Wise Words with Bruce Wise

 

Tanka
          by Ue “Bird Claws” Ee

While in the gold car,
a red-orange cardinal,
lands on th’ cyclone fence,
stares right at me for a while,
and then speedily flies off.

Ue “Bird Claws” Ee is a haikuist of birds.

~~~

The Greater Bay in China
          by Aw “Curbside” Lee

The population of the Greater Bay in China is
a little more than that found in all UK’s areas.
Its largest cities, Guangzhou, Shenzhen, and Dongguan, possess,
that is, each one of them, more than 8,000,000 citizens.
Though only 1% of China lives here near the sea,
its firms account for 12% of China’s GDP.

Air traffic in the area is greater one will find
than San Francisco, Tokyo, and New York all combined.
Along with Hong Kong, Shenzhen, and Guangzhou count up as three
of the top ten container ports i’ th’ World economy.
Hong Kong is now a green-bond hub for mainland issuers,
and likewise it’s a well of help, health-care professionals.

Macao, the World’s entertainment hub, works with Zhuhai,
to boost the tourist industry, and build it up sky-high.
Guangzhou is now a transport core, with high-speed trains and more,
while Shenzhen’s high-tech R & D, proceeds to rise and soar,
as much percent as South Korea and of Israel;
and in Dongguan, the service industry keeps up as well.

Aw “Curbside” Lee is a poet of Chinese cities.

~~~

Trajan’s Column
          by Aedile Cwerbus

In Rome, amidst the many structures, gray, peach, white and brown,
around it, rising, Trajan’s Column, does not stand alone.
It was a work commemorating Trajan’s victory
in overwhelming Dacians in the Second Century.
The quintessential type of a compression member, it
was made to glorify th’ empire and its emperor.
Most famous for its scrolling, spiral, sculptured bas relief,
the shaft is made of nineteen marble drums—a massive feat.
Its ninety-eight feet height is a unique accomplishment
in engineering, a construction worth acknowledgement.

But more than that…it is a work…of art…a skeleton…
the bones are piled on high…into the sky…the eye…in stone…
the ordinary…and the battle…Ordinary life’s
a battle…nineteen centuries ago…and now—the strife!
a table…nineteen marble drums…the bones are piled on high…
Above, through th’ arching azure sky the grand, white clouds go by.
Below, amidst the present and its ruins…tourists pass.
Who are those people there…we all are tourists here…alas…
the traffic goes on by…the people walk…and talk…and drive…
What does it mean to live? What does it mean to be alive?

Aedile Cwerbus is a poet of ancient Rome.

~~~

On Science
          by Ira           “Dweeb” Scule
          “Science, true daughter of Old Time”
              —Edgar Allan Poe, “Sonnet—To Science”

As Popper wrote, good science must be falsifiable,
potentially vulnérable to refutation’s cull.
It must be open to tribunals of experiment,
unlike the pseudosciences that merely err in vent.
Compute the consequences of a guess, see if it’s right;
and then compare results to nature. Is there any light?
If it then disagrees, it’s wrong. It mkes no difference.
It is that simple; one should then not make an inference.
Good scientifc theories must put up themselves for tests;
they have to run the constant gauntlet of experiments.

Ira “Dweeb” Scule is a poet of science. Austrian-British Karl Popper (1902-1994) was a leading figure in the philosophy of science in the 20th century.

~~~

Paul Erdös (1913-1996)
          by Euclidrew Base

Upon his mission to enrich the field so many shun,
he’d go from mathematician to mathematician.
He proved a lot of theorems in his life time—Paul Erdös.
He worked in number theory and in combinatorics,
one of the most important figures in the latter realm;
he liked to make conjectures that would tax and overwhelm.
He wandered round the Globe and worked with all whom he could work,
though jobless in the main, and homeless in the lanes he lurked.
He carried his possessions in a suitcase and a bag,
including one large short-wave radio—the man was swag.

Euclidrew Base is a poet of mathematics. Paul Erdös may have been the most prolific mathematician in the 20th century.

~~~

ScandaNavian Spy
          by Lars U. Ice Bedew

Off the northeastern coast of Norway, fishermen observed
a Russian spying operation out beyond the surf.
They spotted a beluga whale near their fishing boat
that wanted their attention, came up close, a friendly float.
They saw a harness strapped to the beluga’s shiny skin,
outfitted with the mounts for some GoPro-type cameras.
Inspection then revealed, embossed upon the harness clips,
“Saint Petersburg equipment” round about and near its fins.
Norwegian scientists believed the mammal had been trained
by Russian naval workers. How else could it be explained?

Lars U. Ice Bedew is a poet of Scandanavia.

~~~

John Whitworth (1945-2019)
          by B. S. Eliud Acrewe

The house is cold and empty, and the garden’s overgrown;
his letters lie unopened by an uncharged mobile phone;
no footsteps echo strangely on the moonlit cobblestone;
no longer is he laughing there in blarney baritone.
The shadow that’s behind him is the shadow of his moan;
the World was his oyster; though in truth he was unknown;
he was a bellyshaking Belloc, with a funny bone,
a rather clever, metric rhymer with an acid tone,
a heavier-than-air light-verser who enjoyed a scone,
and knew what wit was worth. He left an odor of cologne.

B. S. Eliud Acrewe is a poet and literary critic of Britain.

~~~

May 1st, 2019
          by Lud Wes Caribee

In Venezuela, massive groups of people swarmed the streets,
disgusted with Maduro, from whom they’d like to be free.
Guaidó has said the military is deserting more
the Socialist dictator that has made the country poor.

Tear gas was sprayed, gun shots rang out, the people cried aloud;
a military vehicle plowed right into the crowd.
Caracas was in crisis; smoke crossed through the capital;
more than five dozen people hurt were sent to hospital.

There were reports Maduro planned to flee the country, but
the Russians told him not to leave, that is, at least not yet;
and with his Cuban bodyguards he should be safe for now:
Animal Farm remains in tact beneath the hoof and horn.

Lud Wes Caribee is a poet of the Caribbean.

~~~

The Sallow, Pussy Willow
          by Wes Caribu Deel

Its flowers are soft, silky, silvery-borne catkins in
the spring, before the brand new leaves appear on thin thick-skins.
When it shows up, from Brit’sh Columbia to Newfoundland,
this gorgeous, beauty is a sparkling, sprinkled cummerbund,
that activates some fellows who are ready for a bang,
who want a wrap to tap and slap, a sweet swat for a whang.
The fluffy blossoms of white blooms give way to green-jade shoots,
arousing sods, from whippersnappers up to bearded coots,
who long to take their lovely limbs and place them in a vase,
in hopes that they can see surprise on th’ wished-for, wistful face.

 

Before My Eyes, a Canadian Pic
          by Wes Caribu Deel
          for “Blue Cedars” Siew

Before my eyes upon the screen what is there is
a photo of the Rocky Mountains and lakeside view.
Up close one sees a gathering of daisies, still
and silent stems beside the barely rippled blue.
Reflected in its waters, one sees evergreens,
a band below the rocky, cratered, gray, ranged group,
like mountains on the moon, so desolate, unseen.
The place is private, primitive, like Canada
itself, its barren emptiness, so clear and clean,
pristine; nowhere across its landscape can a man
be seen. It is as though there is no stir of silt,
largesse as large as China, or America.

Wes Caribu Deel is a poet of Canada. His great-grandparents came to America from Alberta, Canada, on his mother’s mother’s side. He vividly remembers the striking scenery on a trip to Calgary and Banff National Park.

~~~

The Smithfield Street Bridge
          by Alec Subre Wide

The Smithfield Street Bridge is a truss lenticular—across
Monongahela River, Pittsburg, Pennsylvania, tossed.
Its architect was Gustave Lindenthal, who had designed
as well the Hell Gate Bridge in New York City, rail-lined.
Its portal to the city center seems a castle door
beneath skyscraper towers…shimmering…before a moor.
Its golden arches gleaming in the sunlight, as Earth turns,
El-Greco-esque, beside the steel, silver-azure burns,
reveal a city searching for a people melted out
of anything pertaining to a colour scheme of doubt.

Alec Subre Wide is a poet of bridges. He was inspired by Hart Crane’s “The Bridge”.

~~~

Glazed Donuts
          by Carb Deliseuwe

When I was young, I used to love to eat glazed donuts up.
They were so sweet—those yeast-raised rings—I was a gobbling pup.
O, how I loved their torus shapes—that lovely icinged fluff.
They filled me up—those oily treats—I couldn’t get enough.
And also too, the donut holes were fun to snack upon.
I loved to stuff them in my mouth until they all were gone.
In Irving’s Hist’ry of New York, he mentions “balls of…dough
fried in hog’s fat and called doughnuts, or olykoeks”—sweet, o.
O, now I can but reminisce; they aren’t that good for you;
still, I recall how glad I was when they were in my view.

Carb Deliseuwe is a poet of carbs, fats and proteins.

~~~

The Lumberman
          by Ubs Reece Idwal

I saw him resting up against a giant gray-brown stump,
the lumberman was pausing from his haul, hitch, heave and hump.
He stood there in the sunlit forest, head turned to the sun,
eyes closed, an upright, peaceful dude; his trunk and limbs glowed dun.
He crossed his dirty, yellowish-brown boots on thick, gray socks,
as natural as any forest creature, buck or fox.
He lifted up his day-old bearded chin and took deep breaths,
the air fresh in his lungs and on his skin, neck, pecs, and chest.
He was at one with nature, if but momentarily,
there barely thinking of a thing but being there and free.

Ubs Reece Idwal is a poet of forests.

~~~

The Angel and the Message
          by Crise de Abu Wel

I came upon an angel lying on a bright, white cloud.
He lay there staring, in the air, upon a yellow shroud.
What captivated me about him was his attitude.
He was so peaceful lying there in sheer beatitude.
He leaned upon his bent right hand, so quiet and serene,
when I attempted listening, I could not hear a thing.
His golden halo, slightly off, around his thoughtful gaze,
drew me into his tranquil realm of lounging, gorgeous laze.
But I could not retrieve his sign. What was he pointing at—
and not without some energy, and slightly flushed at that?

Crise de Abu Wel is a poet of Catholicism.

 

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