Wise Words with Bruce Wise


 

The 5G Race Is On
          by Esca Webuilder

Fifth Generation cellular wireless technology
is growing all across the Globe from sea to shining sea.
The Chinese have been working hard to corner market share.
Behind them South Korea’s working hard to keep up there.
Next comes the USA in third, and following these are
Japan and Germany, UK, France, Canada and more
like Russia next, and Singapore. In Scandanavia,
right now the leading 5G company is Nokia;
with Swedish telecom equipment maker Ericsson,
who states in 5 years 5G will reach more than one-bill-ion.

Esca Webuilder is a poet of the computer.

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In Indonesian Papua
          by Budi Eas Celewr

In Papua, the land the Indonesians made their own,
there was a deadly, fierce attack in a construction zone.
Two dozen workers were killed by insurgent sep’ratists
in the remote Nduga region in dense jungle mist.
They had been building roads and bridges; this had been their task;
but, when Istaka Karya took a pic, he didn’t ask.
The sep’ratists were celebrating Independence Day;
they didn’t want the Indonesians getting in the way.
When afterwards police and troops came to investigate,
one soldier was shot dead. New infrastructure work would wait.

Budi Eas Celewr is a poet of Indonesia. Bhinneka Tunggal Ika is the official national motto of Indonesia, Unity in Diversity.

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The Rokot/Briz-KM Launch: November 30, 2018
          by War di Belecuse

The Rokot/Briz-KM launch vehicle left from its home:
lift off, Pad 3, Site 133 at Plesetcsk Cosmodrome.
But, in addition, to three classified com satellites,
another unannounced seems to have gone along in stride.
Was this one more inspector satellite rotating Earth
for spying on American, and other nation’s turf?
This year an air-launched, Russian interceptor had new tests
on modified MiG-31s, the Foxhound fighter jets.
And China too has been pursuing such technology,
as space-based weapons are now part of warfare strategy.

War di Belecuse is a poet on the various militaries of the World.

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Collateral Damage
          by Saudi Becrewel

Historic buildings in Sanaa, not long ago were hit
by Saudi airforce pilots who discharged their deadly spit.
Beneath the rubble, were the people who had lost their lives,
when mud-brick, gingerbread-like frames collapsed within their hives.
The dense rammed-earth and burnt-brick towers crumbled in a heap.
The missile’s flash launched from a plane hit those at peace asleep.
They felt the impact of the missile, residents there said;
but it did not explode; they thought it would wake up the dead.
This was no military site; there were no rockets near.
Why hit that place? There was no base for a scud missile’s sneer.

Saudi Becrewel is a poet of Saudi Arabia.

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Des Gilets Jaunes
          by Claude I. S. Weber

In Paris, yellow vest protesters clashed with the police;
upset about a climate-change tax increase by elites.
It was Macron’s idea to persuade the French to trade
their deisel-driven vehicles for less-polluting makes.

On Saturday, in rather fancy Paris neighbourhoods,
the rioters torched cars, smashed private homes and looted goods.
The Arc d’ Triomphe had been stormed and vandalized, alas.
Police fought back; they sprayed with water cannons and tear gas.

Protests went viral over France, ten thousands hit the road.
These were the worst protests in years to flare up and explode.
French drivers must have jackets of high-visibility;
and they became the symbol of protesters on the street.

On Tuesday, French Prime Minister Edouard Philippe had dropped
the planned increases taxing gasoline. They have been stopped.
In Paris, now it seems to be, as things are rearranged,
at least as far as taxing is concerned, the climate’s changed.

Claude I. S. Weber is a poet of France. Des Gilet Jaunes is French for the yellow vests.

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La Grande Arche
          by Arcideb Usewel

La Grande Arche, designed by Otto von Spreckelsen is
a pre-stressed concrete frame that’s covered with granite and glass.
The white Carrara marble’s gone due to ‘ts fragility.
It’s meant to be a giant cube projected in 3-D.
Above 100 meters high, a window on the World;
a massive teflon mesh across the atrium is hurled.
At night in red and white and blue, reflected in the pool,
it looks as if it is a magically-drawn hypercube…
that’s open to the future, like a picture hung in time,
clouds floating by, as if done by René Magritte sublime.

Arcideb Usewel is a poet of architecture. Johan Otto von Spreckelsen (1929-1987) was a Danish architect; René Magritte (1898-1967) was a Begian surrealist painter.

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Kilchum’s Castle, Lines Composed on Saint Andrew’s Day, 2018
          by Clide Abersuwe

The cloudy, purple-blue skies over Kilchum Castle’s stones
look eerie in Loch Awe, the ruins, like a building’s bones,
that will not give up to time’s ever adamant demands,
since lightning struck it centuries ago and left its stand.
The turret of a tower resting in the courtyard still
is up-side-down and shows the power of the lightning’s will.
What once was proof of Campbell power now holds tourist sway
throughout the summer, even now, upon Saint Andrew’s Day.
Here postcards, Turner’s painting, pictures on the Internet,
like poems, do what little can be done not to forget.

Clide Abersuwe is a poet fond of Scotland. He went to school in Kelso and the love of his life went to school in Aberdeen.

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The Sphinx Observatory
          by Belarius Edwec

The Sphinx Observatory sits precarious, unique,
between the Jungfrau and the Mönch, upon its icy peak.
The tiny building, that’s atop the giant rugged mount,
would look much larger elsewhere, if it were within a town.
But here it is, so many thousand meters in the sky,
breathtaking and spectacular, positioned up so high,
as if it were a dwelling place of ogres and/or kings,
who living on the edge of life, were pure imaginings.
It has been sitting there since 1937 for
those looking at the stars, so far away, outside its door.

Belarius Edwec is a poet of Switzerland.

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To Fate
          by Uwe Carl Diebes

Give me another summer, Fate,
      and one more autumn too, to sing;
            for I will gladly celebrate
                  life in sweet melodies.

The godly soul in life can find
      peace even in Orcean depths;
            Each time the sacred meets the mind,
                  it wears perfected threads.

I welcome silence, shadows, worlds.
      I happily greet spacetime’s weave,
            embracing what has been unhurled…
                  and then I’ll madly grieve;
                  and then I’ll sadly leave.

Uwe Carl Diebes is a poet of Germany. One of his favourite poets is Hölderlin.

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Sierpiński’s Carpet
        by Euclidrew Base

Far finer than the magic carpet Ali Baba rode,
and more elaborate than any rug-belt carpet strode,
Sierpinski’s carpet’s ever-changing airy area,
is of the very air within the square it varies of.
And as the number of its points goes to infinity,
its area approaches zero, vanishing though seen.
Self-similar, the intersection of its many sets,
was first discovered by the Pole Stefan Mazurkiewicz;
and there it sits in mathematics, fractal cornerstone,
a copy of each compact object in dimension one.

Euclidrew Base is a poet of mathematics. Wacław Sierpiński (1882-1969) and Stefan Mazurkiewicz (1888-1945) were Modernist Polish mathematicians.

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The VIA 57th West
          by Arcudeb Usewel

How strangely does it sit upon the New York City scape,
like as a sail at the river-front in white and gray.
The VIA 57th West slopes sharply straight and high,
a BIG, Bjarke Ingels Group, set rising up into the sky.
Triangular, it challenges rectangular New York,
a part of New York’s heart, yet still apart, a steel stork.
It seems as if it’s ready to fly off beyond its dock;
though steady there, it stands, its feet beside its concrete walk.
Near West Side Highway, pyramidal flats fill up the space,
that asymmetric and indented, rather rakish place.

Arcideb Usewel is an architectural poet.

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In Colorado
          by Derec Walie Lub

The snowflakes fell down from the sky, so powdery and white,
and blanketed the town, and all around, all through the night.
When morning came, it was so bright, it glittered in the dawn,
and greeted early risers with their coffees and their yawns.
The place in Colorado had just passed an ordinance;
again the children could throw snowballs out in Severance.
The law had changed for kids and childlike individuals;
the cold, white stuff could now be packed and tossed at other souls.
Dane Best, a lad of nine, had argued for the legal change,
and now compacted spheres of fist-sized balls can rain again.

Derec Walie Lub is a poet of the Rocky Mountains states, who runs around with figures, like Raise Club Weed, Des Wercebauli, and E. Ducabe Wisler. Last year, while driving through eastern Colorado, and passing Severance, he enjoyed the beautiful mountains on the western horizon.

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Smug Google
          by Esca Webuilder

Smug Google Smaug is flying high upon its Dragonflyghts,
in hopes of keeping Chinese people from their human rights.
It loves to censor people in the USA as well.
Conservatives can’t be allowed to speak in Goolag Hell.
Employees of the Company are leaving from its Ranks
that stink like bloody bodies blacked by Tiananmen Tanks.
The Global Order must proceed; this is the New Command;
no Nobel Prize must be discussed; Winnie the Pooh is banned.
We must provide the Party with controls on everyone.
Smug Google Smog is flying high and blocking out the Sun.

Esca Webuilder is a poet of the Internet.

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Don Trump a la Camille Paglia
          by Caud Sewer Bile

Don Trump governs erratic’lly, relying on madcap
improvisation; there’s a gonzo humour to the chap.
Without the party hacks, he’s pretty much a one-man show,
who’s ever slinging barbs at bottom feeders, to and fro.

He’s like a jaunty rogue, a Tristram Shandy twitterer,
who turns each jackass journalists to jelly jitterer.
He’s always being underrated by the Democrats,
since he mowed down those seventeen Republicans like that.

The mainstream media’s assault proves his outsider stance;
he is indifferent to ideology and France.
[He acts like he’s best buds with Putin, Kim and Xi Jinping;
he’s out there, like Chuck Berry singin’ out “My Ding-a-Ling”.]

Caud Sewer Bile is a poet of the Swamp.

 

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