Flashback:
by I. E. Sbace Weruld
July 4th, 2016, after more than five long years,
the Juno burn occurred amidst the cheering engineers.
Its fine, maneuvered orbital insertion JOI,
timed to a second, was successful in the orange sky.
The Juno spacecraft then reoriented to the Sun
to fire up its fifty-three-day orbit on the run.
At forty-five-hun-dred kilometres above the clouds,
by Jove, great Jupiter can’t simply hide beneath its shrouds;
and Juno can collect some data in its summer ‘ssault,
secured in its titanium-strong radiation vault.
Mr. I. E. Sbace Weruld is a poet of space.
~~~
Haiku
by “Clear Dew” Ibuse
Around the garden,
gecko, spider, wasp and frog,
face the watering.
Haiku
by “Clear Dew” Ibuse
Children on swings and
playing in the sand box caused
cicadas’ voices.
“Clear Dew” Ibuse is a haiku writer of life’s small vignettes.
~~~
Haiku
by “Wired Clues” Abe
That pulsating drone
with a strong percussive buzz—
the cicada band.
“Wired Clues” Abe is a NewMillennial haikuist.
~~~
Song Yu
by Wu “Sacred Bee Li
Song Yu,
a man of Chu,
disciple too
of Qu Yuan,
sang songs,
like Yang Chang
(Sunny Spring)
and Bai Xue
(White Snow),
two qin
of long ago.
Wu “Sacred Bee” Li is a poet of Ancient Chinese poetry. Song Yu (298 BC – 222 BC) was a Chinese poet of song.
~~~
Newsreel:
Six deaths were counted from the drone that came to hit Kuwait.
Iran will murder anyone with their abhorrent hate.
~~~
The Crimson Winter
Delir Ecwabeus
Does anybody still remember earlier this year—
the Crimson Winter in Iran—those wide-spread massacres?
According to reports, around closed doors, protests began,
the largest rising-up of people, living in Iran.
Was it ten thousand, twenty thousand, thirty thousand, more?
Who died protesting their economy? What for? What for?
How many government officials burned down mosques and banks,
but first took money from them as they left the crowds no thanks?
How many people were injected, sprayed with chemicals
to take their breaths away from them for their polemicals?
How many hospitals were raided for new souls to shoot?
How many wounded persons were prepared to take the boot?
How many were the murderers that left their folks insane?
Who gave the orders for the massive graves of the remains?
How many did their henchmen kill? How many died for just
the dictates of the mullahs and their IRGC husk?
Delir Ecqabeus is a poet of Iran.
~~~
The Armenian Question
by Çelebi Ürwëdas
The Ottoman Empire began to bring
about progressive change—the Tanzimat,
that is, the reorganizationing,
beginning under Sultan Mahmut II;
but by the 1890s, enlightenment
had played itself out for Armenians;
because they dared ever incite unrest,
200,000 souls were massacred.
Yet that was just the start. In World War I,
the Turks began to kill or drive away
the whole Armenian population—
one and a half million killed in that way.
A brand-new Muslim nation came about,
a model for the future state no doubt.
Çelebi Ürwëdas is a poet of Turkey.
~~~
Archilochus’s Famous Melodies
by Esiad L. Werecub
To men, Archilochus’s famous melodies
have fallen, like Olympic songs of victory,
to thrice repeated disregard. Oh, Heracles,
the slope of Kronos’ Hill is steep and slippery,
and he who farms it most soon tires of trying it.
Near all now call Zeus’ long-range bow pure frippery,
the muses trite. New moderns are not buying it.
The deities today are Mammon and Repose.
A shower of arrows on Elis lighting, lit,
though from the Lord of Lightning, is mere fireworks shows,
toy noise, opposed to blessings or some memories
of Lydian Pelops and Hippodameia.
Esias L. Werecub is s poet of Ancient Greece. Archilochus (c. 680 BC – c. 645 BC) was an iambic poet of the Archaic period.
~~~
Newsreel:
Spain won the FIFA World Cup of 2026,
prevailing over Argentina with their pressing kicks.
~~~
I Saw Her There: in Rome with Maia
by Bucalese Werdi
“I saw her standing there.”
—Paul McCartney & John Lennon
I saw her on the plane above green, rocky Italy.
I saw her with the fumes of Fiumicino set-tl-ing.
I saw her pass graffiti and the lush plants, green and dark.
I saw her at Termini station when she disembarked.
I saw her walking, o, above the people in the streets.
I saw her while avoiding drivers winding through the trees.
I saw her near the cars whose only etiquette was speed.
I saw her lying down in the Subaru deep in sleep.
I saw her in the hollow, crumbling Colosseum’s core.
I saw her by the Arc of Constantine. She seemed to soar o’er everything.
I saw her shining spirit stroll the Forum’s social scene.
I saw her rising up the steps of high Capitoline.
I saw her near a replica of Marcus on a horse.
I saw her moving past the brothers, Castor and Pollux.
I saw her noting Trajan’s Column rising in th’ azure.
I saw her trippingly traipse past Marcellus Theatre.
I saw her gazing o’er the silver Tiber rushing fast.
I saw her in the Present and I saw her in the Past.
I saw her in the rain. I saw her on the roof-top eat.
I saw her in the sky. I saw her in the sunny heat beat on the wing.
I saw her at the tiny pharmacy on Tiber’s Isle.
I saw her promenade the arching bridges, and her smile.
I saw her seated by the lovely petals drooping down.
I saw her contemplating history, o, then and now.
I saw her drawn along mysteriously through time’s shrouds.
I saw her balanced on a vision at the edge of clouds.
I saw her importuning, pray for opportunities.
I saw her at the Temples, Portunus and Hercules
I saw her passing time at the Boarum, like a dove.
I saw her lingering awhile, a little more like love, of Roma, o.
I saw her sitting on the grass with poppies, orange-red.
I saw her on the steps that rise right up to heaven’s edge.
I saw her on a wall, upon a fountain shooting up.
I saw her in the steam that rises from her coffee cup.
I saw her crossing busy streets with taxies passing us.
I saw her promenading empty Circus Maximus.
I saw her ambling below the Palatine in May.
I saw her on the subway, moving slower than the day.
I saw her on a laptop, scrolling, as the ages drown.
I saw her leaning on a balustrade, and turn around bound for Amor.
Bucalese Werdi is a poet of Italy.
~~~
From His Gymnasium Paralysis
by Euclidrew Base
“A poet who is not somewhat of a mathematician, won’t be a complete poet.”
—Weier Basculed
In the Catholic Gymnasium, there in Paderborn, during his teenage years, Karl Weierstrass would read Crelle’s Journal, where later he would publish his own papers. Torn between studying law and finance, his father’s wish, or mathematics, his, he spent four years in drinking and fencing, and left the U. of Bonn without degrees. Next he became a math teacher, in first Deutsch Krone, and, then, later in Braunsberg, th’ “unending dreariness and boredom” cursed. But with his work On Abel’s Functions, he burst from his gymnasium paralysis, the father of modern analysis.
Euclidrew Base is a poet of mathematics. bios, as in the above prosem. Karl Weierstrauss (1815-1897) was a realist German mathematician. Paderborn, Germany, is a town of around 150,000. Braniewo (Braunsberg) Poland, around 15,000.
~~~
The Great Museum
by Basil Drew Eceu
The columns, vertically grooved, do rise
high up from cement steps and sidewalk slabs,
and cause these eyes to look into the skies
above the rigid lamppost holding lamps.
The square before the great museum glares
in the magnificent light of the sun,
while people move about, intense with stares,
and try to figure out who is each one.
The columns hold a heavy, sloping roof.
that’s wrought of rock-hard sculpted figures there.
They seem secure and strong, if not aloof,
although they are so high up in the air.
Below the people walking are quite small
against the columns rising up so tall.
Basil Drew Eceu is a poet of 19th century London, England.
~~~
Newsreel:
In under two hundred and twenty-two secs,
Josh Kerr of Great Britain broke the mile World rec.
~~~
A Quiplet
by Luis de Cawebre
How pessimistic can one be, like Pessoa,
who, once he got there, never did leave Lisboa,
until the day he left (Who knows what persona?)
on a trip from which no one returns—DOA!
twenty-six years before Portugal left Goa.
Luis de Cawebre is a poet of Portugal. Fernando Pessoa (1888-1935) was a Modernist Portuguese poet and proset. Message (Mensagem) was his first book of poetry in Portuguese in 1934.
~~~
The Pilot Lands the Plane
by Air Weelbed Suc
The pilot lands the plane along the lines
of shining lights upon the tarmac grid,
like a night bird alights upon a limb
near city neon with a sudden jerk.
Two hundred passengers coast to a stop;
each trepidation felt dissolves away;
they pull their luggage down and disembark;
each individual goes on their way.
Each action of reality’s instilled
with many layers of complexity
that everywhere one dares to look is filled
with more than patterns of perplexity,
a rich profusion at each turn of life
awaits each one prepared to meet it: rife.
Air Weelbed Suc is a poet of flight.
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