In Space
by I. E. Sbace Weruld
In space no one can hear you speak, because
sound needs a medium to travel through.
While light can travel through a vitreous
substance, like glass, or even a vacuum,
sound needs some air or water to progress;
like us, it needs something it can compress.
I. E. Sbace Weruld is a poet of outer space.
~~~
Tanka
by “Clear Dew” Ibuse
A lone mallard swims
through a recent, rain-made pond,
edged with much garbage;
and dips his bright green head in,
before flapping off skyward.
Haiku
by “Clear Dew” Ibuse
Within the branches
of the leafless red oak tree,
an empty nest sits.
“Clear Dew” Ibuse is a haiku poet.
~~~
Haiku
by “Wired Clues” Abe
So frequently seen,
the infant’s first spelled word was
fittingly WARNING.
“Wired Clues” Abe is a NewMillennial haiku writer.
~~~
When One Is Half-Asleep
by Sircadea W. E. Lube
Sometimes, when one is half-asleep, one drags one’s feet along,
as if one’s waking still and has not joined the busy throng.
One wishes one were stronger and possessed more energy
to move about, upright and stout, with joy, and gingerly.
O, yes, to keep on going when one rather just would not,
to do all that one has to do, but as an afterthought,
to put one’s best foot forward doing just the best one can,
to be both good and better, whether woman, kid, or man.
O, to be mightier, as mitochondria fire on,
and be the mightiest that one might be with what one’s got.
Sircadea W. E. Lube is a poet of sleepiness.
~~~
Remarks at Putney
by Euclidrew Base
While visiting his friend Ramanujan in hospital, G. Hardy pointed out his taxi was 1729, a boring number, bad omen no doubt; but his ill friend said, at this incident, it is the least of integers that can be represented in two different ways as the sum of cubes, perhaps divine, or then, perhaps, at least a little good, 103 + 93 = 13 + 123, and prompting John E. Littlewood, who, maybe was, well, just a bit nonplussed, to say that each positive integer was one of R’s own personal friends.
Euclidrew Base is a poet of mathematics. In the above prosem, Srinivasa Ramanujan (1887-1920) was an Indian Modernist mathematician, and Godfrey Harold Hardy (1877-1947) and John Edensor Littlewood (1885-1977) were English Modernist mathematicians. Putney is a district of south London.
~~~
The Golden Sun
by Ra Bué Weel Disc
On the horizon, rising up, he saw the golden Sun,
like as an orange-yellow ball—a molten liquid one;
and though the sky was not unclear—it was azure, no haze—
he could not gaze upon its phase, that nuclear-based blaze.
“I’d square my face against it,” he cried, “Odi et amo.”
He loved it, even as he hated it—intensely so—
requiring its fiery-lit heat to live and thrive,
and yet reminding him how hard it is to be alive,
a fierce reminder of a cosmos ever in revolt,
The lightning strikes, the thunder roars; bolt after bolt, it zots.
Ra Bué Weel Disc is a poet of the Sun.
~~~
March 24, 2024
by Crise de Abu Wel
Rejoice. Because, although he was upon a donkey, he
was coming, like a king. He rode in order to redeem.
Endowed with sweet salvation, like a knight upon his horse,
he came to bring a lively spirit to each lying corpse.
Some were amazed that such a place and soul were actual;
some wondered at what seemed to be so supernatural;
some thought of Zechariah; some received the cherished alms;
some spread their garments on the ground; some raised their
waving palms.
Some shouted out, “Hosanna, save us now”. He rode along.
the mesmerizing movement of the donkey, steady, strong.
What had they witnessed at the gate of old Jerusalem?
O, what, pray tell, did this triumphal entry mean to them?
Crise de Abu Wel is a poet of Israel.
~~~
Newsreel:
Eunomix states the nation has till 2030 to
improve security and fiscal health—long over due.
They also say South Africa will be a failed state,
due to incompetence, corruption and systemic hate;
and policy paralysis, seen under ANC,
unless there is “a meaningful change of trajectory.”
Eunomix is a Johannesburg-based risk consultancy business.
~~~
At Crocus City Hall
by Alecsei Durbew
In Krasnagorsk, at Crocus City Hall, the shooters came
in beards and camo combat clothes—Islamic Khorasan.
With rifles, pistols, knives, incendiary petrol bomb,
they killed more than 100 Russians at the concert hall.
A fire started in the auditorium and caused
huge plumes of smoke, and later the large building roof to crash,
collapsing in to a mass grave th’ assailants had produced.
“Allah Akbar”, the killers yelled. The murderers were juiced.
Though the US warned Putin of this possibility,
he thought the warning “would destabilize society”.
So though it was the Piknik plan to have a happy fete,
it turned in to a black-flak nightmare borne of utter hate.
Alecsei Durbew is a poet of Russian topics. Krasnagorsk is a northwestern suburb of Moscow of around 185,000. Khorasan is a region situated in southern Turkmenistan, northern Afghanistan, and northeastern Iran.
~~~
Storm Clouds Cantata
by Ewald E. Eisbruc
In 1934, there were storm clouds
on the horizon, a world about to
succumb to chaos, come to cruel crowds,
loud, shouting out, fountains of red and blue.
There in the mountains you feel quite safe; but…
it was all moving to a crescendo—
something that would be final, ultimate,
a fine diminuendo—the end, oh!
One could hear it at Royal Albert Hall
in the Storm Clouds by Arthur Benjamin
in Alfred Hitchcock’s movie finale,
or in the sound of the new jet engine,
a drum roll, eerie Stravinsky chords,
and a cantata to which time moved towards.
Ewald E. Eisbruc is a poet of instrumental music. Arthur Benjamin (1893-1960) was an Australian Modernist composer, whose Storm Clouds Cantata appeared in both of Alfred Hiychcock’s “The Man Who Knew Too Much”. Near the Royal Albert Hall in London, England, one may find the Albert Memorial. Igor Stravinsky (1882-1971) was a Russian Modernist composer.
~~~
A Dedication to a Gong, or a Cymbal
by El Cid E. W. Rubesa
These errant pilgrim’s steps were not dictated to him by
a muse in solitude confused, or spirit in the sky,
who longed to die with his boots on, when he was laid to rest,
within the diamond battlements, the place that is the best.
These forts of fir, impeding spears, that beat the savage mounts,
below the snow-armed peaks of crystal ice above these towns,
wherein the outcasts hold their poker hands above the fires,
the blindman, constables, priests, friar, pardoner and squire.
These beasts exposed him to the tinted ground, and asked for terms,
Tormes was brought close to the ash, blood-sweating steel astir.
He heard the huntsman’s horn, the dwelling emulous in rocks.
What chance did he have on the hard oak, with no shoes or socks?
These signs of bear appear near shaft and shining javelin,
beneath the august pines and fountain sprays unraveling,
where the enlightened Duke, in majesty upon his throne,
is quenched in waves and flaming anger, when he’s not alone.
These errant steps surrender to repose, upon the ground
of grama, and not naked, where the right foot may be found,
nearby the gong of Góngora, not gone yet from the land,
Euterpe, canorous and welcoming, both wind and wand.
El Cid E. W. Rubesa is a poet of Iberian art. Góngora (1561-1627) was a poet of El Siglo de Oro.
~~~
A Jorge Borges Door
by Ibewa del Sucre
Whenever he would enter in a Jorge Borges door,
he felt he had to get an extra grip upon the floor;
for his world started to go topsy-turvy all at once,
as if somehow he’d lost the gravity of Moon and Sun.
He’d try to hold on to whatever he could hold on to,
attempting to attain the anchor of chai-leg or shoe;
because his world would fly off like an Escher mezzotint,
or tessellated metamathematical wood cut.
He loved the graphic labyrinths elaborately drawn;
but could he keep homeostasis static in that dawn?
Although the scenes were beautiful, they were unbalanced too;
at times he feared he’d fall into a gorgeous gorge’s view.
He feared the mirroring of images that he might see,
es-peci-al-ly the denseness of such sheer translucency.
Could he fall in some rabbit hole he was not ready for,
and end up like Dee Lewis Carub or a manticore?
Ibewa del Sucre is a poet of Argentina. Jorge Borges (1899-1986) was an Argentine Modernist poet and proset.
~~~
Beginning of a Grand Winner
by Luc Ebrewe Dias
He stuttered, and was epileptic, short and from Brazil.
Apprentice to a printer ’s where he learned his writing skill.
A poor boy of mixed ancestry, grand Rio his church bench;
he learned his Latin, serving mass, a baker taught him French.
He worked as a proofreader at a bookstore where he met
some prominent, grand figures of the literary set;
they helped launch his career, a young man of twenty-five,
that grew, developed, and matured—all w-h-i-l-e he was alive.
He likewise entered civil service, and eventually
attained directorship of Agriculture’s Ministry.
Epitaph of a Grand Winner
by Luc Ebrewe Dias
The writer was deceased, as in the sense of one who died,
not one who dies, like Bras Cubas, and then begins to write.
And there his coffin was, ornate and stea-died by the hands,
upon the steps of the Academy, a massive band
of friends and students—there was Euclides da Cunha too,
one year before he’d meet his end—within this retinue.
Enroute to the Saint John the Baptist cemetery, where
they paused to take a photograph in Rio’s open air,
before the body of Machado de Assis would be
interred, and parted from his words, for an eternity.
Luc Ebrewe Dias is a poet of Brazil. Machado de Assis (1839-1908) was a Brazilian Realist prose writer and poet, Euclides da Cunha (1866-1909) was a Brazilian Realist nonfiction writer.
~~~
Newsreel:
Bound for Sri Lanka, a huge cargo ship from Singapore,
caused the collapse of Francis Scott Key Bridge in Baltimore.
~~~
Filling Up With Leaves
by Urbawel Cidese
Again, across the city, trees are filling up with leaves,
on streets with names, like hemlock, oak, mulberry—roadside eaves—
on three lane avenues and highways, road-to-market ways,
defensive driving down on busy roads and quiet lanes.
There one can also see black cattle muching verdant lawns,
grass-fed beef on the hoof, content to eat until it’s gone.
There is such an explosion of green foliage about,
like as an arboretum growing all throughout the town.
Now spring has come again. The city is alive with leaves,
arriving with the cars and trucks, and people moving things.
Urbawel Cidese is a poet of urban spaces.
~~~
Time For Training
by Rudi E. Welec, “Abs”
O, it was time for training; he could go down to the gym.
He started off by stretching out; he started with the bridge.
Enhancing core stability, he strengthened glutes and thighs.
He lengthened hamstrings and butt muscles in that exercise.
He placed his feet flat on the mat beside the open door.
He tightened abs and ass as he pulled hips up off the floor.
He raised his back as high as he could. Yes, he was inclined.
He squeezed his core and belly button back up to his spine.
Posterior chain stabilizers worked his quadriceps.
O, he was in the throes of his obliques, and hand-cupped pecs.
Could this improve his posture that was ever needing help?
Could this improve his power? Could this bring him greater pep?
Rudi E. Welec, “Abs”, is a poet of exercise.
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