but old Nazi written large.
~~~
The Jacaranda Blossoms
by Brac Lei Uweeds
“As the leaves fell slowly from the Jacaranda, I ran to catch a piece
of sky.”
—Avijeet Das
“your…feathered fingers gorged with lacy charm purply lavender…”
—Jon Von Erb
In Mexico, the capital is flowering with trees—
the jacaranda blossoms turning violet with ease—
and though it’s only February, rising spring embarks;
and on those limbs of purple blooms are western meadowlarks.
Enthralled once by the cherry trees in Washington DC,
Pascual Ortiz set out to please his capital with these;
but Tatsugoro Matsumoto said they would not thrive,
and recommended bluish jacarandas for his drives.
Since then, it has been decades, they have been a staple of
the Mexicans and visitors, whose bluish blush they love.
Brac Lei Uweeds is a poet of flowers. Mexico City has a population of around 9,000,000. Pascual Ortiz Rubio (1877-1963) was a former President of Mexico, Tatsugoro Matsumoto (1861-1955) a Japanese landscape architect and businessman. Avijeet Das and Jon Von Erb are contemporary poets.
~~~
Newsreel:
It seems that Big Food’s Kellogg’s Gary Pilnick has a tip
to face US inflation’s ever rising price uptick—
Let them eat high fructose-laced cereal. Why would some scoff?
The comments posted to the company’s site were turned off.
~~~
Flashback:
“Qu’ils mangent de la brioche.”
—attributed to some “great princess”, Jean-Jacques Rousseau
(1712-1778), in his “Confessions.”
~~~
To the Editor of the New York Quarterly
by Dic Asburee Wel
150 poems every day;
and 50,000 in a year they come.
I’m sure you’re overwhelmed and underpaid,
but what a vision of America.
Dic Asburee Wel is a poet of New York.
~~~
Newsreel:
At Eagle Pass in Texas, methamphetamine poured in,
more than $100,000,000 taken on the chin.
It’s not just fentanyl the Chinese send to Mexico,
but other drugs are pouring in the southern border zone.
~~~
A New West
by “Wild” E. S. Bucaree
Pat Garrett, Doc Holiday, and Billy the Kid, didn’t give a damn about the pre-Socratics; and, in fact, the former would quite willingly rid the West of the ridiculous, pompous Attics. As for goat songs or Aeolics, they didn’t take much stock either; their code followed Appomatox. It was a different kind of world they would make. They saw a new West. It was brutal and barren. The ancient headache they were willing to forsake. Their world was free and clear of the River Charon. Their mountainous world did not have a pyramid; roughs and savages, yes, but no Pharaoh therein.
The Albuquerque Kid
by “Wild” E. S. Bucaree
The thing that most surprised that cowboy from the West
was not that lovely gal with sequins when she dressed,
was not that flaming arrow aimed straight for his crest,
was not that silver bullet destined for his breast.
It was the time he pushed that man from off his chest;
that man had gripped him harder than he could have guessed;
like Beowulf, when clenching Grendel, Daneland’s pest,
he wondered would he win this one and meet this test.
But luckily for him, though he was surely messed,
the struggle ended well, for he was truly blessed
with strength enough to shove that tough from off his vest;
and he escaped with little pain and well-earned rest.
Of all the many battles he had, he confessed,
the one that threw him out of sorts and had him stressed
the most, was when that Albuquerque kid had pressed
him close to death; but he fought back with all his best.
“Wild” E. S. Bucaree is a poet of the West. “A New West” is a prosem: Pat Garrett (1850-1908) was an Old West lawman, Billy the Kidd (1859-1881) was an American outlaw and gunman, Wyatt Earp (1852-1929) was a lawman and gambler. “The Albuquerque Kid” is a qasidah, which refers to characters from “Beowulf” (c. 8th century).
~~~
Newsreel:
Apparently with no surprise comes Angela Chao’s death;
although the circumstances are unclear. What was the thread?
Authorities in Blanco County, Texas, simply said,
the incident was just an “accident,” “unfortunate.”
~~~
The Young Geologist
by Beedie Lu Rawcs
The young geologist squats down beside a pile of rocks,
some tiny pebbles in an area of plants and stalks.
He crouches down inspecting each one indiviudally.
He has Job’s patience and as well his perspicacity.
The Sun is beating down on him, but never does he miss
a chance investigating the next one that meets his face.
He’s interested in their surfaces, what they’re made of,
but doesn’t care about the Sun that’s shining overhead.
He loves observing all the jawns he comes in contact with,
this agate, mica, silica flecks, in this red-loved myth.
Beedie Lu Rawcs is a poet of rocks.
~~~
Chickweed Dreams
by Ileac Burweeds
Above green growth, its blossoms climb, like tiny towerets.
Though it is small, the chickweed thrives, with small, white flowerets.
Its oval, smooth-edged leaves, in pairs, rise in the flagrant Sun;
thin stems branch outward horizontally, and mat as one.
The seeds of this pulled weed, which spread past grass and lavender,
proliferate as an efficient nitro scavenger.
Its floral clusters typic’lly possess ten petaled stars,
and form a galaxy across both meadow, and mown yard.
It is so little and its roots so shallow, one could miss
this hidden gem, like “The Swiss Family” of Johann Wyss.
Ileac Burweeds is a poet of weeds. Johann David Wyss (1743-1812) was a Swiss Romantic author who wrote the first manuscript of “Der schweizerische Robinson.”
~~~
In February’s Light
by Ubs Reece Idwal
The trunks and limbs of deciduous trees
are gray and bare in February’s light.
Pale, brown, wispy grass is down in the breeze
so soft; the air is cool and crisp and slight.
A bluejay argues with tranquility,
along with vehicles upon the road,
and one lone plane which passes overhead.
It is the season of senility,
debility. A big truck hauls its load.
Yet much is still alive, not all is dead.
The people in their cars can see green brush,
and evergreens climb high into the sky.
Alongside all the emptiness is much
for a close watch and a discerning eye,
as crocus stems in shade, upright and green,
portend there will be more that will be seen.
Ubs Reece Idwal is a poet of the Pacific Northwest.
~~~
An Hirsute Arabesque
by Cause Bewilder
He lifted up his chest. The Sun was shining on his desk.
He looked outside upon the grounds, an hirsute arabesque.
The grass was tan, the tree leaves brown; they jiggled in the light.
He loved that barren landscape. He felt tin-gl-y, but tight.
Rough winter winds were shaking the dead, auburn oak leaves. Look.
Crepe myrtle limbs of February feverishly shook.
He loved the emptiness. It was so bare, but fair and clear,
like as the cloudless skies within his eyes, pale and azure.
The Sun fell on him as he sat, upright with spine aloof.
He thought of Shakespeare’s Hamlet’s Yorick. He felt like a fool.
Cause Bewilder is a poet of the South. William Shakespeare (1564-1616) was an Elizabethan poet and proset.
~~~
The Blue Croquet Ball
by Cu Ebide Aswerl
He paused to look at the croquet set in the square garage,
investigating each one of the coloured, wooden balls.
It was not a hodge-podge of shapes—those solid sphericals—
but white-striped black, blue, green, red, yellow, orange—no mirage.
But when the blue ball was set down upon the gray cement,
quite quietly it rolled away on its straightforth descent,
beneath the car onto the driveway out into the street,
along the far curb going past house, driveway, lawn and tree.
He couldn’t find it anywhere; it vanished into air;
until he saw a car had moved, and he could see it there.
Cu Ebide Aswerl is a poet of games.
~~~
On a Hammock in Hawaii Gazing on the Pacific
Cruse Wadibele
He longed to lie down on that hammock’s web,
to place his back upon its wrinkled arc.
He’d watch the sea waves wax and wane, the ebb
and flow of eddies swirling light and dark.
To lean back on its gorgeous textured curve
to him was bliss, such happiness unveiled,
that he would ride for all his worth and nerve;
and on those waters giddily he sailed.
He longed to float upon that spindrift foam,
to rise and fall, to lift into its arms,
as joyful as a seaman coming home
embraced by all its lovely, magic charm.
He loved such plenitude in life—sweet peace—
despite that undercurrents never cease.
Cruse Wadibele is a poet of Hawaii.
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