Northern Californian Fires
by Cal Wes Ubideer

They moved so fast, more than two score could not escape the brand
of twenty fires burning Northern California’s land.
“We are not out of the woods yet,” said Gov’ner Jerry Brown.
“There’s…fires burning…still”—two hundred thousand acres down.
The Tubbs, the Nuns, and Atlas fires, though more and more contained,
are still not dead, and still not stopped—if only it would rain.
More than five thousand buildings have gone up in blazing flames,
so many of wine country’s vines have burned up just the same.
There was no sanctuary for the many refugees
who fled in myriads among the farmlands and the trees.


Cal Wes Ubideer is a poet of California.


Gravitational Detection
by I. E. Sbace Weruld

Two months ago some scientists found in the cosmic flow,
two neutron stars one-hundred-thirty million years ago,
producing space-time ripples and emitting gamma rays,
a kilonova crashing into an amazing blaze.

For the first time we have seen light and gravitation waves,
within the same event, within the universal vase.
Light travels 5.88 trillion miles heavenly;
and this collision was detected August 17.

This was the fifth detection of those long predicted waves,
the first back in September 2015 caught from space,
the Nobel Prize in Physics given this year to those guys,
contributors of LIGO/VIRGO, Barish, Thorne and Weiss.


I. E. Sbace Weruld is a poet of the cosmos. The following poem was written over a year ago about that very discovery.


Gravitational Waves Discovered
by I. E. Sbace Weruld

Off, in a galaxy far, far away,
two black holes smashed together into one,
1.3 billion years ago, they say,
the power of a thousand trillion suns.
This week the LIGO scientists announced
they had detected gravitation waves,
confirming Einstein’s theory with the sound,
a chirp amongst the interstellar caves.
The L-shaped arms, two miles long, in both
Louisiana and in Washington,
picked up a little burst, a throb of Thor,
a warp much smaller than a proton’s span.
But there it was—a little blip, a purse—
found rip)p)ling across the universe.


On 11 February 2016, Laser Interferometer Gravitational-Wave Observatory scientists informed the World that detectors at Louisiana and Washington, on14 September 2015, detected gravitational waves.


The No Fun League
by Rudi E. Welec, “Abs”

The No Fun League has gotten very serious about
teams shooting videos, protecting viewing fans no doubt.
They can’t turn highlights into graphic interchange formats;
while games are on, don’t post them up, and do avoid such chats.
The No Fun League is also keeping players under wraps:
no twerks, no pelvic pumps, beware of bow-and-arrow zaps.
The rise in penalties is neither overbaked or lame;
the League is not afraid of sucking life out of the game.
The No Fun League has gotten serious, but not so much
about abuse, high salaries, and CTEs or such;
it’s rather kneeling at the anthem causing such a fit,
because the TV ratings too are dipping just a bit,


Rudi E. Welec, “Abs,” is a poet of athletics.


Waking Up to the Aeneid
by Aedile Cwerbus

An old guy in Naselle will go to morning service, but
he’s thinking of Aeneas, while he is waking up.
The sky is white with clouds, as is the page he’s writing on;
outside the crows and robins have announced that it is dawn.
The Greeks and Romans now are overwhelmed by migrant mobs;
ten thousands from West Asia and North Africa want jobs.
But they would rather go beyond the Alps to Germany.
Not Dido’s love nor Turnus’ hate can halt their destiny.
Anchises died in Sicily; he didn’t get to Rome.
How many of those duty-bound will ever find a home?


Aedile Cwerbus is a poet of ancient Rome.


The Sorceror’s New Apprentice
by Uwe Carl Diebes
“Die Geister, die ich rief.”
—paraphrase, become cliche, Johann Wolfgang von Goethe, Der Zauberlehrling

O, yes, the Old Magician’s gone with his forbidding face,
and I am now the master here. O, I will take his place.
His spirits now must do my bidding, since I know the charms.
With wealth and power at this hour, I’ll project tweet storms.

Old Broom, come here and sweep my towers. Make my buildings clean.
Give them abundant luxury, a shining, gleaming sheen.
Fill them up high with pots of money, flowing all about.
I’ll show the World what I can do. Of that there is no doubt.

But real estate has caused me trouble, bankruptcy appears.
What will I do with so much debt? My books are in arrears.
I’m flooding failure with success. I cannot stop this spell.
I’m like a whirlwind on a roll that rolling dice in Hell.

Perhaps I’ll make a deal for reality TV,
and make an entertainment show that’s mainly starring me;
and then I’ll tell contestants business practices I know,
while giving novices a chance to follow me—Herr Gold.

I’ll play my trump card at the place where table games are played.
I’ll put my pence upon ground zero, hoping for a spade.
If I could win a treasure, then I would be good to go;
and I could make my fame complete for all the World to know.

But, lo, alas, I can’t control the spirits I have called.
O, Master, don’t return quite yet, although I’m feeling walled.
I’m cabined, cribb’d, confined, bound in to saucy doubts and fears;
though flooded with fake news, it seems, I still have three more years.

Uwe Carl Diebes is a poet fond of German literature.


The Pilot
by “Wild” E. S. Bucaree

I saw him piloting the airboat through the marshy swamp,
like as he was a bigwig on a throne out for a romp.
He drove his grand, flat-bottomed fan-boat made of fibre glass,
and drove so fast, good God, avast, the guy was haulin’ ass.
I saw the pink flamingoes fly about him as he sped,
and gators chomping at the bit to bite him as he fled.
He had to keep his head of hair or else he’d lose his life,
the round propeller whirring, like a helicopter’s knife.
He rode that giant fan-boat, like a Batman outa hell,
or raging cyclone held by stirrup-steering Pecos Bill.

“Wild” E. S. Bucaree is a poet of Texas.