Chad and Jason: Willow Leaves
          by Cadwel E. Bruise

So quietly and carefully they nurture poetry,
like 60’s sotto voce duo, Chad and Jeremy,
both Chad and Jason, in the noisy, pulsing Boston scene,
continue showin’ off their leaves that whisper in the breeze.
Like willows on life’s flowin’ dreams, that run down to the sea,
they bend their branches down in to clear water and debris;
as yesterday is gone, now is, tomorrow’s gonna be:
Who knows what distant, misty shores, these silver leaves will see?
Though all good things must end some day, and summer leaves must fall,
still on they twist, wisps on the Earth, upon this old, odd Ball.

Cadwel E. Bruise is a poet of New England.

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Earthquake in Japan Near Osaka
          by “Wired Clues” Abe

One person, viewing cherry blossoms, earthquake vantages,
Osaka shaking, building fires, window damages,
the lurching transports, caved-in concrete, cracking roads in two,
broke water pipes, disrupted traffic, nature killed a few:
in nearby Ibaraki, an old man of eighty-four,
died when a bookshelf fell on him and smashed him to the floor;
another in his eighties died when wall bricks fell on him;
a woman, eighty-one, her wardrobe crushed her on a whim;
a wall fell on Rina Mirake, merely nine years old,
enroute to schoool, a wall collapsed, her backpack scrunched, now cold.

“Wired Clues” Abe is a poet of New Millennial Japan. Line one alludes to an haiku of one of his favourite poets, Masaoka Shiki (1867-1902), the pen-name of Masoka Noboru.

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The Republic of North Macedonia
          by Uril Badewscee

In the idyllic setting, Prespes, bordering on Greece
and Macedonia, despite a storm, some longed for peace,
at least, that is, the foreign minsters of the two lands,
if not the populations of the countries here at hand.
Tsipras and Zoran Zaev have stirred up a hornet’s nest.
In Psarades the deal was signed; but would it stand the test?
In Pisoderi thousands rallied; tear gas hit the crowd;
in Bitola the thousands there were every bit as loud.
Though most do not believe there is a monster in the lake;
of the ferocious anger found outside there’s no mistake.

 

Kole Nedelkovski in Sophia
          by Uril Badewscee

The sky burst forth, forth burst the sky, in to full firey flames,
o, scatt’ring wildly o’er this darkened land of many names.
There if you see a hard-pressed man with sorrow in his heart,
take pity on him, cheer him up with hope and harkened star.
For though he’s far away; the harshness of the World divides.
Deep in young chests, sweet memories remain though war abides.
And though that road still winds along, accursed sunlight glares;
the lightning crashed, he was on foot, and running for the stairs.
O, did he leave an attic window, alien in pain,
pursued by the Bulgarian police, his flight in vain.

Uril Badewscee is a poet of slavic Macedonia. Among his favourite poets are Aco Šopov, Slavko Janevski, and “Gane” Todorovski. Kole Nedelkovski (1912-1941) was a Macedonian poet and revolutionary.

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Upon the Death of Hector Gonzalez Antonio (1978-2018)
          by Cesar Dwe Uribe

For journalists, it’s the most deadly after Syria;
last year in Mexico eleven journalists were killed;
and with Hector Antonio, the sixth to die this year,
in Tamaulipas on the US border, death is near.
This correspondent for Excelsior bludgeoned to death,
in Ciudad Victoria, where he took his last breath,
was carjacked Monday and found Tuesday on a dusty road,
abandoned, shirtless, bloodied in the dirt, one shoe unshod.
Not dragged around the walls of Troy upon some deadly ride,
but treated like a piece of trash his killers tossed aside.

Cesar Dwe Uribe is a poet of Mexico. He was relieved that President Trump signed an executive order that ends the policy of family separations at the border.

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Charles Krauthammer
          by Brice U. Lawseed

These past ten months he’d been uncharacteristic’lly mute,
and thought that silence would be coming to an end quite soon.
But, no, the cancer is acute and spreading rapidly,
He only has a few weeks left to live it sadly seems.
This is the final verdict, and his fight is nearly done,
as is the role that he has played here in America.
He thanked his doctors, readers, viewers, friends and colleagues who
had made his life worth living in his long pursuit of truth.
He leaves his life with no regrets, though he is sad to leave
us here without his thoughtful talk and true nobility.

Brice U. Lawseed is a poet of law, frequently focusing on the nation’s capital and its environs.

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Joseph Suglia
          by Wilbur Dee Case

A cross between Tom Wolfe the Second and Tom Wolfe the First,
he writes as if he thinks he has a certain kind of wurst,
as if he’s taken French…and litter-theorists to heart;
at table 42, the blow-V-8-ing came a-part.

He writes excessive f(r)iction, pressing limits with his words,
imaginatively expressing mythdoms of absurb.
To enter in his whirl’d Chicago—Danger. It’s a bust.
Watch out. Derangement can appear at any change or bus.

Full of himself, a bullish elf, he’s running to be herd,
intense preoccupation with the self-important word,
inflicting years of rage upon a public old enough
to think the greatest author in the world’s on a bluff.

The images he sees that surfeit in his consciousness
cause him to make subjéct correlatives objective-lush.
He drives along the avenues of colleges and main,
but coughs up Kafka, like he’s in a dream of Hölderlin.

Wilbur Dee Case is a poet of literary criticism. Joseph Suglia is a present day ficitionist.

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Proofs
          by Euclidrew Base

Proofs should be short and elegant, and somewhat sur-pri-sing,
like Euclid’s lovely proof of infinitely many primes.
With any finite set of primes, just take the product, and
add one. This number then is not divisible. It stands.
Therefore, there must be an infinity of primes. Voilà.
It’s striking. Mathematicians today would probably
assume the opposite and show a contradiction comes;
but Euclid did not do so. No, he used his simple sum.
It’s sweet and delicate and brief, and soars the centuries.
Add one great mind in mankind and begin th’ adventuring.

Euclid (fl. 300 BC) is the author of one of the most famous books of mathematics: The Elements.

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The Tomb of Archimedes (287-212 BC)
          by Euclidrew Base

When Cicero was quaester on the Isle of Sicily,
which would have been back in the year 75 BC,
approximately one-and-one-third centuries post-aft
the time of Archimedes, when he died in Syracuse.
But none knew where his tomb was, maybe some just scoffed and laughed,
and they denied that such existed. Were they just amused?
Yet Cicero insisted on discovering the tomb,
and sought it out amidst the thorns and brambles, I assume.

He looked around near Agrigentine Gate and found a spot
wherein a column stood with sphere and cylinder on top.
The ratio of sphere to cylinder was 2 to 3;
for Archimedes it had been a great discovery.
Some men with sickles cleared the scrub around that little place;
they saw the tomb and verses, though half-lines were worn away.
The tomb of its most brilliant citizen remained unknown,
until a man from Arpinum had come, and it was shown.

 

The Navier-Stokes Equations
          by Euclidrew Base

The Navier-Stokes equations are used to describe the flow
of viscous fluid substances, with Newton’s second law,
assuming that the liquid stress must be proportional
to gradient of the velocity and pressure’s hull.

They take into account the Froude number based upon
the speed-length ratio, while Euler’s own match-ups do not;
and as such are a dissipative system in a sense,
because they cannot be made to be homogeneous.

They model weather, ocean currents, water in a pipe,
as well as airflow round a wing, as in aircraft design,
the flow of blood, pollution whirls, and, in a Maxwell mix,
they can be drawn on in magnetohydrodynamics.

 

Hausdorff Raum
          by Euclidrew Base

To ev’ry single individual, there is at least
one neighbourhood containing it, a beauty or a beast;
and if there are two neighbourhoods of some point, then there must
exist a neighbourhood that’s a subset of both, we trust.
So if another lies within the neighbourhood, there too
must be a neighbourhood, a subset of the first—it’s true.
For two points, there must be two neighbourhoods in which no one
is common, that is, it must be housed off beneath the sun.
In 1919, this is how Hausdorff described his space,
that is, his topologically, roomy ekstases.

Euclidrew Base is a poet of mathematics. Claude-Louis Navier (1785-1836) and George Gabriel Stokes (1819-1903) were 19th century physicists. Felix Hausdorff (1868-1942), like Kole Nedelkovski mentioned above, was a casualty of World War II.

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Ivan on the Divine on the Divan
          by Rus Ciel Badeew
          “Ivan really lives his problems.”
              —Albert Camus

“There’s still an awful lot of force—centripetal—upon
our planet, Alyosha,” Ivan said on the divan.
“I long to live, if even it’s against all logic, yes.
I don’t believe the universe is ordered, I confess.
And yet the sticky little leaves that come in spring in droves
are dear to me, as is blue sky, and people whom one loves…
sometimes. Would you believe some deeds as well are dear to me?
In this angelic state, I feel light as the air, and free.
I long to dream and drink the lees of life, and yet remain,
as one who feels tremendous joy, but likewise feels disdain.”

Rus Ciel Badeew is a poet of Russia. Alyosha (and Ivan) are characters in Fyodor Dostoyevsky’s The Brothers Karamazov.

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The Moon Above the Castle
          by Wu “Sacred Bee” Li

He drank all through the moon’s long journey through
the depths of night,
still drunk upon the waking up at dawn’s good morning light.
How could he stay awake, the house-boy’s snoring thundering?
It was moon light that kept him up amidst such blubbering.
Upon a stick, he listened to the river in himself.
O, how he wished his body now belonged to someone else.
He wondered when he could escape the turmoil that he felt.
In deepest night, the wind was still. He left behind his belt.
He’d find a boat to drift away and spend his years afloat;
but would he ever leave behind the moon upon that moat?

Wu “Sacred Bee” Li is a poet of Chinese literature and history. The above poem derives from from Song Dynasty poet Su Shi (1037-1101).

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The Moon Is Rising
          by Drew U. A. Eclibse

Like as a Google doodle on its daily homepage spread,
the moon is rising on the sea in aqua, white and red.
Above, the puffy clouds surround in shining curlicues,
in purple, orange, cyan, underscored with midnight blue.

Beneath, the ocean waves roll in to flowers on the shore,
and move as quietly as breath or unseen albacore,
toward violet and lavender, pinwheel-petaled swirls,
beside the arching, cherry, branching, pussy-willow girls.

White birds fly over amethyst surf edges at the beach,
the mellow billows, undulating, ever out of reach.
The foamy, peaceful turquoise waters lit by lunar light
are being pulled far out to sea in dream-surreal night.

 

The Grand Waltz
          by Drew U. A. Eclibse

If Earth collided with twin Theia much was interchanged;
that Big Splash caused a cataclysm; two were rearranged.
Their girths were altered in the process, giving birth to Moon,
together going round the Sun—the larger and the lune.
According to the Giant Impact’s strange hypothesis,
4.5 billion years ago, the metamorphosis
took place, when Mars-sized Theia hit Earth, causing f-ir-eworks,
thus breaking into untold pieces—bashing, crashing, smashing jerks—
creating in the process the Grand Waltz we’ve come to know,
serene Selene, her bridle tied, and brother Helios.

Drew U. A. Eclibse is a poet of the moon.

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On a Whirling Globe
          I. E. Sbace Weruld

I feel as if I’m on a whirling globe out of control,
that speeds 1,000 miles per hour in a mixing bowl,
as if I’m travelling around a blazing, raging sun
some 60,000 miles per hour on a tearing run.
O, then it seems as if I’m rushing round the galaxy
on a 400,000-mile-per-hour spatial spree.
And if that wasn’t fast enough, it seems the Milky Way
is soaring on a million-mile-per-hour horseless sleigh.
And so I doubt I’ll find much peace here in this cosmic yawn;
I’ll live my life as best I can, and then be moving on.

I. E. Sbace Weruld is a poet of the Universe.