On Highway 101
by “Wired Clues” Abe

lines of vehicles,
idling, inching along in
tired, fuming exhaust


“Wired Clues” Abe writes techno-haiku. His namesake Shinzo Abe, just won a parliamentary election in Japan, though he remains unpopular with voters. George Orwell, the great British fabulist, once wrote: “I was hated by large numbers of people—the only time in my life that I have been important enough for this to happen to me.”


In Russia, Once
by Alecsei Burdew

Upon the snowy trails through the forest stands of birch,
the troika traipses on three horses, trotting—chur, chur, chur—
the tinkling bells and jingling reins, like balalaika strings,
the wistful winds, the lengthened shadows and the clinking clangs.
The stalwart horses pass the black-flecked birches rising tall,
the coldness sinking in to each seen individual,
wrapped up in coats beneath big blankets, traveling along.
There are no chirping birds up in the branches singing songs.
Where is the country going to here in the countryside?
Who are these passengers caught in the beauty of this ride?


Alecsei Burdew is a poet of Russia, not that realm in the politics of Yeltsin, Putin, Trump, and the Clintons, but rather more in that realm of Pushkin, Tyuchev, Bunin and Chekhov.


Vladimir Aleksandrovich Voevodsky (1966-2017)
by Euclidrew Base

Vladimir Aleksandrovich Voevodsky lived his life
as if he were a sailing kite come flying from a file.
He flew through Grothendieck, like as a goose with outstretched neck
that flies the skies on high enroute to where he wants to get.

He sought a homotopy theory for varieties
of algebraic sets, and stable category schemes.
He got the Fields Medal for his proof of Milnor’s Guess,
creating a motivic cohomology success.

It’s sad to think he took that fun, that joyful happiness,
he had in turning geometric intuition, yes,
into some algebraic objects, flapping Escheresque,
while verifying that computer proof was worth the risk.


Euclidrew Base is a poet of mathematics and mathematicians, including Russians, like Kolmogorov, Perelman, Kantorovich, Chebyshev, Lyapunov, Lobachevsky, Markov, Gelfand, etc.


Las Vegas View
by Cawb Delius Ree

The sun is high. The sky is pale white-azure down to
the shadowed mountain roll on the horizon, faint and blue.
The city’s beige, tan, grand and slate, above the concrete street,
with cars in motion all about, and people on their feet.
The planes keep landing, taking off, long, narrow, silver-gray,
the water glittering and shiny in the brilliant day.
Where are all of these people going to? What are they doing there?
And are they just surviving, like the birds on land, in air?
What are the odds—in challenging or glorifying God?
Whichever…I am awed…yet, at the same time, feeling odd.


Life’s Ride
by Cawb Delius Ree

We saw them zipping overhead, as we swam in the pool—
an Ecostar EC-130 helicopter school,
the keen-eyed emissaries of the god of travelers,
great Mercury, the god of clever, trickster marketeers,
conducting, darting, carting seat-belt-fastened passengers
through azure skies on whirling wings, sleek, scarlet messengers,
past Hoover Dam and Lake Mead’s reach to the Grand Canyon’s gorge,
eroding for millennia, before Hephaestus forge.
And while I watched those busy ones of the Immortal Guide,
I was glad-hearted thinking life goes on, through time’s rough ride.


Cawb Delius Ree is a poet of Nevada.


by I. E. Sbace Weruld

The planet first outside of Earth’s orbit is Mars.
The reddish-colored, rocky orb’s capped off by bright poles,
and landscaped by the Valles Marineris scars,
volcanic Tharsis Montes, Xanthe Terra’s golds,
the “channeled” Lunae Planum with its cratered plains,
and Noctis Labyrinthus’ tall walls and steep slopes,
whose criss-crossed valleys only lead to dry dust drains.
Our knowledge of its surface comes from many probes,
like Viking Landers seeking life or its remains,
Pathfinder taking pictures for some future’s hopes,
the Exploration Rovers and the Orbiter
that searched for signs of water—ice or eye-sore topes.


I. E. Sbace Weruld is a poet of the Cosmos. Will Mars be the next heavenly body Earthians will berth at?


Back Into It: New Year’s Day
by Ase Wibuc Elder
“Here come bad news, talking this and that…”
—Pharell Williams, Happy

O I’m back into it
I am gonna do it
I like the way I feel
I’m laughing like a seal
Music is magical
Music is mystical
I’m singing I’m singing
The world is amazing
Down the highway I peal
In my automobile
I boogie down the street
I am movin my feet
O yes I’m doin it
I am back into it
I feel like makin love
O I am taking off
I breathe in all the air
I dream and then I dare
I’m asleep I’m alive
Nineteen Seventy Five?
Sun comes up Sun goes down
Golden light spins all around


Ase Wibuc Elder is an old geezer, who reminisces about old times, having reached that age and stage of his life, that though he were to cry out in the streets to the multitudes, nobody would care to listen to him. He is intrigued by silly Isyllus, an ancient Greek poet from Epidaurus, who Wilamowitz-Meollendorff called “a poetaster without talent and a farcical politician.”


The Lost Words of Private Udalis Erbewec
by War di Belecuse

The rain falls on the railroad tracks. The sky is high and gray.
I’m angry from the politics that will not go away.
I am beset by whirling, swirling, zealous dogmatists,
who shower their emetics out, “Hey, try to vomit this.”
I want to get away from all these foggy, misty minds,
who screech, beseech, and preach for each their nichy point of blind.
The rain falls on the railroad tracks, but listen as I may,
I only hear drip-drip-drip near—it has no thing to say.
It is September 16, 1976, oh,
and there is no one here, there’s just a spray…before I go.


War di Belecuse is a poet of the military. Poems that have touched him include, inter alia, Cao Cao’s “Before the Battle of Red Cliffs,” Tennyson’s “The Charge of the Light Brigade,” Whitman’s “Drum Taps,” Melville’s “Shiloh: a Requiem,” Seeger’s “I Have a Rendezvous with Death,” McCrae’s rondeau, “In Flanders Fields,” Brooke’s sonnet “The Soldier,” Owen’s “Dulce et Decorum Est,” Sassoon’s “The Rear-Guard,” Reed’s “Naming of Parts,” and Jarrell’s terse “Death of the Ball Turret Gunner.” Here he speaks of a former soldier in the US Army in Virginia, a private Udalis Erbewec.