by “Wired Clues” Abe
A wind-up gadget
wound up by the summer wind:
“Wired Clues” Abe is a techno-haiku poet.
Two Recent Papers on Climate Change
by Ira “Dweeb” Scule
Some scientists from Finland and Japan said recently
GCM-models used in IPCC cannot be,
“that man-made climate change does not exist in practice”—huh?
Anthropogenic climate change is insignificant.
In the last century, the Finn researchers bluntly speak:
“the human contribution was .01 degrees”.
Professor Hyodo, now at Kobe University,
says natural phenomena more likely raised the heat.
“New evidence suggests galactic cosmic rays affect
cloud cover causing an ‘umbrella [energy] effect.'”
Ira “Dweeb” Scule is a poet of science. Acronyms GCM and IPCC stand for general circulation model and intergovernment panel on climate change respectively.
The Walking Man
by Rudi E. Welec, “Abs”
It was the early morning; he was going for a walk.
The Sun was shining brightly but it wasn’t yet too hot.
He walked along the sidewalks, step by step and block by block.
He slightly swung his arms. He didn’t pause or stop to talk.
He loved the early morning air. He felt so warm and good.
He loved to be out walking like this in the neighbourhood.
Although he seemed so free, some small concern was on his face;
but overall his pace was nice and easy, filled with grace.
He wasn’t going anywhere, no place particular;
but each spot passed, the very air there seemed spectacular.
Rudi E. Welec, “Abs”, is a poet of physical exercise. He remembers in high school and college when he would wake up early in the morning and go out running. He liked his many-mile, high-school runs up and down the wooded hills at dawn. In college he would run through the bird-trilling-filled trails just as the city around him was waking up.
The Nesting Season
by W. S. “Eel” Bericuda
“Most people were heartless about turtles because a turtle’s heart will beat for hours after it has been cut up and butchered. But the old man thought I have such a heart too.”
—Ernest Hemingway, The Old Man and the Sea
It is the nesting season for the fertile leatherbacks—
sea turtles from th’ Atlantic Ocean, pumped up to the max.
They haul themselves onto the beaches of warm Trinidad,
and dig out nests to lay a clutch within the grainy sand.
So pumped and stoked, they poke and stroke, they wiggle on the land;
they’ve plodded, prodded, coddled sod to reach that longed-for stand.
These days marine biologists believe there are no more
than 90,000 turtles worldwide. O, poor—that store.
And yet they onward strive to keep alive, continuing
to do the best they can, their heart-beats strong and genuine.
W. S. “Eel Bericuda” is a poet of sea life. Only about 1% of sea-turtle hatchlings make it to sexual maturity at 16 years.
by Walibee Scrude
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.
How Many Tears?
by Walibee Scrude
for Robbie Yates
How many tears each year fall for the Melbourne Cup,
for joy for victory, for sorrow for defeat,
for riders of the horses, yelling giddyup,
for owners of the horses, howling through each heat,
for backers of the men and horses that they ride,
for bankers of all parts, until they are complete,
for those c-a-r-r-i-e-d away, or take it all in stride,
for familes of those, the driven and involved,
for those upset by loss, for those beset by pride,
for those who are admired, for those who are unloved,
for winners, losers, and for those who never sup,
or had a chance, with those who were a part of it?
Walibee Scrude is a poet of Australian dreams and realities. The above poems are bildings [sic] with an ababcbcdcdad rhyme scheme. Robbie Yates is an Aussie poet fueled by delicious Melbourne coffee and cheeky poetry. In the note, according to Beau Lecsi Werd, Mr. Scrude meant to use the past participle “lain”.
A Note to Robbie Yates
by Walibee Scrude
Thanks for 8/8 tentacles! That made my day today:
here in July, which is more than a year ago from May.
I cannot say how sad I am that my response so slow
shows I did not appreciate your thought—o, I’m lain low.
The Hong Kong Protests of 2019
by Lu “Reed ABCs” Wei
The seven million of Hong Kong are making quite a fuss.
But what chance does one enclave have against a billion plus?
A small democracy against a giant tyranny:
What hope is there for those who fear and yet long to be free?
Although Hong Kong’s economy is fully ten percent,
of all of China’s wealth, how good is that when it is spent?
A greater power’s holding back a bit and biding time,
but who believes that ruthless force will not commit a crime?
And yet for all that, that small group of people’s standing up
to one dictator—Xi Jinping—who daily drinks his cup…
Lu “Reed ABCs” Wei is a poet of China, whose poulation is about 1,420,245,000 compared to Hong Kong’s of approximately 7,392,000. The imperialist Chinese Communist Party membership is about 88,000,000 people. As the ruling elites, they dominate the economy, academia, and hundreds of millions of people.
China’s Claims on Vietnam
by Lê Dức Bảệ “Wired”
Vietnamese and Chinese ships have been embroiled in
a weeks-long standoff near an oil block off Vietnam.
The site is well within th’ exclusive economic zone;
but China claims the continental shelf of Vietnam!
And earlier this month, July, a Chinese coast guard ship
maneuvered recklessly and threatened ships and oil rig.
Five years ago, the tensions rose, when China started to
drill in the Viet waters, causing rammings to accrue.
In fact, in 2014 anti-China riots had
been triggered in Hanoi for China’s claims on Vietnam.
Lê Dức Bảệ “Wired” is a poet of Vietnam. Vietnam is not averse to pushing back at Chinese imperialism.
by Drew U. A. Eclibse
Over the roof tops,
the pale, cratered moon rises,
The Indian Rover on the Moon
by Drew U. A. Eclibse
The Chandrayaan 2, a GSLV MK-III,
weighs some 640 tons and is 140 feet.
The orbiter and lander are housed there up at the top
that’s powered by a cryogenic engine thrusting up.
Two strap-on rocket boosters are the first stage of the launch;
there at the bottom they’re a roaring, roaming, o, me conch.
Two Vikas engines further up make up the second stage
of this our mission, said K. Sivas ISRO sage.
But there had been a snag, the first launch called off just before
the lander and the rover took off for the lunar shore.
Drew U. A. Eclibse is a poet of the Moon. The haiku was written on July 16, 2019. The is the 50th year anniversary of the first human landing on the moon.
A Free Paraphrase from Vladimir Arnold
by Euclidrew Base
“Though mathematics is one of humanity’s fine arts,
all mathematics is divided into these three parts:
Cryptography is one, supported by the KGB.
and companies to do their business work in secrecy.
Hydrodynamics is the second one, supported by
atomic submarine developers to test the lie.
Celestial “mécanique” is third, propped up by those who deal
in missiles, outer space or military, to conceal.”
Although Vladimir Arnold, when he made a quote like this;
although absurd, his hidden meaning was not hard to miss!
Vladimir Arnold (1937-2010) was a Russian mathematician whose PhD thesis contained the solution of Hilbert’s 13th Problem. He was a co-founder of KAM theory and topological Galois theory.
by Wibele Escudar
So beautiful it rises in the rising of the day;
Mount Chimborazo slopes up to a point upon display.
To climb its lovely peak is a perfection rarely won;
its cold austerity a challenge to most everyone.
An Andean stratovolcano there in Ecuador;
it rises up so gorgeously and grand it seems to soar.
One time considered as the highest mountain on the Earth,
it still remains the furthest point from Earth’s grand, bulging girth.
O, Chimborazo, rocky mountain, glaciated tor;
with peak the nearest to the Sun on this Globe’s shifting floor.
Pablo Neruda on the Passing of Joseph Stalin
by Wibele Escudar
We must be men. That is the law that Joseph Stalin left.
Sincere intensity and concrete clarity are best.
He was the noon of man. Let us from this not be bereft.
Let’s bear these words with pride, all comrade fighting communists.
Though he has died, the light has not; the fire still appears.
Increase the growth of bread and hope. Decrease your shallow fears.
The persecuted rose is on his shoulders, like the dove.
The giant goes back to the land he governed from above.
Speak not of executions, as did Osip Mandelstam.
Speak not of bread crumbs or defeat, like Varlam Shalamov.
Speak not of writers murdered, August 1952,
including poets Markish, Hofstein, Feffer and Kvitko.
Speak not of mass starvation that was planned for the Ukraine.
Speak not of suicides Esenin, Mayakovsky, pain.
Speak not of silenced poets, like Anna Akhmatova,
or those who felt they couldn’t speak more, like Tvetaeva.
Speak not about the gulag archipelago again,
like Sozhenitsyn did. Don’t speak like that. Do not complain.
Speak not of all the millions killed. And most of all don’t shout.
And if you dare to freely speak, a gag should bind your mouth.
The waves beat down upon the stones. continuing his work.
When Malenkov will take the reins, no duties shall he shirk…
till Khrushchev and Bulganin jerk him from the center stage.
This is the power Stalin had. Invincible his Age.
Wibele Escudar is a poet of South America.
The Farmer in the Dell
by Caleb Wuri Seed
The farmer in the dell was driving all about the farm.
The Sun was shining on him; he was feeling very warm.
Refreshed from riding on his motorbike, he paused beside
the jeep he had been driving in. It too was quite a ride.
A man who’d loaded up his van with wood had paused to chat.
The farmer opened up about his worries and his angst.
He longed to share his troubles with another working man,
who empathized because he too wished for a helping hand.
The dirty farmer looked unhappy, as he paused to break.
He truly felt that life was some times just too hard to take.
And so they talked away the afternoon till evening came;
above, the full moon rose up high; down went the solar flame.
Caleb Wuri Seed is a poet of agriculture.
by Irbee C. Swaudel
The dude wore black, up at his shirt, down to his shoes and socks;
but he did not attempt to channel Hamlet or his lot.
He did not plot to catch the King, nor did he plan to box;
he only longed to fetch the thing to prove that it was caught.
The dude was blue within his soul, and true as he could be;
but he did not attempt to channel flannel or Police.
He did not lease Pessoa’s fleece, nor try to change his tee;
he only longed to be a person, happy and at peace.
The dude was deep, a pinkish shade, a man of colour too;
but he did not attempt to channel haughty attitude.
He did not brood to be some rube, nor rude and reckless coot;
he only longed to be just what he was. He was a dude.
Irbee C. Swaudel is a poet of the ordinary within the extraordinary.