The Speed of Light
by I. E. Sbace Weruld
If one could travel at the speed of light,
then one could see…light stationary, stopped.
But it’s impossible to have such sight;
and one can only posit that in thought.
It makes one pause to think about this World,
upon which we are spinning round the sun,
which is within this galaxy’s realm hurled,
the Milky Way itself upon a run.
No matter where one is, light moves…about
three hundred trillion centimeters in
a second—absolutely. Is there doubt?
This cosmos seems to be its suzerain.
And so, what’s changing, all the time, is time,
and us, attempting to reach light’s sublime.
Mr. I. E, Sbace Weruld is a poet of the cosmos.
~~~
Haiku
by “Clear Dew” Ibuse
After a long drought,
a long-awaited rain down-pour
at last comes along.
Haiku
by “Clear Dew” Ibuse
In late summer heat,
the flying grass-hoppers soar
o’er the lion’s teeth.
“Clear Dew” Ibuse is a poet fond of traditional Japanese haiku.
~~~
Haiku
by “Lice Brews” Ueda
On a lily pad,
the frog sat squat, motionless,
prepared to hop off.
“ice Brews” Ueda is a poet of the small.
~~~
Haiku
by “Wired Clues” Abe
Splotchy gray-white clouds
cover th’ empire o’ th’ sky:
Nature’s Rorschach Test.
“Wired Clues” Abe is a NewMillennial haikuist. Hermann Rorschach (1884-1922) was a Swiss Modernist psychiatrist and psychoanalyst.
~~~
The Father Speaks of His Child
by Brice Weasel Ud
He walks across the carpeted floor like a
a Palaeoscinus, clumsy, jagged,
and not quite ready for a bright red trike;
though he does know how to drive Me ragged—
my baby! Thank God, he’s not a reptile.
Brice Easel Wid is a poet of parenting.
~~~
So Zarathustra Spake
by Cid Wa’eeb El Sur
“the eternal recurrence of the same”
—Friedrich Nietzsche
So Zarathustra spake, and the Islamic state
extremists pushed into Zumar, and then Sinjar.
Yazidis fled—thousands. They didn’t dare to wait.
They left however they could leave, on foot, in car.
They knew exactly what would happen if they stayed.
Most had already run away from Tal Afar.
Here was a violence that had to be obeyed.
In terror, people ran. They’d seen what had been done
before. Convert or die. Yazidis fleeing sprayed
with bullets, shrines blown, and Armenians upon the run:
How many won’t escape such unrelenting hate?
Arise and flee this hateful world of the gun.
Cid Wa’eeb El Sur is a poet of West Asia.
~~~
Newsreel:
A terrorist co-pilot on the way to Israel
attempted suiciding passengers upon his plane;
but he was not successful; for the passengers and crew
stepped up to save the plane and people from his deathly view.
~~~
At the Swiss Chalet
by Cris Wade Eu-Bel
What they were looking for they could not find no matter how
they tried. They wanted to be satisfied, and scattered now.
So many things came in to their purview, like pizza with
anchovies, olives, onions, ovens, plates. Who eats it thick?
And laundry soap in pods for washing out their dirty clothes,
the water whirling round—and where it stops nobody knows.
And there upon the col between the Jungfrau and the Mönch,
there in the Bernese Alps, the saddle called the Jungfraujoch.
O, Why?
by Cris Wade Eu-Bel
O, why dig up your past? What do you gain by doing it?
It may be beautiful, but, o, it is a gooey pit.
By focusing upon the end, you never reach the start—
that lovely dart, those running, legs, that moving, gorgeous art.
O, why not grab the present currently before your eyes?
Its radiance is ravishing, o, smashing with surprise.
Just snatch it, clutch it, catch it, pluck it from life’s giving tree.
Forego the impulse that you have to sit in history.
O, why not see the future coming up right next to you?
It longs to lift you up to the magnificent and true.
It longs to carry you away into the grand unknown.
So go with it. From now on ride time’s rising-high cyclone.
Cris Wade Eubel is a Swiss poet of the good and beautiful.
~~~
Coda For Coleridge
by Basil Drew Eceu
He dove deep into the white light
of the full round pearl shining bright
in the eternal blue of night,
because he desired his vision
would be refined with precision,
crystal clear and sharply defined.
He was obsessed with the outline
of reality seen under
the clash of lightning and thunder;
for it was there, yes, it was there,
where he could see, feel, and find fair
fire, frost, between the frozen lake
and forest damasked in ice flake,
performing, unhelped by any
wind, its secret ministry.
Basil Drew Eseu is a poet of 19th century British literature. Samuel Taylor Coleridge (1772-1834) was a Romantic British poet and literary critic.
~~~
In the Hot-air Balloon
by Sid Cee Uberawl
Away we went, up in the beautiful hot-air balloon,
suspended there beneath the gorgeous, pale golden moon.
We stood up in the gondola, the wicker basket weave.
Though we were slightly frightened, we were ready still to leave.
We rose up in the atmosphere, up on the heated air,
o, buoyant in the upward thrust, above New Mexico.
We rode in joy, exhilarated by the lighting flight,
the burner mounted just above, injecting flames of light.
The polyester dacron fabric, seal’d wi’ silicone,
rose high above the grassy knoll that rolled out green and on.
Sid Cee Uberawl is a poet of the US Southwest.
~~~
Faces, Like Balloons, Appear
Rus Ciel Badeew
Across the Bering Strait, all winter comes in crossing light,
too stark to see, and little in the way of any height.
Through vast, blank, Russian snows, the faces, like balloons appear,
mass transit passengers progressing slowly to the rear.
So goes the tune that Alexander Stessin’s voice records,
among the college buildings and the lavatory doors.
Contrived designs, uneven words, dark mountains and white nights,
o, ev’rything that passes out and in and out of sight.
O, take the hour’s moments melting in the icy slime
of Nevsky gloom, those troubling blues, and Stygian sublime.
Rus Ciel Badeew is a poet of Russia. Alexander Stessin is a NewMillennial Russian-American poet. Alexander Nevsky (1221-1263) was a noted Russian Medieval political figure. Last week Vladimir Putin won a show-election.
~~~
On Writing in the 21st Century
by Wilbur Dee Case
Obtaining any sort of traction is so hard to do,
there are so many writers with so many points of view.
And editors, reviewers, commentators, and their ilk
line up to share pathetic, hardly-thought-out sops of milk.
Nobody has a clue, or if they do, they are unknown,
unpublished, unacknowledged, voices in the slumby zone.
What chance has any writer where tradition’s best are trashed,
tossed in this Zombiesque-Valkyrie burn-pile stash, and ashed?
So, what’s a writer, then, to do? Write, write, but do not hope
for better. That will never be. One simply has to cope.
Wilbur Dee Case is a writer “for better, or worse”. “Slumby” is a neologism meaning sleepy slum.
~~~
Seasonal Rotations
by Éclair Dub W. See
Before your eyes lie wonders.
All you have to do is look.
Springs summers, autumns, winters,
rising and falling in suit.
Éclair Dub W. See is a poet of seasons.
~~~
Matter
by Erisbawdle Cue
Matter comprises the cosmic Atlantis,
and is elastic, inertial, and granular;
yet its is also impenetrable, and, as
well, is electrical and gravitational.
We Exchange Gases
by Erisbawdle Cue
We exchange gases with our environment.
Our bodies take in oxygen and expel
carbon dioxide to a desired extent.
It’s something at which we naturally excel.
We Move Around Like Molecules
by Erisbawdle Cue
We move around like molecules,
We people of the vestibules,
ever waiting to enter in
the confines of a better inn,
atoms of a giant eye roll
in a spinning cosmic spiral,
dancing in configurations,
God’s own flock, and gravitation’s.
So Many Contending Fields
by Erisbawdle Cue
With so many contending fields
where does one begin? At the beginning?
Well, where in the hell is the beginning?
Is it Steven Weinberg’s first three minutes?
Is it Herbert Spencer’s first principles?
Or must one go back even earlier?
It seems there are so many ways to start
and so many places, that finally
every attempt is biased and high-priced.
It all depends on what one wants to buy,
and then, how much one is willing to pay;
and there are not any easy choices.
Erisbawdle Cue is a philosopher of sorts. In the above free verse, Steven Weinberg (1933-2021) was a PostModernist American theoretical physicist, and Herbert Spencer (1820-1903) was a British Victorian polymath who coined the phrase, “the survival of the fittest.”
Erisbawdle Cue is a philosopher of sorts.
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