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Wise Words with Bruce Wise


The Chinese Social Credit System
          by Lu “Reed ABCs” Wei

The Chinese Social Credit System recently began,
its technologic, mass-surveillance, human-network scan.
Designed to monitor 1.4 billion citizens,
it is designed to measure everyone’s trust-worthiness.

Already millions that the government black-listed can’t
book flights or buy high-speed train tickets; they’re unqualified.
Its mission is to raise awareness of integrity,
so Communists can rank each individual’s xinyong (信用).

If one does anything that’s wrong, whatever it might be,
jaywalking, cheating, talking, speeding, breaking any law,
one’s credit score will drop, as will access to better things,
like hospitals and public transport, gyms, et cetera.

The socially advantaged people really like the cards,
the bright and green cards are a hit with those who keep their guards,
especi’lly those who like the perks in pilot programs on:
Coerce with quality control—it’s good in the long run.

Lu “Reed ABCs” is a poet of China.


His Flying Car
          by Cebu Awis Deser

Kyxz Mendiola tested his Koncepto Milenya,
his flying car, which can rise 6 kilometres in all,
and travels 60 some kilometres up at its peak;
he launched his strange car in Batangas, Philippines, this week.
Like some black-spider helicopter with gigantic legs,
each with its own propellor turning on its eight straight legs,
it stirred the dust around the people watching it arise,
like some strange sci-fi creature hovering above their eyes.
Its maiden flight September 23rd was not that long—
ten minutes, ah—but Monsoon Manghut happily is gone.

Cebu Awis Deser is a poet fond of the Philippines.


On the Execution of Breaker Morant (1864-1902)
          by Walibee Scrude
          “When blame, reproach, and worldlings’ scorn/ On every side are met…”
              —Harry Morant, At Last

Caught for retaliating for the death of his confrères,
he was court-martialed for the massacre of prisoners,
as well as for the murder of a German minister,
that drover, horseman, poet, military officer,
“the Breaker,” Harry H. Morant, and executed for
those actions that took place back in the Second Boer War.
The controversy of those deaths continues to this day.
Was he unfairly targetted, a warning on display?
or rightfully dispatched for his behavior in the field—
that mix of horror, honour, onus that such conflicts yield.

The Tasman
          by Walibee Scrude
          “He countered each encounter.”
              —R. Lee Ubicwedas

The thing that most amazed me looking at that tattoed dude
was just how hard he looked in his defiant attitude.
His opposition was complete, his truculence was real,
and yet I couldn’t help but feel he was content—that heel.
He wasn’t oversensitive; he gave a brave defense;
and yet it seemed as if his longing for the joust was dense.
How could he be antagonistic yet so satisfied?
so obviously put upon, and still be gratified?
He stood up to whatever others threw at him—that man.
He was a stream-lined devil, maniac Tasmanian.


John Cornforth (1917-2013)
          by Walibee Scrude

The passing of John Warcup Cornforth largely was ignored;
his work in chemistry was hardly what would be adored.
Investigating enzymes catalysing changes in
organic compounds wouldn’t likely cause much of a din,
nor would his microchemical manipulations bring
the kind of accolades that notoriety might wring.
Developing and making, for the first time, oxazole,
was like his biosynthesizing some cholesterol.
But though his work in androgenic hormones wasn’t cool,
it’s better than the stupid things in newscasts as a rule.

Walibee Scrude is a poet of Australia. John Cornforth was an Australian-British chemist, who won the Nobel Prize for Chemistry in 1975.


Waseem A Malla
          by Red Was Iceblue

He leans against a giant abstract painting on the wall,
in brown and white—Waseem A Malla—arms crossed, casual.
He’s dressed in sandals, blue jeans, plaid shirt, and grave countenance,
a poet of Kashmir, his poetry, a fountain’s dance,
inspired by the Urdu poetry from which he draws—
Ali, Ghalib, Rumi, Shakir, Faiz, and Faraaz—
as far as I can tell, a gorgeous canvas, like the art
that rises over him, like as a hurricane upstart,
a grand vanilla/chocolate concoction’s paint released,
inscrutable, but beautiful, like so much from the East.


Bombs on Gaza by Alex Lilly
          by Red Was Iceblue

Before his painting Bombs on Gaza—Alex Lilly stands,
dressed all in black, shirt, shoes and pants, behind his back—his hands.
It stretches eighteen feet and rises seven-and-a-half—
the gray and black smoke billowing in terrifying fact
above the buildings lit at night in cataclysmic drear.
He is so near to it, it seems, this graphic engineer,
who turns his head off to the right and doesn’t look at it.
Perhaps it has already taken toll, this ghastly pit.
His cheek-boned stare, beneath his short-cropped hair, is spare and lean—
yon Cassius—he hangs upon a wall, like Halloween.

Red Was Iceblue is a poet and art critic of the present era. He writes on Modernist, Postmodernist and New Millennialist paintings, sculpture, and design. His taste is askew, as skewed, or screwed up, as some of the art he reviews. Among his likes are Pop Art, Op Art, and Pop Tarts.


A Critic Speaks
          by Redewi Albescu

His wife, in a car, accidentally killed four; but she,
although it was her fault, did not pay criminally for ‘t;
because of Adrian Păunescu’s links to government.
What proof is there? The trial’s over. They were all corrupt.
It’s not at all impartial—justice in România.
Just question Adrian Păunescu. Question Adrian.
He was a poet, organizer of folk festivals,
a politician, and newspaperman who had no balls.
He was an opportunist, and a communist to boot.
He was România’s glib rhymer, and a frightened rat,
his back against the fence, his trousers wet with urine too.
He glorified Ceauşescu. Say what? What was he to do?
Some say he was protected by the secret…dread…police.
What would you do? Fight the indoctri-Nation? Really? Please.


O, România
          by Redewi Albescu

You wonder do I really love România. I do.
I cannot help myself. It is so beautiful and true.
Not in the way that some ideal places are, but real.
It’s something deep within my bones. It’s something that I feel.
I love România. I want to be right next to it…
forever, never letting it leave me alone. No shit.
Whenever sunlight shines upon its lovely, rolling hills,
I feel warm all over. It is one of life’s great thrills.
You wonder just how this can be. You bear it, oh. You go.
You wonder do I really love România. I know.

Redewi Albescu is a poet of România. Adrian Păunescu (1943-2010) was a poet of Romania.


Near Greece
          by ‘Ercules ‘Edibwa

I saw him looking o’er the hills like as a giant god
who oversees the beauty of his lovely curving sod;
so must it have been in the olden times in ancient Greece,
when mighty forces loomed about the rides of war and peace.
He gazed with arrogance and pride upon Arcadia,
o, lofty lord of lively love, the north barbarian,
the tribes beyond România and Macedonia,
as far off as the wide swath of Mesopotamia.
Those godly powers fill my mind these thousand years beyond.
I daren’t avert my gaze lest those grand images be gone.

‘Ercules ‘Edibwa is a poet fond of Greece. His favourite Greek figure is Hercules. He lives on a lane off of the rugged road of Hercules.


David Hilbert on Hermann Minkowski (1864-1909)
          by Euclidrew Base

O, since my student years he was my best, most trusted friend,
supporting me with all his loyal depth…until the end.
Our science, which we loved above all else, brought us to each,
and seemed to us a garden full of flowers in our reach.
We joyed to look for hidden paths and new perspectives that
appealed to our sense of beauty. O, we loved its plat.
When one showed what he found, he’d show the other one as well,
and we would marvel over it. O, yes, our joy was real.
He was for me that rarest gift that heaven can bestow,
and I am grateful to have owned his gift so long. O so.

Euclidrew Base is a poet of mathematics. Minkowski worked on the geometry of numbers, number theory, mathematical physics, and the theory of relativity.


I Saw Him
          Scubie Dew Lear

I saw him on the cellphone—this old man was playing three.
O, he was playing, really whaling, knick knack on his knee.
He seemed so serious, intriguing with his knock knick knack,
that I was shocked to find him locked into a paddy whack.
He gave a dog a bone, who sat there, waiting for its toss;
and he came rolling home upon the sauté of a sauce.
I tried to understand him—this old man was playing four.
O, he was playing, really whaling, knick knack on his door.
He seemed so serious, intriguing with his knick knock knack,
that I was shocked to find him here and there and coming back.

Scubie Dew Lear is a poet of nonsense verse. To this day, he vividly recalls the nursery rhymes of his childhood.


He Stood
          by E. Dauber Sluice

He stood like as a heron near a pebble on the beach.
He saw a newt on it move quickly; it was out of reach.
He turned his jaundiced eye up to the sun high overhead
in hopes to grasp its raise upon the moist and sandy bed.
He felt the gravity of the vast situation’s curse,
but did not sigh or try to grab waves of the universe.
He simply looked about at other bathers at the scene,
then sat upon the spread-out tow’l to catch the passing breeze.
No soul came by to give him any consolation there,
and so he simply stretched out, o, into the open air.


At One Point
          by E. Dauber Sluice

It was a lovely afternoon, the room, clean, neat and small.
He stood beside a mustard couch, excited for a call.
Above, two pictures, black and white, were hanging on the wall.
His eyes were narrow squints, like Eros’ arrows darting gall.
He noticed the two pillows, where he stood up straight and tall;
they both were scarlet with gold circles, curlicues and small.
He leaned upon a falling fleshy plush pink waterfall,
which spread out wide, a rushing tide of flushing folderol.
He felt he’d reached the pinnacle of some great mountain stall,
but he was only at one point on this rotating ball.

E. Dauber Sluice is a poet of inlets and outlest, of penstocks and floodgates.


Daze and Nights, Indie Chem-Lab
          by Red Was Iceblue

I saw it in the cosmos pass—galactic energy—
a brilliant sweep of colour circling bright synergy.
The sunny yellow splashing round with orange touched with red,
and there a green and shimmering snake sailing straight ahead,
propelling, shooting, hurtling through blue vibrating rings,
a vibrant viper penetrating ecstasies of kings.
And in the b(l)ack, the dribbling pink beside the blobs of blue,
from where it comes…eternity…I see…it’s coming through.
I turn around and find behind me T J Edson’s dab—
amazing, brazen, crazy, daze…big night’s indie chem lab.


On a Picture of Karen Kraco
          by Red Was Iceblue

How beautiful they all are, standing, sitting, lying there,
upon the beach, but out of reach, out in the open air,
in short pants, speedos, and bikinis, some with sandals on,
the sunlight over all the trees, the lake and sandy lawn.
But closer, sitting on a skateboard, in darker shaded clothes,
a figure clad in black backpack looks out upon all those.
In shirt and jeans, gray colourings, and baseball cap as well,
the figure, lotus cross-legged, gazes out upon the swell,
much clearer, and in focus, in the middle of the scene,
like Seurat at La Grande Jatte on a Sunday, pondering.

Red Was Iceblue is a poet of Modernist and Postmodernist art. Even his name is like an abstract painting.


He Still Recalls
          by Cal Wes Ubideer
          for Keith Garrett

He still recalls that Yorba Linda school upon a hill,
a neigbourhood of streets and houses, quiet, peaceful, still.
It was so beautiful—no crowded streets or boulevards—
there were no sirens wailing and there were no honking cars.

He still remembers playing at that school upon the hill,
the silly games, the thrilling fun, before time’s rolling spill.
It was so beautiful—o, those surrounding hills he saw—
but nothing can remain the same; change is eternal law.

He still records the people that he knew back then and there,
though some of them are gone and some of them still linger…Where?
He watched his fellows run—those days they ran out with the sun—
but they are gone, all scattered now; they will not come again.

Cal Wes Ubideer is a poet of California. He remembers eating cereal and shaving in the stop-and-go traffice enroute to his job, when he worked in downtown Los Angeles.


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Wise Words with Bruce Wise


The 2014 MU69 Flyby
          by I. E. Sbace Weruld

It keeps on trek-king, that is, NASA’s New Horizon craft,
proceeding onward through the Kuiper Belt, a techno raft.
Enroute to 2014 MU69, its reach,
a billion miles past the planet Pluto’s darkest beach.
This KBO, humanity’s next “Ultima Thule”,
is scheduled for a 2019 New Year’s flyby greet.
Its hydrazine-fueled thrusters have been pushed by NASA’s schemes
to bring it to this tiny chip and rock through distant beams.
This KBO is estimated 30 miles wide;
perhaps its data too will soon be stored in NASA’s files.

I. E. Sbace Weruld is a poet of the Universe. KBOs (Kuiper Belt Objects) are those objects beyond Pluto in the outer reaches of the Solar System.


The Brief Appearance of Sun Child
          by “Wired Clues” Abe

The large 6.2 meter work of Kenji Yanobe
has only lasted but a month. It now will go away.
The statue dubbed “Sun Child” riled Fukushima folk;
they did not like the kid in yellow radiation cloak.

The triple zero [000] radiation counter was too much,
for those who think it damaged Fukushima’s golden touch,
while others felt it caused anxiety, unease and fear,
for making people think they needed to be wearing gear.

The statue’s being disassembled by a city crew,
to keep its animated visage fully out of view.
It will take only three days to dismantle Kenji’s work;
but the 2011 nuclear meltdown still burns.

“Wired Clues” Abe is a poet of Japan. His favourite James Bond movie is “You Only Live Twice”.


          Li Baiguong (1968-2018)
          by Lu “Reed ABCs” Wei

I saw him hanging out to dry, that modern Chinese guy,
who did his best, in his green vest, to hold on to the sky.
But as he held on way up high, the beautiful and true,
two rockets flew past mercilessly, blasting him from view.
Out of the blue, they hit him hard—those bastard fusiliers.
What hope had he, but to endure their cruelty and curse.
He held on tight, but he was brutalized , o, near his end.
But he would not give up the fight, attempting to ascend.
I still recall his shock, his awe—it took my breath away—
when he flew overhead and tried to hold on to the day.

Lu “Reed ABCs” Wei is a poet of modern China.


Tolerating Points of View
          by Bic Uwel, “Erased

All people, hence, all poets, differ in their points of view,
and even in one life-time attitudes can alter, do.
It’s not that what is true has changed, but only what one sees,
which never is complete, but ‘s plagued by partialities.
As human vision ‘s limited, it is incumbent on
each individual to tolerate what they seem wrong.
It is, therefore, important to agree to disagree
for knowledge to acrrue, for wisdom to gain realty.
But this is not an easy task, since this outlook is skewed,
as must be every view we have whenever it is viewed.

Bic Uwel, “Erased” is a poet of the common man and woman.


The Lions in the Den
          by W. Israel Ebecud

To fight or fly that is the question I must answer then.
I daren’t incautiously approach these lions in the den.
The amygdala lobe within my brain must make a note
if I am to retain thoughts, which, provoked by fear, emote.
O, see these lions lounging, tails rising on no wind—
an image conjured by subliminal adrenaline.
O, Daniel, as God is my judge, this awesome, awful scene
is not exhilarating, oh, my God, it’s frightening.
I fear these sprawling lions lying lovely and serene.
I long to run away, but I must stay the night, o, King!

W. Israel Ebecud is a poet of Israel.


The Den of Syria
          by Cid Wa’eeb El Sur

There are so many lions in the den of Syria,
what chance has anybody there enduring through it all?
The forces of Assad are aided by Iranians,
and Hesbollah is also fighting there, and gaining ground.
The Russians help Assad, the Turks assist north Sunni groups,
and ISIS still remains around the edges of these troops.
Americans are aiding Kurds; the French as well are there;
and it is common to observe Israelis in the air,
as when Israeli jets made a Latakia bomb drop,
and Syria downed an Ilushin-20 turboprop.

Cid Wa’eeb El Sur is a poet of Syria.


That “Son-of-a-Bitch Country”
          by “Cruel” Wadi Seeb

A tourist, Mona el-Mazboh, who came from Lebanon,
called Egypt one “son of a bitch”, a country rude and brawn.
She had been sentenced to eight years for viral video,
complaining of molesting taxi drivers hitting low.
This week her sentence was reduced to one suspended year,
and when released, she flew from Cairo, quicker than a deer.
For speaking out, she’d been imprisoned, and once she got out,
she fled that lovely country—fast—there wasn’t any doubt.
How dare she spread false rumours that could harm society,
and speak of young men on the street so dis-par-ag-ing-ly.


The Egyptian
          by “Cruel” Wadi Seeb

He showed me Egypt in a positive, good light.
I saw those well-formed pyramids rise up and high
above the sand-lined planes of time, pale dun and bright,
that shimmered in eternity’s ecstatic sky.
I saw the Nile Delta, fertile, thick and rich.
I wanted to be with somebody there, and fly.
Yet he showed me its gritty cities, filthy ditch
and dirty dune. One time he even called his land
spread out before us far and wide, ‘a shitty bitch.’
But he loved Egypt totally; he thought it grand;
so then I did as well: its spans, its pitch, its might,
and, yes, the deep respect for him it did command.

“Cruel” Wadi Seeb is a poet of Egypt.


David Hilbert (1862-1943)
          by Euclidrew Base

The theories that he worked in covered many areas,
class field, axiomatics, number, and invariants.
He proved new theorems, as in algebraic manifolds,
transforming into news his simpler proofs of complex olds.
In functional analysis, he minted Hilbert space,
geometry and algebra linked at Nullstellensatz.
A metamathematic wizard and fierce Formalist,
he proved the Finite Basis theorem with sheer forcefulness.
He proved the Waring problem too, and listed 23
famed problems back in 1900 for the century.

Euclidrew Base is a poet of mathematics. Hilbert once wrote, “Mathematics knows no races or geographic boundaries; for mathematics the cultural world is one country.” In one of his unique comments, he stated, “If I were to awaken after having slept for a thousand years, my first question would be: Has the Riemann hypothesis been proven?” Now he was a mathematician!


          by Euclidrew Base

As geometric objects take on diff’rent properties,
depending on the space in which their essences are seen;
as, for example, when one draws a circle on a piece
of paper with a compass, it’s embedded in that seat;
but let the circle float from two dimensions into three,
and suddenly it has a lot more flexibility;
the object gains some from the larger space in which it fits;
equations of its shape compound in numbers as it flits.
Relations of a shape and its embedding are explored
in tropical geometry, there topically stored.

Tropical geometry is a relatively new area of mathematics.


Notre Dame de Paris
          by Brulise de Wace

I still remember seeing it along the blue-lit Seine,
the arching bridge, the gray walkway, the winter oxygen.
I did not know who I was then, the white clouds floating by,
the Gothic Notre Dame Cathedral rising in the sky.
Who put that there?—the styles edging toward the Renaissance,
the flying buttresses supporting its gray elegance,
that fall like waterfalls in stone around its heavy back,
to keep its heaving walls upright, not crumbling at a crack.
I can’t forget its grand facade, nor its inspiring spire,
that points the way to God and His uplifting, holy lyre.


The Poet In His Digs
          by Acwiles Berude

I saw a poet in his small apartment standing tall;
but it looked like he did not look at anything at all.
Around one saw his furniture: a television set,
a light-green couch, one large, white alabaster statuette
of Pindar, Aristotle or some other classic Greek,
a world map, and modern art, two big blobs cheek to cheek.
He had a slender beard, short hair, and wore a gray tee-shirt.
But what I noticed most about him was he seemed inert.
What was he looking for? What was he doing in that room?
What longed-for, epic masterpiece would haunt him till his doom?

Acwiles Berude is a poet of ancient Greece. The character he most identifies with is Homer’s Achilles, his manic power and his fiery brilliance.


Joseph Salemi
          by Wilbur Dee Case
          “Stupidity is a talent for misconception”
              —Edgar Allan Poe

One can respect Salemi’s focus on ethópathy,
a plague that rages round the World and hits both you and me.
He’s marshaled many terse examples in polemic verse,
alerting us to this abuse and its pandemic curse.
He’s like a swirling cyclone when he offers his advice,
a mild-mannered man he’s not, nor would one say he’s nice.
Like Oscar Wilde with vituperation cranked up high,
expostulating to the crowds found floating in the sky.
He shouts aloud to bring them down to Earth, to make them see
the error of their airy ways and full-blown lunacy.
An Agamemnon in his hard-won literary realms,
he spews and slews his snarky views in hopes he overwhelms;
and yet one finds, upon occasion, rarely, to be sure,
a rarefied opinion wrest-l-ing with the absur-d.
And though it isn’t very often he is not uncouth,
irradic’lly, sporadic’lly, he blunders into truth.

Wilbur Dee Case is a poet and literary critic.


Young Woman Mollie Tibbets
          by E. Ducabe Wisler

Young woman Mollie Tibbets has been stabbed to death by an
illegal alien from Mexico, a Mexican.
Though some don’t want to face the truth, as hard as it may be,
she’s now forever separated from her family.
Though some say she is just “a girl from Iowa”, it seems,
she was a dreamer who won’t ever get to have her dreams.
Her death’s a homicide by multiple sharp injuries;
it should not be politicized—the agony is real.
Young woman Mollie Tibbets has been stabbed to death, and we
should pray for her eternal soul, and for her family.

E. Ducabe Wisler is a poet of the Midwest. In addition to corn, Iowa farmer are first in the USA insoybeans, hogs, eggs, ethanol and DDGS, Dry Distillers Grain Solubles.


The Body on the Bed
          by Rudi E. Welec, “Abs”

He loved to plop down on a bed, kick back and stretch his legs,
exactly like a protein lover having scrambled eggs.
He’d fold his legs up, working on a puzzle with a pen.
Is this not heaven? he would ask, this ample-est of men.
He’d cross his ankles, mulling over getting to the top,
or being down upon the bottom, groveling, a flop.
He feared the darkness, for he’d never not been riding high.
He loved to reach up high and kiss the sky, that fulfilled guy.
But, then, what would he do, when all was not a wished-for whim?
Would he hold up well, when some great force came down hard on him?

Rudi E. Wele, “Abs”, is a poet of physical exercise. His favourite poet is Pindar.


The Sailor Near the Bluff
          by Sea Curlew Bide

I saw him looking over his left shoulder near the bluff.
He turned his ship’s head to the wind. He had gone aft to luff
it to the open sea, where he could sail pleasantly.
He kept about his tasks serenely calm and steadily.
Perhaps he was in search of love or lovely Arcady,
a place where he could stretch out in a comely park and be.
Perhaps he was enroute to some gigantic, rolling hills,
where floral spills and golden rills grew exponentially.
I wondered if he knew the mariner Odysseus.
I do not know. I only saw him that time near the bluff.

Sea Curlew Bide is a poet of the beaches and the sea. One of his favourite Homeric epithets is “οíνοψ πόντος”, the wine-dark sea.