Wise Words with Bruce Wise

Haiku
by “Wired Clues” Abe

A quiet, stone axe
on the far side of the glass;
constellations fly.

Haiku
by “Wired Clues” Abe

O, Tanikawa—
two billion silent light years—
Go, Astro Boy. Go!

“Wired Clues” Abe is a NewMillennial haiku poet. Shuntaro Tanikawa (1931-2024) was a PostModernist Japanese haikuist.

~~~

Haiku
by “Clear Dew” Ibuse

It spreads its wings out
on the sunlit cement curb—
a red admiral.

“Clear Dew” Ibuse is a trad haikuist.

~~~

Newsreel:
Indelibly, in Delhi, air pollution is so thick,
the city is engulfed in toxic smog, it makes one sick.
“Severe plus” it is classified: construction work is banned,
as well as schools and nonessential trucks by state command.
North India confronts “a medical emergency”,
say government officials with repeated urgency.
Some call for protests in the streets; the citizenry seethes.
But where’s th’ accountability for air not fit to breathe?

Delhi, India, has a population of around 20,000,000.

~~~

A Massive, Upright Peacock Throne
by Darius Belewec

I saw him sitting on a massive, upright peacock throne,
as if he were a shah who thought all that he saw his own.
He spread his legs out wide and far, intensively alert,
as if he had to be attentive to potential hurt.
He seemed to love his chair, as if it were a living thing,
prepared and framed, as if it were made only for a king.
He loved its jew’ls, he loved its frame, he loved its matted back.
It seemed to be a perfect fit for someone’s royal pack.
But when I saw him bouncing on it, like a carousel,
it seemed as if this lord might travel through the air as well.

Darius Belewec is a poet of Persia.

~~~

Newsreel:
In late October, Israel attacked a Parchin site,
an active nuclear research facility at night.
The strike destroyed sophisticated nuclear machines
used to design explosives for their detonation schemes.
If this is true, as some reporters noted recently,
was it accrued from some high-resolution imagery?

~~~

The Forgotten Soldier
by War di Belecuse

Far, far away, there at a distant gate, I paused.
The sun, always above, shone on incessantly.
I touched the iron skeleton. Beneath white gauze,
I sweated, not profusely, but unceasingly.
The dust was everywhere, on hands, on face, in eyes.
So pleasantly I dream of peace that will not be.
Tears stream down my cheeks as I look into the skies.
Dead bodies are strewn all about. Though war is done,
the battle does not stop. Nearby a dead corpse lies.
The dust upon that dead man makes his red blood dun.
He fought hard for a cause most noble, but lost;
and now his thoughts are for forever gone. It’s won—
the afternoon, but no one stops to count the cost.
None casts a shadow on the dusty, dry road. How
much pain must poor humanity endure? I’ve tossed
aside the gun. I gaze around and take a bow.
It’s time for me to leave the stage. I have not crossed
this place; and this is all the time I am allowed.

War di Belecuse is a poet of soldiers.

~~~

Newsreel:
On the one-thousandth day of the war, Russia was attacked,
by seven, long-range, USA Atácms from Ukraine.

~~~

Mania Came to the Man
by Acwiles Berude

Mania came to the man who threw his arms out,
when he awoke from the nightmare engulfing him,
Acwiles Berude, overwhelmed by hopes and doubt,
raging, historical channels he’s had to swim,
th’ insanity around him whirling, swirling, swept.
‘Would it not have been a much better stratagem,’
he wonders, ‘to have, through all of this frenzy, slept,
like Rip Van Winkle?’ Tossing his blanket aside,
he rises to a world, where he’s out of his depth,
and floundering, it’s so enormous, dark and wide,
yet, nevertheless, pressing forward, who knows where?
like Pecos Bill upon a cyclone, high, astride.

Acwiles Berude is a poet of mania. Washington Irving (1783-1959) was an American Romantic short story writer who wrote the short story “Rip Van Winkle.”

~~~

The Passing of a Man
by Ewald E. Eisbruc

Joseph Haydn was right, he wasn’t off the mark;
posterity won’t see such a talent again
in twice one hundred years, that is, Wolfgang Mozart;
and who knows just how many more before there’s one.
He died at thirty-five, and was interred within
a common grave at Saint Marx Cemetery, Wien.
He died of an acute rheumatic fever in
December…maybe…Salieri, Süssmayr, and
van Swieten were there with two other musicians,
on that calm and mild day. But little more was planned.
There were no symphonies, concertos, operas,
chorales, or chamber music. All was quiet, sand.

Ewald E. Eisbruc is a poet of composition. Joseph Haydn (1732-1809) was a Classical Austrian composer, Wolfgang Mozart (1756-1791) was likewise a Classical Austrian composer.

~~~

B. Riemann Was
by Euclidrew Base

Bernhard Riemann was a man of bold thought
behind his somber, dour and placid face.
In mathematics he left quite a lot,
particularly geometric space.
He changed the world in his desire to find
a link between varied phenomena.
He pressed on with his clear, creative mind
and sought the real more than the nominal.
And though he tread complex analysis,
and went to places few dared to explore,
he always did so with a valid sense
in his pursuit of what was new or more.
In this his vision is breathtaking, grand,
unparalleled within the lengths he spanned.

Euclidrew Base is a poet of mathematical visions. Bernhard Riemann (1826-1866) was a noted German mathematician.

~~~

The Prose of Eric Blair
by Eric Awesud Ble

The prose of Eric Blair, George Orwell, at the end,
as found in Nineteen Eighty-Four, was brutal, spare.
Tubercular and disillusioned, nearly dead,
he wrote out his dystopia in that hard air,
that horrid era, in which doublespeak was borne:
Big Brother watching over all the bleak despair;
the Thought Police arriving just in time to warn
one of thoughtcrime in Air-strip One, Room 101,
the Party, Minitrue, and Miniluv. Forlorn,
both Julia and Winston Smith succumb, become
unpersons in stark pain and misery; they bend,
as all must do, in such a nightmare deep within.

Eric Awesud Ble is a poet intrigued by George Orwell’s prose. George Orwell (1903-1950) was
a Modernist British proset.

~~~

Newsreel:
November brings the President s-election to an end.
The Sun is shining in the City, not the lion’s den.
The roses aren’t retreating from their four florescent spells;
and ants are busy in their ever effervescent tels.

~~~

Strong and Fluff
by Caleb Wuri Seed

It is November, yet the roses still are flourishing.
Throughout the bushes there’s new growth. Why aren’t they perishing?
Beneath warm misty skies, their stems are growing taller too;
leaf tips are turning scarlet-bright, anticipating new.
Though flying bugs are fewer, butterflies and little bees,
there still are varied interested parties visiting.
The leaves remain deep green and flush. They are fine with all this.
If they did not continue on, one thinks they’d be remiss.
So, though the days are getting cooler, they seem warm enough.
Despite the season roses here strive to be strong and fluff.

Caleb Wuri Seed is a poet of growing.

~~~

Apple Cider Vinegar
by Carb Deliseuwe

Its origins could be traced back to fertile crescent steps.
He drank some apple cider vinegar. The Sun had set.
Before he went to bed he had a couple tablespoons
in water, and with cinnamon, beneath the full round Moon.

Could it speed up digestion, activating enzymes too,
controlling pathogens with its strong PH acid brew?
Could it help in absorbing vitamins C and B12 ,
K, too, magnesium, and iron, calcium, as well?

Could it decrease gas, speeding up digestion, using bile,
and break down proteins into an amino acid pile?
Could it gird up the biome, as it kept the GIRD at bay,
less insulin resistance, acid reflux on its way?

Could it bring down cholesterol, blood pressure measurements?
He did not know, but he would go along, if it made sense.
He longed to see what it would do. Was the jig up and rigged?
That active lab rat on the Earth—he was a guinea pig,

Carb Deliseuwe is a poet of food and drink. Apple trees were first cultivated around 4000 BC. President-elect Donald J. Trump has nominated Robert F. Kennedy, Jr., to lead the Health and Human Services Department.

~~~

On Shaving
by Rudi E. Welec

One ever needs to shave, unless one longs to have a beard,
like as a fleecy sheep, some shepherd needs to shape and shear.
Along the face, both cheeks and chin, th’ electric razor goes,
and cuts as well between the lips and underneath the nose.
Though one is thankful one need not shave pecs, abs, crotch and legs,
it is enough to cut the rough from hostile host or guest.
When there is time, it’s fun to shave the ski slopes of the head,
the rise and fall of all that lies beyond the couch or bed;
but still, at times, o, that sublime, when nothing must be done,
there’s wonder there as well, if not, as fun as sledding run.

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

~~~

5-4-3-2-1
by Erisbawdle Cue

Each new day is the same I say, but it goes away,
and it will not stay. It ignites like a match on fire,
and then it takes off, going on and on come what may.
The pace is that of a heart racing with pure desire.
One is immediately jolted, then taken aback,
but one has to get up off the floor and close the door.
One has to scan the situation but can’t be slack.
One has to deal with each new reel spinning before one,
remove one’s wallet from one’s pocket, be right on track,
and looking at it, flick the switch in one quick motion,
push a button and sidestep the next problem coming
at one. It is the speed that causes the distortion.
and underneath it all is the pounding, the drumming.
The eye flinches; yet one goes on, troubles magnified.
One has got to be fast to stay in the race running.
Plug in the power, turn on a dime, open the ride,
before one slips and descends down 5-4-3-2-1.
Oh, the stairs, the stares. Grab the railing on the side.
At the keyboard the letters are typed, addressed, sent, gone.
Then there are the bills, bills, bills that must be paid, paid, paid.
The wires are clipped together. The recording is done.
Everything is changing constantly. Nothing is staid.
The day is young. One has just begun. The time is five.
Even though they move, the new foundations must be laid.
Even the acted scenes in smart tuxedos are fresh, live.
Even the machines revealed that go up or count down
have some existence. They, too, have to start and arrive,
depart and contrive. One needs money to get to town.
And then one finds oneself amidst circuits and bottles,
clenching one’s hands tight, breathing as if one had a gun
pointed dead center at the back of one’s head, battles
raging all around. Pick up the glass. Now make the toast
quickly before that one there on the side lines throttles
one off course, of course. Beware a ticket from the host.
The lights shoot past like bullets; volts fly in the hundreds.
One must be as fast and as agile as a cat most,
if not all, of the time. Finagle the blinds. Storms thunder.
Take off the mask. Hold the moment fast. Take a deep breath.
Have a vision. Input the data. Weave through the plundered.
Watch for the steamy. Don’t be dragged off the mine field’s breadth.
Put in the best you can. Pan the area. Pass up
the littered bits of paper, yet don’t be ticketed.
Don’t be corrupted by beauty. Do not interrupt
the mission. Don’t take off in pursuit of a balloon.
Drink, and drink deeply, but don’t be obsessed by the cup.
Use it as a guide, but don’t whine at the waning moon.
A cat in the hand is worth two in the hat. Watch out.
Steady, cool in the face of danger, if not now—soon.
Take a look at all the numbers. Be ready to count.
Don’t let the dumbed down dummies drown one in a hole.
Get clear through it. Side-step the noose of pearls at the mount.
This is the time for careful walking. Don’t lose your soul.
Draw forth the black box. Look at the words on the paper.
Hold the elevator doors. Get in before they close.
Shovel coal. Shuffle the cards. Shove the usher over.
Fight through the darkness with strong arm and hand and lamp.
Then stamp the map with hope. Grab a handful of dirt.
Don’t fear the Earth. Turn about even in the damp.
Clutch your heart closely. Snap its handle to the wall.
There’s always something that someone needs to revamp,
brown boxes, silver chains, the frontal None of All,
the circular Mandala, clear, glass, spinning wheel,
and the baton exchange between the very tall.
The fuse continues. It is odd because it’s real,
like incense burning, snapshots taken, or fine flaps.
Don’t pull the wool over one’s eyes, but instead steel
oneself for the capsule that comes from liquid taps.
One must go forward, though pushed on by forceful fate,
like putty in hard hands. Press on. Do not collapse.
Turn to. Pandora’s box is sitting at the gate.
Don’t wait for rocks will fall, fights flair. Give all. Grieve not.
Pull on the chain of life. Pick up the pace. It’s late.
Uncover what is the next in line. Don’t be distraught.
Follow the winding corridors. Pass the gold by.
Bring all together: sinews, energy and thought,
a fusion of the many focused in the eye.
Do not recoil from the toil, the broil or rockets.
Pass over springs. Drive like a speeding truck, in high.
Be wary of coffins, rifles, and pick pockets.
Repel the sides. Look up above. Jump in. Bend down.
Do what’s needed in order to reach time’s sockets.
Surmount the highest bars. Gun it. Don’t walk to town.
Swerve round grated manholes. Turn on the light and look.
Connect the pieces. Stack them. Hold a cold, stone frown.
Connect the parts together. Put them on a hook.
Bring up new contents. Focus like a laser beam.
Smack smug aside the head. Like a speeding car, book.
Here, there, near, far: we’re where we are. Avoid the dream.
Observe technology spread out. Pull up the nerve.
Kiss the moment. Press the button. Keep flat. Don’t scream.
Hit the light. Breathe in deep. Hold it in. Do not swerve.
Break it down. Knock it off. Place it in. Turn it on.
Against the curve, pound it out. Hold tight. Keep the verve.
Turn the right way. Push on forward. Take off. Pull strong.
Hold the key. Point the shot. Pour it out. Sweep the earth.
Pass the past. Put the pedal to the metal, down.
Be on the ball. Plan each move. Run for all your worth.
Abruptly change it up. Apply the light. Zoom in.
Throw the back in. Dig in for the long haul. Put forth.
Turn to. Unwind the real. Pull out the books. Quick, spin.
Extend the step. Bend the knees. Comb the environs.
Wrench the gut. Dodge the bullets. Lean in to the wind.
Grasp the situation. Dig in. Slip the tie-pins.
Clean up on the victories. Tamp down the problems.
Find peace amidst all the firearms, harms and irons.
Pick up on the clues and the fast pace. Watch for goblins.
Use maps. Take steps. Block hits. Cover the head and face.
Keep safe. Go fast, hard. Drink it up. Cover the ground.