The Sun
by Ra Bué Weel Disc
The Sun appears to slowly rise up in the eastern skies,
as it has done millennia, nay, billions of day-times.
It lights the atmosphere. The birds begin their chattering,
and sing their songs, of which there is the greatest smattering,
proclaiming varied territories, claiming, naming, them,
from syrinx boxes calling out, dawn’s choral strategem.
The Sun is massive, even though it’s not a solid mass,
its particles are ionized, rotating plasma gas,
predominantly hydrogen, and next comes helium,
with scattered elements, like neon and magnesium,
as well as iron, nickel, sulphur, carbon, calcium,
and others, silicon, some oxygen and chromium.
The Sun heats up the Earth. We could not live without its pulse.
It pulls our planet, orbitting around its round convulse.
It drives the ocean currents, seasons, climate, weather thirled.
O, we can see so clearly when it lightens up our World.
It makes the lush plants possible through photosynthesis,
and gives us life’s fierce zistence through its forceful emphasis.
Ra Bué Weel Disc is a poet of the Sun. According to Beau Lecsi Weruld, “zistence” is a trunc meaning life with added pizazz.
~~~
Haiku
by “Clear Dew” Ibuse
In each other’s arms,
beyond the exploding stars,
we are close, but far.
“Clear Dew” Ibuse is a haiku poet.
~~~
Haiku
by “Wired Clues” Abe
Before the infant,
the gray-white sidewalk stretches
to eternity.
“Wired Clues” Abe is a poet combining tradition Japanese haiku standards with Modernist and PostModernist techniques.
~~~
Flashback:
“Ain’t nothin’ gonna break my stride,
nobody gonna slow me down. Oh, no.
I got to keep moving.”
—Matthew Wilder
~~~
Haiku
by “Wired Clues” Abe
A recent road-kill
brings black vultures to a feast,
paused for passing car.
“Wired Clues” Abe is a trad haiku writer.
~~~
Haiku
by “Lice Brews” Ueda
Under skies and oaks,
they cross the gray-white sidewalks—
small, black ground beetles.
“Lice Brews” Ueda is a haiku poet of nature’s smallest creatures.
~~~
The Baby Changed His Mind
by “Lice Brews” Ueda
He flailed around in his bath rashly, thrashing all about.
His fav’rite time was when the faucet poured—but now it’s not.
“Lice Brews” Ueda is a poet of the small.
~~~
At the Beginning of the 16th Century
by Euclidrew Base
Back in the dim and musty rooms of time, before
mathematician Luca Pacioli thought
the cubic and the quartic were unsolvable,
Dardi of Pisa gave solutions to a lot
of them, and Florentines, like Benedetto, or
Mazzaghli and Biaggio, toiled hard and fought
to find a formula that substituion would
yield the desired solution to the general
equation of the cubic. But it wasn’t good
enough. Even Piero della Francesca
of Borgo San Sepolcro sought discovery.
Yet in the area, the era and the air,
some thing was going on. Up north of Tuscany—
Bologna—at the oldest university,
one Scipiano dal Ferro successfully,
despite the wonted doses of adversity,
did what no one had done, he solved equations of
the form of ax3 + bx = c
by 1515, though he kept it to himself,
math dilettante Antonio Fiore, and
his son-in-law Annibale della Nave.
In 1535, Fiore dared to stand
against Tartaglia, Coi-spurred-on Fontana,
by solving cubics, losing to the stutterer’s command,
which piqued the interest of the rogue Cardano,
who pried the prized solution from the stammerer
and later put it in his famous Ars Magna
against Tartaglia’s wishes, there with Ferrari’s
solution to a quartic. Cartelli did flow!
between fierce Ludovico—crude enamorer,
killed by his sister’s poison?—and poor Niccolò!
And finally, as knowledge started to congeal,
there came hydraulic engineer Bombelli, oh!
who realized that negative square roots were real,
at least of some value, if not adorable,
or subtly useless, as Cardano once did feel.
Euclidrew Base is a poet of mathematics. Dardi of Pisa, Benedetto, Mazzaghli and Biaggio (c. 14th century), painter Piero della Francesca (1415-1492), Luca Pacioli (1445-1517), Scipiano dal Ferro (1465-1526), Antonio Fiore and Annibale della Nave (early 16th century), Niccolò Fontana Tartaglia (1500-1557), Gerolamo Cardano (1501-1576), and Rafael Bombelli (1526-1572) were noted Italian mathematicians, involved with the solving of cubics and quartics.
~~~
Flashback Ars Magna:
Cardano shows the first complex numbers, when he, dismissing mental tortures, then does multiply 5 + √ -15 by 5 – √ -15, obtaining 25 – (-15). See. The product is 40…and thus, he says, far does mathematical subtlety go, of which this the extreme is, as he had said, so subtle that it is useless.
~~~
In the Foreign City
by Bieder C. Weslau
I gotta pee, and I gotta pee bad.
I’m smack in the middle of a city.
It’s after midnight. Everything is dead,
locked up, closed, off limits. It’s a pity.
Also, I don’t speak the language of these
people, and I don’t know their laws, nor can
I get to a place where it’s safe to pee
in time. And there ain’t any nearby trees.
I’ve been holding on for so long I can’t
hold on no more. I need a place fast, see!
So I step up next to a metal gate,
where there is at least a little shadow,
and hope no one can see me. I can’t wait
any longer, and so I go. I go.
Embarrassingly, the puddle below,
growing, won’t go away. I cannot stay.
And so I flee, feeling week and wrong. Oh,
I have to leave this place, to get away.
Bieder C. Weslau is a poet of distant physical and mental places and spaces.
~~~
A Picture of 1752
by Claude I. S. Weber
By the contemporary of Chardin, Boucher,
The Setting of the Sun displays a misplaced mist
wistfully going down, the dropping of the day,
over ten feet high, done with the flick of his wrist.
The central nymph looks up to meet Apollo’s eyes,
while other nymphs, afloat, look longing to be kissed,
all in a rococo allure of brilliant sky,
a mix of cloudy pastel colors, soft and bright.
The darkness shows up only at the rise;
a star appears at top, a tiny, shiny light;
a swirled diagonal sweeping up and away…
O, all this loveliness so slowly goes away,
does lowly go astray.
Claude I. S. Weber is a poet of French painting. Francois Boucher (1703-1770) was a noted French Rococo painter. Jean Chardin (1699-1779) was a French painter of still lifes and domestic scenes.
~~~
Newsreel:
The Colorado candidate in Paraguay has won,
and Santiago Peña’s the new president to come.
~~~
A Handful of This
by Ibewa del Sucre
por Hérib Campos Cervera
I’ll show you dullness in a handful of this desert dust,
not fear, nor force, in this profound and stunted lassitude,
at this near height, at this here level’s lasting solitude,
behind this forehead of gray matter’s dryest latitude,
this land of sand, cross timbers, and these germinating sobs,
each cargo-laden car go past these pillars made of salt.
I’ll show you, in a clenching fist, care-worn and carrying,
not hope, nor help, but sweetness in an ornate tarrying,
a chaparral, where dry lips breathe, bvreathe in the arid air,
that spreads before the blood-red sun and does what dead bones dare.
Ibewa del Sucre is a poet of central South America. Hérib Campos Cervera (1905-1953) was a Modernist Paraguayan poet.
~~~
Newsreel:
As First Republic quickly sank into less worthiness,
huge JP Morgan Chase sank teeth into its assedets,
that is, its billions of securities, deposits, loans,
and all the many other things theat First Republic owns.
According to Beau Lecsi Werd, “assidets” is a trunc formation of “assets and debts.”
~~~
A Floral Lullaby
by Brac Lei Uweeds
“…where the deer’s swift leap startles the wild bee from the
foxglove bell.”
—John Keats, “To Solitude”
Around the edges of our yard,
the purple foxgloves show;
they can’t wait to escape the gloom
to blossom, bloom and grow;
but they have such a little chance
before the larger trees
will tower over them and leave
them far from light or breeze.
They want to get out of the dark;
they long to rise up tall;
though they are often in the dark;
by fir trees they are small.
When every now and then a fir
or alder tree falls down,
an opportunity occurs
for them to come around.
Oh, they are ever waiting in
the wings ready to rise;
and that is how the foxglove plant
can manage to survive.
Brac Lei Uweeds is a poet of flowers. John Keats (1795-1821) was a Romantic British poet.
~~~
Flashback from the 1970s:
The largest of all the sporadic finite simple groups is called the Monster group. Its name comes from the fact it has order 246 · 320 · 59 · 76 · 112 · 133 · 17 · 19 · 23 · 29 · 31 · 41 · 47 · 59 · 71.
~~~
The World’s Largest Excavator
by Bruc “Diesel” Awe
The World’s largest excavator—Bagger 2-9-3—
length, seven-thirty-eight feet long, its height, three-fifteen feet,
its weight, so heavy, thirty-one-point-three, o, million pounds,
and powered by sixteen-point-five-six megawattage—Zounds!
Bruc “Diesel” Awe is a poet of highway travel.
~~~
In the Cretaceous Period
by Bruc “Diesel” Awe
“…they cropped up tons of mush and grass
to gouge their underworld garage.”
—Robert Lowell, “For the Union Dead”
He felt as if he were in the Cretaceous Period,
rapacious giant monsters charging past, fast, eerily,
consuming diesel gallons on their highway traveling,
from Aberdeen to points beyond, Absecon, Abilene.
At big construction sites, huge crawler-excavator digs,
such great, hydraulic, thunder-lizard brontosaurus rigs,
transformed the warming Earth’s landscapes with bucketfuls of dirt,
though hardly changing, rearranging its gigantic girth.
And flying through the air, colossal, pterodactyl jets,
enormous wingspans, lengthy bodies, aeronautic techs,
soared o’er sword ferns and conifers above these chalky soils,
upon which Animalia in constant conflict broils.
Bruc “Diesel” Awe is a poet of transportation. Approximate population of the following cities, Though the author was thinking of Aberdeen, WA, Absecon, NJ, 9,000, and Abilene, TX, 125,000, Abilene, other US cities with similar names include Aberdeen, SD, 28,000 and Abilene, KS, 6,000.
~~~
Drew Sanders
by Rudi E. Welec, “Abs”
He grew up—Denton, Texas—father was a football coach,
He played at Oklahoma, Alabama, Arkansas,
and was the 67th draft pick in the NFL.
Two houses down, in the third round—yet chosen, ah, the fete.
Rudi E. Welec, “Abs” is a poet of sport.
~~~
The Boxer in Longview, Washington
by Rudi E, Welec, “Abs”
The kid was wild. I tried to tell him so,
but he just wouldn’t listen to my words.
I told him to slow down, to take it slow,
but all he wanted to do was go. Sure,
he could keep up the pace when he was young,
but when he got older he’d pay a price.
He kept on fighting and flapping his tongue.
It wasn’t a pretty sight. It wasn’t
nice. I told him he’d work himself into
an early grave. I told him to take off
that stupid baseball cap; he wouldn’t do
it. I told him to quit, but he’d just scoff.
So I left him to his own devices.
Let someone else patch him up, make splices.
Rudi E. Welec, “Abs”, is a poet of sports. Longview, Washington, has a population of around 37,000.
~~~
δράκων
by Uclis “Wee Beard”
There, at the mountain’s base, he slowly woke—
the dragon. First, his wings began to tense
up. Secondly, there was a puff of smoke.
He made a little belch, like hot incense.
The very mountain-roots began to shift;
a tiny rumble zig-zagged through the rock;
some firey, boiling spume began to lift.
The slopes then started next to shake—and shock,
just as the dragon rose up to his feet.
The sound roared like great thunder underground.
His heart of ire warmed like volcanic heat
and shook the mountain with its mighty sound.
Up through the summit’s height, the dragon went,
gigantic, spewing, venting, violent.
Uclis “Wee Beard” is a poet of Celtic lore. His noted acquaintance Bard Eucewelis is not to be confused with Bard of “The Hobbit” by British Modernist writer J. R. R. Tolkien (1892-1973), who killed the dragon with his arrow shot.
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