Rendezvous With a Martian
          by Scubie Dew Lear

He was not one of us, although he came to be with us.
He did not stay long, and, but for the briefest period.
In truth, he seemed a very distant individual,
when even he was very near, his words residual.
He told us that he came from Mars, but some thought that was queer.
Who could believe that he had come from any place but here?
I had just recently appeared, so I could not ask him
the questions that I would have had I known the idiom.
I would have asked him how his science differed from our own.
I would have asked what he thought he could do all alone.

I would have asked him what material his robot had.
I would have asked him many things, but I was but a lad.
I saw him in a cemetery, on gray sidewalks of cement;
but even if I’d tried, I could not know all that he meant.
The things that made him seem so different were very few;
but they were there, and obvious, o, easily in view.
His head was smaller, farther from his frame than most of us.
His manners were so polished that we seemed too vigourous.
His values differed from our own, by being less intense,
compared to our impatience, his intelligence seemed dense.

How could he be so patient with our vast stupidity?
How could he seem so different, yet be like you and me?
I wondered what it was that made it seem so obvious
that though he was right here with us, he was not one of us.
His knowledge was remarkable; his pacing was all wrong;
dispassionate, and in control; he seemed so very strong.
I would have liked to go with him, when he left us right here;
but as I mentioned earlier, I, too, was new—one year.
I, too, discovered that this place—I think they called it Earth—
was hard to understand while I was there upon its girth.

Scubie Dew Lear is a poet of Unidentified Flying Objects, and other such things.


Sir Eel
          by Blue Screw Idea

Sir Eel Budecaw was resting on his elbows’ bend.
The ski slope down his shoulders curved up and around his end.
He fell into the valley, crashing, smashing! all apart.
He was a copper—golden—but without a beating heart.
Where had he come from—kingdom? O, where was he going to?
He stretched his legs out to the edge of doom—and then he knew.
He looked about the room. Somewhere there had to be a key
that could unlock his emptiness and set his feelings free.
He looked upon the wall, and then he looked down at his bed.
He tightened up. He turned his head. And then the image fled.

Blue Screw Idea is a poet of yearning for the infinite and the ideal.


On the Einstein-Rosen Bridge
          by I. E. Sbace Weruld

Each tried to keep his balance on the Einstein-Rosen Bridge,
each hoping for a place to pause, a momentary ridge.
But in that turning tunnel, like a funnel in the wind,
they could not help but twist and gyrate, pirouette and spin.
They tried to keep together, but the force pushed them apart.
They tried to hold each other up, but then fell off the chart.
First, Slider Cubeawe was stretched out, as far as he could go;
then “Weird” Ace Blues reached to the limit of what he could know;
and Cal Wes Ubideer came to his ultimate extreme;
three musketeers all falling in through space-time in a dream.

I. E. Sbace Werld is a poet of alternate universes.


In the Midst of So Much Info
          by Ira “Dweeb” Scule
          “We are the stuffed men”
              —T. S. Eliot, The Hollow Men

It is not odd that in our World the well-crafted verse
is largely overlooked. It is for better or for worse,
because there’s so much poetry. The same is true for math.
Think of how many mathematic papers there are! that
each month appear across the Web. O, who could read them all?
or physics, medicine, or chemistry, et cetera.
It is exciting, overwhelming and formidible.
We’re in the midst of so much info, it’s incredible.
And yet one has to find a niche where one can be content,
despite the continents of content, cosmic in extent.

Ira “Dweeb” Scule is a ten o’clock scholar.


          by Aw “Curbside” Lee

It winds across the Pearl River Delta from Hong Kong
to Zhuhai and Macao—length—over twenty miles long.
The World’s longest sea-bridge/tunnel links the gambling hub
with the financial centre for a Greater Bay urb club.
So shipping will go on, there are two artificial isles;
beneath, a tunnel travels onward for about four miles.
Bus services began this week—soon trucks and cars will come—
to join this economic bustling hub-bub’s booming thrum.
The HZMB spans Lingdingyang Channel, like a snake,
that moves in steel-concrete-bitumen from bank to bank.

Aw “Curbside” Lee is a poet of industrialized China. The HZMB stands for the Hong Kong-Zhuhai-Macao bridge.


          by “Lice Brews” Ueda

On a lily pad,
the frog sat squat, motionless,
prepared to hop off.

“Lice Brews” Ueda is a poet of Japan.


Postmarvelous Melbourne
          by Sbede Cawlie Ru

Above the deep, blue surface of the Yarra, rise
the buildings of the Melbourne skyline: white, gray, slate,
beneath the high and wide, ballooning azure skies,
rectangular, like blocks upon a flattened plate,
between Bourke Place’s sleek, contoured and checkered plaid
and tall Eureka, pointing like square-fingered fate,
reflected cloud-puffs in Rialto Towers’ staid
and glassy height, the concrete Collins Street boxed crew.
Below, Saint Patrick’s and Saint Paul’s Cathedrals wade
sedately through the shallows and the shaded hues,
another world’s inns of peace, hope, and reprise,
against the waves of modernism’s platitudes.

Sbede Cawlie Ru is a poet of Australia.


A Wise One in the Skies above the State
          by Sri Wele Cebuda

O my, the sky is dark and filled with my complexion—clouds.
O my, I am as you are—blue—rain falling on my shrouds.
East, south, west, north, o, everywhere, such varied shapes appear,
a conch, a lotus blossom, mace, and discus, here and there.
I pace across Earth’s space and see the rising of the Sun,
o, golden, solar fire, nuclear, ignited One.
The transcendentalists who know the Absolute observe
illusory is all of this which flees Earth’s turning curve.
Omniscience overall, o, energy and speeding light,
I see before my eyes the splendor of your strength and might.

Sri Wele Cebuda is a poet of India.


In the Cameroon
          by Bacweris Udele

Again Paul Biya wins election in the Cameroon,
extending, his already long, his thirty-six year-rule.
Though some claim ballot-stuffing and intimidation too,
in Anglo-phone west regions, there the vote was miniscule.
Despite its economic growth, a yearly four percent,
most people live in poverty; it’s hard to pay the rent;
and in the west, the people feel they’re margínalized;
once vibrant villages are ghost towns; many souls have died.
Although Paul Biya likes to spend his time in Switzerland,
he’s benefited from nonvoters.Was it all preplanned?

Bacweris Udele is a poet of central Africa.


Tensor Tennos
          by Euclidrew Base
          “I’m getting tensor every day.”
              —The Klein Four Group, “Finite Simple Group of Order Two

In Padua, Gregorio Ricci-Curbasto sussed
the so-called absolutist differential calculus.
Along with student Tullio Levi-Civita, he
developed tensor theory used for relativity;
by putting Ricci’s algorithm with some Lie results
from transform groups, extended absolute invariants.
The tensors unified invariant symbolic forms
and showed their usefulness in Albert Einstein’s work, and more,
as in hydrodynamics and in elasticity,
a triumph of the methods of the general dc.

Euclidrew Base is a poet of mathematics and mathematicians, like Sophus Lie (1842-1899) Gregorio Ricci-Curbasto (1853-1925), Tullio Levi-Civita (1873-1941), and physicist Albert Einstein (1879-1955), dc = differential calculus.


September 26, 1944
          by Cees Wilard Bui

The World will little note nor long remember what happened there
September 26, in Arnhem, 1944;
but it will not be easy for me to forget. I can’t get it
out of my mind. It was a battle of despair, a wretched pit.
But on that night at nine o’clock, the rain was pouring down,
the airmen fell back to the Nederrijn to leave the town.
The pounding on the ground had been destructive, ruinous.
Yet in that bleak bombardment, German shelling luminous,
two thousand were evacuated from that deadly fray
to rise upon the (s)o(u)ther(n) shore and live another day.
O, those young men who could escape the death that came for them
could leave behind that hellish light enflaming Arnhem then.


No Army Sits in Arnhem, September 26, 2018
          by Cees Wilerd Bui

The sky, the landscape, and the river rolling through the town;
the image at the end of the wide corridor is brown.
It is a picture of a faded episode of war.
It is a group of panthers stirring, purring at the door.
The time has gone. The fire is extinguished. It is night.
There is no elevator hum. There is no office light.
There is no word of tenderness. The horror has dropped off.
The bridge has been rebuilt. There is no person left to scoff.
No army sits in Arnhem, now a city filled with cars.
We may have gone a bridge too far. It’s hard to find a scar.

Cees Wilerd Bui is a poet of the Netherlands. Arnhem was the site of a disastrous battle of WW2.


Charles Baudelaire (1821-1867)
          by Claude I. S. Weber

Postmodernism’s mockingbird has fallen from the tree
at an assisted living eldercare facility,
gray upper feathers and a paler body falling down,
down in Monroeville, Alabama, down, on to the ground.
She sang all through our day, a lyric, whistling chireep,
up in the chinaberry trees, so sweetly, clear and deep,
a simple serenade, her mimic, many-tongued descant,
a soulful sound that could be heard across America…
And now as per her wishes, her death ashes can be placed
into the crook of our oak tree where she may rest in peace.

Clause I. S. Weber is a poet of France.


Ten Miles North of Tapachula, Mexico
          by Cesar Dew Ulibe

Ten miles north of Tapachula a young man was killed
upon the four-lane highway, where his life was stopped, blood-spilled.
So many hours traveled and so many miles gone,
where trucks are passing, caravaners have been jumping on.
How did he die? I do not know. The hot, bright Sun glared forth.
I only know that he was in the thousands going north.
Had he attempted grabbing fast a semi-trailer’s back…
and missed, slammed to the pavement’s wrack, nearby a bloodied cap?
His right shoe missing showed a black sock; it was filled with holes.
In age, he seemed to be about a twenty-one-year old.

Cesar Dwe Ulibe is a poet of Mexico, whose last name is occasionally misspelled Uribe. The young man was in the migrant caravan.


Harper Lee (1926-2016)
          by Cause Bewilder

Postmodernism’s mockingbird has fallen from the tree
at an assisted living eldercare facility,
gray upper feathers and a paler body falling down,
down in Monroeville, Alabama, down, on to the ground.
She sang all through our day, a lyric, whistling chireep,
up in the chinaberry trees, so sweetly, clear and deep,
a simple serenade, her mimic, many-tongued descant,
a soulful sound that could be heard across America…
And now as per her wishes, her death ashes can be placed
into the crook of our oak tree where she may rest in peace.


The College Cleric
          by Al Bucwer Edise
          “And gladly wolde he lerne and gladly teche.”
              —Geoffrey Chaucer, Prologue to the Canterbury Tales

She was completely swamped, attempting to consider, o,
what papers to put in her P & T portfolio.
For her it was a black & white & gray September cranch,
a bureaucratic deluge in an autumn avalanche.
And there were days when the sublime became meticulous—
the words promiscuous, at times, indeed, ridiculous.
She felt a mental prostitute engulfed in quicksand deeds,
her works and days, to some degree, quashed by oppressive screeds.
And yet despite it all, she still enjoyed the teaching stint.
But gosh—she wondered when there would appear a dint in it.

Al Bucwer Edise is a poet of New Mexico.


Hate Speech Is Any Speech, or Voices Continue To Be Banned
          by Caud Sewer Bile

Hate speech is any speech the memo-crats do not enjoy;
they’ll cross it out, they’ll cut it out. Destroy. Destroy. Destroy.
Hate speech is any speech regressives do not like to hear;
they’ll shove it down, they’ll yell it down. It is the truth they fear.
Hate speech is any speech the uber-alls cannot endure;
they like their commonistic propaganda for the pure.
Hate speech is any speech the cleft can’t manage to corrupt;
they cringe at any voices that they cannot interrupt.
Hate speech is any speech the social mediums disdain;
intolerance and targeting is their refrain. Refrain.

Caud Sewer Bile is a prosy poet of the polis.


Along a Gravel Stretch
          by Bruc “Diesel” Awe

The place was but a rocky hill, the road a gravel stretch;
he stopped his van, that working man, to pause for just a rest.
He stepped outside to breathe the air; it was so warm and fresh;
he felt invigourated; pleasant breezes touched his flesh.
He wished he could remain there for forever and a day,
but he had work to do, and, o, he knew he couldn’t stay.
He placed his right hand on his head, and leaned against the van;
his drab green tee hung on his frame, that passing working man.
Then he got back inside his van; his black shoes left the ground.
The calm would cease, there’d be no peace; he had to move along.


The Hand-Held Rotary Rock Drill/Jack Hammer
          by Bruc “Diesel” Awe

Atop the rockdrill is the handle and its handle bolt,
the air control valve for the drilling, constant, pounding jolt;
the handle of the throttle valve, the pawl and ratchet part,
the rifle bar rotating piston sitting at its hearrt;
the air control for blowing and the air post for exhaust,
the riflenut and piston on the piston stem embossed;
down to rope-threaded, hollow drill, made of drill steel, bit,
and finally the steel retainer, curving from the pit.
In 1912, it came to be, by Simon Ingersoll,
inventor of the hand-held drill, to in rock force a hole.

Bruc “Diesel” Awe is a poet of motorized vehicles and mechanical contrivances. Simon Ingersoll (1818-1894) was a mechanical engineer.