by Drew U. A. Eclibse
I saw the lovely, moon arising, lovely, full and warm,
surrounded by a white corona, circling its form.
Its beauty was spectacular, its craters and its light.
Aloof, afar, alone it shone in shadows of the night.
I longed to know that man, that smiling man up in the moon,
whose cheeks were brutal, bruised, his rounded head hard as a stone.
I longed to stand upon his face, like Neil Armstrong did,
if only for a moment’s trice, as happy as a kid.
But such will never be, and so, I’ll spend my life on Earth,
and gaze in awe up at his grin, remembering my dearth.
Drew U. A. Eclibse is a poet of lunar landscapes.
US Midterm Election 2018
by Brice U. Lawseed
“It was a purple smudge.”
—Red Was Iceblue
There wasn’t any blue wave, nor a red wall; but instead
the House was painted blue, the Senate turned a brighter red.
America continued its divided government,
since Washington was first proclaimed the US President.
Our nation’s founders built a country, unified, but free,
elections as a check upon unbridled tyranny.
Three branches keep control out of one single sector’s hands;
no entity possessing unconditional command.
And so, another year goes by; disquiet rides the land;
democracy remains in tact; the grand republic stands.
Bryce U. Lawseed is a poet of Washington DC and the federal govenment.
Port Moresby’s APEC Haus
by DeBuis Lawrece
A six-laned boulevard to nowhere built by Chinese loans
will have some Maseratis on ‘t, when APEC comes to town;
Port Moresby, Papua New Guinea, in November’s sun,
the gleaming APEC Haus, the aqua sea and bright, white stone.
It stands upon new built-up reclaimed land near Ela Beach,
resembling a sail on a lakatoi’s up-reach,
near by the city center, but out in the water’s sheen
away from all the crime and raskol gangs meandering.
Some claim Port Moresby is the worst in crime for travelers,
worse even than chic Rio, Dhaka, or Johannesburg.
by DeBuis Lawrece
New Caledonia includes main island of Gran Terre,
the Iles Loyaute, and Ile Des Pines, and other smaller ones.
The capital Nouméa is the largest city there,
nearby Dumbéa, Le Mont-Dore, and Païta share the sun.
New Caledonia has been a part of France for years;
at first it was a colony filled up with prisoners;
but soon the isles became known for the nickel they display,
an economic mainstay that continues to this day.
New Caledonia has voted no for breaking ties
with France, because the money is too good they realize.
The French send them more than a billion euros every year.
If they leave France, they would lose that; and that is very clear.
DeBuis Lawrece is a poet of the southwestern Pacific Ocean. Among the rich flora and fauna in New Caledonia is the kagu, a crested, long-legged, light-gray, flightless bird.
Begging in Beijing
by Waseel Budecir
The recent Pakistani state-run TV head was sacked;
the acting managing director blundered—it’s a fact.
While Khan the Pakistani President was in Beijing,
in meeting with the Chinese for a loan from Xi Jinping.
Across the screen, Hasan Immad Mohammadi displayed
a misspelled word for Beijing—Begging—there for all to read.
Khan had secured $6,000,000,000 from the Saudi bank;
he was in China for his payment-balance crisis blank.
He had decried their leaders roaming with a begging bowl;
but then was rather shamelessly recorded on the dole.
On the “Release” Of Bibi Asia
by Waseel Budecir
The Christian woman Bibi Asia, who has been in jail,
for eight long years on death row, bundled up behind a veil,
who likely never did a thing accusers said she did;
has suffered for their vitriol and lived a life forbid.
Now Pakistan’s Supreme Court has acquitted her this week;
but she remains in prison. Just how blessèd are the meek?
It seems that Pakistan is striving hard to stay quite pure;
no Christian’s word should be allowed; no Christian should endure.
Saif-ul-Mulook left the country; only fools would scoff.
He was her lawyer; he has fled; death threats have scared him off.
For early advocates Taseer and Bahtti had been killed.
For one poor woman in the land, how much blood must be spilled?
Waseel Budecir is a poet of Pakistan.
A Stuxnet-like Attack
by Delir Ecwabeus
Supposedly a malware similar to Stuxnet hit
Iranian strategic networks, but where’s proof of it?
Details of it yet are superficial at this time.
Who knows the damage, or its targets—rumours ride the tide.
An evening bulletin from Hadashot reported that
Iran admitted it had faced a Stuxnet-like attack;
but where or when or who has been affected most—who knows.
Khamenei said keep up the fight; Jalali said not so.
So what has happened? Has Rouhani’s cell phone been exchanged?
A murder plot in Denmark stopped? the malware now contained?
Delir Ecwabeus is a poet of Iran.
Edmund Georg Hermann Landau (1877-1938)
by Euclidrew Base
A student of Frobenius, Minkoski’s follower
at Göttingen, Edmund Landau, a number wallower,
sought ever simpler proofs of theorems in his keen pursuit
of ever greater clarity—that number theorist.
He sought to understand the distribution of the primes,
and added facts to Riemann’s acts a number of known times.
His style, merciless and telegraphic, would include
remarks and definitions, theorems, axioms and proofs.
The British mathematic wizard G. H. Hardy said,
“No one was ever more devoted to math than he was.”
G. H. Hardy (1877-1947)
by Euclidrew Base
His eyes were opened first by Prof Augustus Love’s assist
to his first serious conception of analysis.
With a few papers, his “Course of Pure Mathematics” was,
he thought, his best, first-ten-year’s math work as an analyst.
Then he began collaboration with, first Littlewood,
and then, Ramanujan; but he thought Landau, too, was good.
He said that he was at his best at Oxford, fortyish;
in truth, he was a most remarkable apologist;
and felt his path lacked all utility in life…unfurled;
and that his math discoveries helped no one in the World.
Euclidrew Base is a poet of mathematics. His favourite New Millennial math song is that written by M. Salomone, “The Finite Simple Group (of Order Two)” performed by The Klein Four Group.
Will and Ariel
by Erisbawdle Cue
Ah, Will, and Ariel, two married, keen historians,
who, through the 1900s’ Tempest, kept on going on,
and brought their Civilization up to Napoleon,
their vision vast, Spinoza-esque, sub specie totius.
How many times did I not travel back in time with them,
among the myriad millennia they tried to frame?
From 1935 to 1975’s end,
their measured words attempting to make order of life’s fen,
in these United States, endurant through the violence,
they left a story, bought by life, of all the lives they penned.
Erisbawdle Cue is a poet of history and philosophy. The Story of Civilization was an eleven volume work by Will Durant (1885-1981), and his wife Ariel (1898-1981).
The Pizza Drop-Off
by Carb Deliseuwe
He was delivering a pizza to a customer.
The box was in a hot pack; it was ready to be served.
He knocked upon the door. He waited on the scruffy mat.
The guy who opened it, looked hungry, and indeed was that.
When offered to come inside to arrange for payment there,
he entered in and centered his box on his left palm square.
The customer gave him some dough, his cash was at his hip;
he paid the worker a most generous and welcome tip.
While balancing the pizza, he was smiling happily;
for he had made his trip and drop-off, o, so snappily.
Carb Deliseuwe is a poet of food.
At the Movies
by Cawb Edius Ree
I saw him at the movies watching images go by;
in darkness on the velvet cushioned chair, a suited guy.
He leaned back there before the cinema with silver tie
and sucked in all the nature shots beneath a darkened sky.
It was so beautiful, he thought, spread out before his eyes.
He held on tight to plush arm-rest, a hanging anchor’d nigh.
He turned his head to check his stead; he then let loose a sigh;
and placed his arm upon the chair’s back stretching out so wide.
O, he was riveted upon the film’s wild reeling fly.
He took them in, the swirl and spin, that moved him by and by.
He checked his watch upon his wrist. He wondered at the time.
Would he be able to enjoy the picture with his might?
Cawb Edius Reel is a poet of the movies.
Up in the Building Flat
by Urbawel Cidese
He lay back on the purple bed spread in the afternoon.
The laughter soon subsided and he faced the open room.
Outside, skyscrapers towered high up to the passing clouds.
Inside, the room was cupped in light, endowed with drowsy doubts.
He lifted up his head to see the parking lots below
filled up with trucks and buses, cars and vehicles galore.
He concentrated on the lotus pose that he was in
and stretched his legs out to his sides with serious chagrin.
He jutted out his chin, his square jaw locked in slight surprise.
He felt that he was at the edge, the focus in his eyes.
He tried to hold on to this awed dimension, hard and long,
his palms firm to the spreading slope that he was poised upon.
Outside, the distant hills were blue and white and rolling tall.
He kept his focus on the moment, up above it all.
The city cément streets below passed by with traffic flows.
He noticed near at hand the shiny wood and brown bed post.
What could he take from this? he wondered, underneath the scope,
like as a microbe in a petri dish upon that slope.
And then he thought it was time to get up from where he was,
that squat, the lamp reflected in the window, cuffed, like fuzz.
Urbawel Cisese is a poet of cities and urban settings.
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