Stark Stars
by I. E. Sbace Weruld
John Michell first proposed there were these things he called dark stars,
where gravitation’s pull could be so strong, but light so sparse,
whose light could not reach the escape velocity’s horize,
as in the case of stars more than 500 times Sun’s size.
John Michell also noted these could be detectable,
if one could find a star behave, as if it were a double.
He also thought there could be many in the universe,
which now is the belief of numerous astronomers.
John Michell was, in truth, a scientific pioneer,
that English clergyman and natural philosopher;
for ‘t seems there are perhaps black holes in countless galaxies
in x-ray-compact, star-binary, system-balanced scenes.
Mr. I. E. Sbace Weruld is a poet of space. John Michell (1724-1793) was a NeoClassical English astronomer, “horize” is an etymological trunc.
~~~
Haiku
by “Clear Dew” Ibuse
You don’t have a choice
but to just keep on going,
semi no koe.
Haiku
by “Clear Dew” Ibuse
The great blue heron
stands on stilts, stalking small fish.
He stares hard and long.
“Clear Dew” Ibuse is a poet fond of traditional Japanese haiku.
~~~
Haiku
by “Wired Clues” Abe
A giant red sign
blows up inside of the mind.
That’s what one can find.
Haiku
by “Wired Clues” Abe
After all these years,
he’s still doing sudoku
in his back-yard shade.
Haiku
by “Wired Clues” Abe
The soccer player
has to leave behind his fears
on the soccer field.
Haiku
by “Wired Clues” Abe
The tiniest ants
devour a dead gecko,
till nothing is left.
“Wired Clues” Abe is a NewMillennial haikuist.
~~~
Newsreel:
Two dozen died aboard the cargo ship docked at Qingdao;
surprisingly the Chinese swiftly tended to its prow.
Were there some hidden things that they did not want to be found?
~~~
Bing Xin
by Li “Web Crease” Du
“One-hearted as ice in a crystal vase.”
—Wang Changling (698-756)
From Fuzhou, Fujian, she moved to Yantai
on the Shandong Peninsula at four,
and there she chased the stray birds to the sky
and boats on spring waters to the harbour.
Sunlit waves on the sea greeted her life
that spanned a hellish century, Bing Xin,
with tian, suan, ka, la. She became a wife
to Wu Wenzao in 1929.
She scattered her miscellaneous thoughts
across the years, while stars shined above
the sea and sand, the many twinkling dots,
pinpoints in her philosophy of love.
And when she died in 1999,
strewn roses said she had touched the divine.
Li “Web Crease” Du is a poet of China. Bing Xin (1900-1999) was a 20th century Chinese writer. Wu Wenzao (1901-1985), an ethnological anthropologist. suān tián kǔ là: the joys and sorrows of life. Wang Changling (698-756) was a Tang Cinese poet.
~~~
A Portent
by Alecsei Durbew
When Timur died, he had no son that would become his heir.
Some buried him beneath green jade in Samarkand’s clear air.
His sealed tomb remained unopened till June ’41,
when Russian archaeologists dared do it in the sun.
There was a message there engraved, a caution to the folk:
“whoever dares to open this will face a fiercer foe.”
The next day Hitler’s military soldiers started on
their largest operation, Barbarossa was begun.
Alecsei Durbew is a poet of Russia. Timur (1370-1405) was a Turko-Mongol conqueror, Hitler (1889-1945) was a Modernist German conqueror. Samarkand is a city in Uzbekistan of about 880,000.
~~~
Flashback:
In 2013, did a two-man sniper team disrupt
a convoy of a Russian Pansir S-1 air defense,
bound for Hezbollah, Lebanon [The ante had been upped.],
with Barrett MA281 and four precise shots flensed?
~~~
Newsreel:
Killed in a strike on th’ army’s military base-manned post
was a Lieutenant General—one Sergei Michakov.
Some claim the strike allegedly was “terribly precise”,
suggesting the location leak came from the Russian side.
~~~
Thoughts of the Man Behind a Leafy Camo Screen
by War di Belecuse
I sat upon a long and mossy log. My lips closed tight.
I thought I heard a man in boots come by. I stood still—quite—
and quiet as the grassy hills where I was hiding at.
I also heard another man shoot rat-a-tat-tat-tat.
I tried to keep a low profile on my hands and knees.
I hid behind a bush. I sought a leafy camo screen.
I sucked my stomach in and breathed through nostrils silently.
I did not want to end up badly, battered vi’lently.
But though they came so close to me, they did not hear me gasp.
I clasped the moment perfectly. I wanted it to last.
War di Belecuse is a poet of war.
~~~
The Man Killed by a Drone
by Radice Lebewsu
I saw him hanging from a doorway, not so long ago,
but, o, he had to go I know—time’s ever flying f-l-o-e.
One could not bring him back again, not to his early days,
but knowing how dawn goes to moon, one knows no gold thing stays.
He had to go away. He left that wide and open door.
So briefly did he stop to pause, but will not evermore.
I saw him falling to the floor, his knees upon the mat.
I hardly can remember him, down there where he was at.
But still his image and his hanging from the door frame there
have briefly, disappeared again, for they have been made air.
The Advance at Lyman
by Radice Lebewsu
The Corps began, north of Lyman—Ukraine’s 3rd Army Corps—
led by Andriy Biletsky, limited attacks, and little more.
They ran the operation at a low-pro-fi-le’s speed,
(almost unseen) “You are doomed, sons of bitches, for your greed.”
Ukraine advanced between the Nitrius and Zherebets,
and having pushed already past the Nove village, yes;
the estimates of territory under Russia now
have dropped one-fifty square kilometers, or there about.
Ukraine has made the encirclement much harder to attain,
The Lyman salient is gone, reversing Russian gains.
Radice Lebewsu is a poet of Ukraine. Andriy Biletsky is a Ukrainian brigadier general and commander of the 3rd Army Corps.
~~~
Pegasus and the Child
by Esiad L. Werecub
The horse was freed. The horse was wild.
The horse was Pegasus.
He grabbed the neck, that crazy child,
and rode like Icarus.
He rode across the meadow grass,
until he reached the wood.
No other soul did he there pass,
yet on and on he rode.
Within the dark and gloomy trees,
he rode with all his might.
He rode what seemed eternity’s
most long and darkest night.
He could not see the moon above,
and yet he rode along.
Although he longed for sweetest love,
he crisply traveled on.
And soon he reached the mountainside
where fountains spray and splash.
He spurred the shank, increased his stride,
but, o, there came a crash.
The horse’s hoof did jerk and jolt,
and he was thrown away,
as fast as booming thunderbolt
disturbs and breaks the day.
But from that dark and northern yard,
beneath the gleaming stars,
he found the horse on his long course
beside Reunion’s zars.
Esiad L. Werecub is a poet of modern myth. “Zars” is a neologism.
~~~
The “Julian Calendar”
by Aedile Cwerbus
The Julian Calendar was wrought by
Sosigenes the Alexandrian.
How often are, inappropriately,
things attributed not to the right one.
Aedile Cwerbus is a poet of Ancient Roma. Sosigenes (2nd century BC) was a noted Greek philosopher and astronomer.
~~~
Paris—These Days
by Claude I. S. Weber
Here there is a midday street in Paris,
wet with a recent rain, gray and shiny,
the small cars in a line. Ahead there is
a traffic light, circular and tiny.
Along the curb are five story buildings
with narrow windows. We are being chased
by one who wants to do us harm. Railings
of iron-wrought diagonals are traced.
Desperately trying to get away,
we turn the corner and speed past the trees.
We would like to pause, but we cannot stay.
Lampposts are locked in a perpetual frieze.
Shadows are short. O’er the cement we soar.
I think I am coming back—never more.
Claude I. S. Weber is a poet of France.
~~~
Off Boston Harbour
by Cadwel E. Bruise
On board the US frigate Chesapeake,
on June 1, 1813, James Lawrence,
his status dire, his ship’s position weak,
off Boston harbour, gave his final order,
paraphrased as such, “Don’t give up the ship!”
as cannon on the Shannon let ‘er rip.
Cadwel E. Bruise is a poet of New England. James Lawrence (1781-1813) was an American Romantic naval officer.
~~~
The Silver-Gray Skyline of New York City Gleams
Dic Asbury Wel
The silver-gray skyline of New York City gleams
beneath the dark and ominous clouds overhead,
beyond the reaches of Atlantis, caught in dreams
and nightmares, lost in azure or in weathered red.
Past statued Liberty and Ellis Island’s hell,
the fabled, cabled Brooklyn Bridge curves East and stead
below Tribeca, where Wall Street an’ th’ Towers fell,
while Woolworth went the way of Gotham’s Gothic wand.
Above Flat Iron, Madison Square Garden’s cell,
between Penn Station’s metamorphoses and
the Empire State, sells out to crowds from Times Square off
to Rockefeller Center and points beyond,
like the Art Deco Crysler Building and Waldorf-
Astoria Hotel, or the U. N. Compound.
A core and columns hold up Citicorp’s pitched roof
before the green rectangle Central Park is found,
there where along straight sides, must-see museums stream
to Grant’s Tomb, Harlem, and George Washington outbound.
Dic Asbury Wel is a poet of New York City.
~~~
An Episode in Seattle
by Ubs Reece Idwal
Ah, I remember that unwonted day,
as if it were just yesterday; and yet,
thank God, it isn’t. It has gone away,
a day which I can’t easily forget.
I went off to a park to study math.
I was in college. After a short while,
I got up off the grass, went down a path—
I had wanted a break—but I got bile.
Some tall dude shook me with his hands, and shoved
me in the bushes. Then took off. I thought,
‘Hell, what was that?’ I got up, hardly loved,
went back, and found my book was gone. O’erwrought,
I asked some nearby guys if they knew where
it was. They did—for money—show me —thrown
beneath an overpass. I climbed the bare,
hard ground, and found it dirty, torn, forlorn.
For me, it was a clear reminder that
man’s inhumanity to man occurs
at any time, at any place, and at
those moments when you least expect its spurs.
Ubs Reece Idwal is a poet of the Northwest.
~~~
O, Love Can Be So Blind
by I Warble Seduce
“A maid whom there were none to praise…”
—William Wordsworth
She is such a lovely person, my wife,
so sweet, so kind, so truly wonderful.
And yet nobody knows what a good life
she lives. Her beauty’s hidden under dull
realities. So few can see her heart.
She’s so unappreciated by all.
Even I miss all that she has to impart.
O, love can be so blind at times, I pall.
I Warble Seduce is a poet of love. William Wordsworth (1770-1850) was a Romantic British poet.
After Alexander’s Death
by Erisbawdle Cue
After Alexander’s death, Aristotle left Athens. He did not want the Athenians to sin again against philosophy, once bereft of Socrates; so he took off for Chalcis’ view, a strand upon which he could stand alive, outside, but where presently, in less than a year, he died.
Characters
by Erisbawdle Cue
Kafka’s characters are ever trying to get into society, while Twain’s are ever trying to get out.
Conviction and Evasion
by Erisbawdle Cue
A philosophy of history is a fool’s construction; for it is based on an ill-founded belief in skepticism’ lack of conviction and evasion, hardly ideas upon which to base one’s life, or to vast eternity face.
Erisbawdle Cue is a poet of philosophy. In the above prosems, Aristotle was an Ancient Greek philosopher (384 BC – 322 BC), Franz Kafka (1883-1924) was a German Modernist, and Mark Twain (1835-1910) was an American Realist.
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