Wise Words with Bruce Wise

Haiku
by “Clear Dew” Ibuse

Two billion light-years
of ginormous explosions—
How quiet is that?

“Clear Dew” Ibuse is a poet of traditional haiku. Shuntaro Tanikawa (1931-2024) was a PostModernist Japanese poet and proset.

~~~

Haiku
by “Wired Clues” Abe

Above frog voices,
the jet flies over the Moon
mirrored in the lake.

Haiku
by “Wired Clues” Abe

Shrines and sushi bars
are by the cherry blossoms,
below Mount Fuji.

“Wired Clues” Abe is a NewMillennial haikuist.

~~~

A Hyper-Catalan Series Solution to Polynomial Equations
by Euclidrew Base

Wildberger and Rubine, reopening the mystery,
approached an old, closed book in mathematics history,
relating to the polynomial solutions found,
avoiding answers with irrationals and radicals,
instead relying on extensions, power series bounds,
and using higher analogs of strings of Catalans.

Euclidrew Base is a poet of mathematics. Norman Wildberger is a contemporary Australian mathematician; and Dean Rubine is a contemporary American computer scientist. The first eleven Catalan numbers are 1, 1, 2, 5, 14, 42, 132, 429, 1430, 4862, and 16,796. One of his favourite formulae is…e to the (i π) + 1 = 0.

~~~

Newsreel:
The Pakistani Army said that India has fired
five missiles for Pahalgam’s massacre, and Modi’s ire;
so Pakistan has fired back to add lives to the pyre.

~~~

The Meditator on the Mat
by Sri Wele Cebuda

I saw him in the lotus pose, his knees bent to his sides,
like he was in for one most unforgettable of rides.
One hand was on his neck, the other out and to the left,
for balance in the universe, from which he had been cleft.
O, he longed to reach out into the cosmic canopy,
surrounding him upon his mat, o, lovely panoply.
His azure shirt hung loosely on his shoulders and his chest.
He looked to be comfortable, both moving and at rest.
He raised his head up to the sky, and kissed it on its lips,
while keeping all that stretching pressure on his open hips.

Outside the sun was shining, gorgeous scintillating light,
that bathed him in its beauty of shear shimmering delight.
The soft, green grass, the rugged shrubs, the white mist over all—
though of an ordinary height, o, he was feeling tall.
Inside upon the pale mat, he looked up high, in bliss,
although the look upon his face was very serious.
Short light-brown hair upon his head, and slight hair on his cheek
gave him a neat appearance, strong and masculine, but weak.
He wore a watch upon his wrist, but did not think of time.
He had quite nat’rally come in, o, to the sweet sublime.

The mat of pale violet, the wall of pale beige,
flew back away from him, as he surrendered to engage.
He reached out for the realm of gods, though only just a man,
and gave himself up totally to his Lord’s lofty plan.
The lattice window by his mat, though closed, was clear and clean,
as if it were a third eye opening upon the scene.
O, he was satisfied, uh huh, as he had never been,
like as a universal joint had suddenly come in,
and warmed him to a happiness that he had never known,
an unbelievably good place, a sweet ecstatic zone.

This Magi Carpet
by Sri Wele Cebuda

He got into the lotus pose, as he had done before;
so many times he would not count them all; it made him soar;
although he only sat upon a mat, up off the floor;
but it was an activity that he did not abhor.

Good for his core, and his spine too; he could go very deep;
almost as though he could approach the very shores of sleep.
He lifted up his neck and pecs and stretched his abdomen;
He tighten glutes, and shoulders too. He was a flabby man.

He longed to ride upon this magi carpet—it was good.
He loved to ride above the hills and valleys filled with woods.
O, he could fly, like as a bird upon its whirling wings,
and for a while meditate upon unworldly things.

Sri Wele Cebuda is a poet of active meditation.

~~~

Newsreel:
Trump said the US will no longer bomb the Houthis if
they will agree to stop the blowing up of Red Sea ships.

~~~

Upon His Morning Throne
by Scribe El Uwade

He sits upon his morning throne, like any pharaoh did
back in ci-vi-li-za-tion’s dawn beyond his pyramid.
He sits erect, hi-s back and shoulders flat, like chiseled stone,
in the beginning of the day, alive, aloof, alone.

Scribe El Uwade is a poet of Egypt.

~~~

The Shattered
by War di Belecuse

They ripped across the strand as fast as they could go.
There was no time to pause. The enemy was in
pursuit. The river lay before them, oh, so cold.
They had to let the water freeze against their skin
if they would get away. Machine-gun fire ran through
the air, while mortars splashed around each arm and shin.
Their shoulders, elbows, hands, their legs and feet moved to
and fro. They did their best to get th’ hell out o’ there
where shells crashed forth. They were a damned determined crew.
Dead men lay on the sand, immobile in that air,
while the living swam through the broiling imbroglio;
each one who made it had to make it on his own.

War di Belecuse is a poet of war.

~~~

So many places in the World are embroiled in war,
it’s hard to keep up with them all. It seems there’re ever more.

~~~

High Grapes
by Esiad L. Werecub

He did not want to get stuck in an infinite loop’s spool,
to keep on going back again…again to play the fool.
Why would he do that? It would not make him feel all that good.
He didn’t want to be, like Dante, stuck before some wood.
There were such vile animals—Such vicious creatures thrive.
They love to live off loveliness. It makes them feel alive.
He had to break each cycle as it came around to him.
He needed vim and vigour as his major stratagem.
But it was not so easy to escape such escapades,
that seemed so nice, when in reality they were high grapes.

Aesop (c. 620 BC – c. 564 BC) was an Ancient Greek fabulist. Dante Alighieri (1265-1321) was an Italian poet and proset.

~~~

The Man Stuck on the Bed
by Uwe Carl Diebes

“Cough, cough.” He woke up from his sleep, like as an ugly bug,
stuck on his back, his flailing arms and legs above his mug.
He could not move from off his bed, as if he must stay put,
ignoble and immobile, uncontrolled each hand and foot.
He tried to rise up off the bed, but he could not get up,
as if he had been packed and tacked, an impish, simpy puck.
He ventured to turn over, and it took some time to do,
but when he did it, he was rooted on his guts like glue.
Some crazy, tattooed dude attempted getting him to rise,
but prodding him and shoving him did not work—no surprise.

And so that tattooed dude attempted getting up that git,
but he could only pull his chest and shoulders up a bit.
In that dim, unlit room, he floundered, like a fish on land,
but nothing he could do could help to get him up to stand.
“O, damn,” he cried. “I’m stuck inside, and never will get out.”
He stayed there in his situation, hopeless as a doubt.
His gut was wrenched, his shoulders taut, his soul uptight and locked.
He felt as if he were a holy priest who’d been defrocked.
“O, God,” he cried out to his Lord, “I’ll never be released.
I’ll be stuck in this harsh embrace, a wild, vile beast.”

Uwe Carl Diebes is a poet of German literature. Franz Kafka (1883-1924) was a German Modernist proset.

~~~

The Romantics
by Beau Ecs Wilder

He rose up in the early morn. The Sun was radiant.
The elevated summits had gentle gradient.
But he was pleased to see that scene, for it was beautiful.
He flexed his muscles automatic’lly—quite dutiful.
He wondered at such beauty; it was marvelous indeed.
It wasn’t all that windy; it was peaceful, and so freed.
He gazed in awe up at those tall hills curving up above.
They were in-spi-r-ing, like as faith, charity, and love.
He thought of the Romantics—England, France and Germany—
but that was of another era, firm and fervently.

Beau Ecs Wilder is a poet of the Romantic era.

~~~

Newsreel:
At the Kentucky Derby, Sov’reignty came in first place
by beating Journalism, and the others in the race.

~~~

Those Businessmen
Brad Lee Suciew

He dressed up in his formal clothing, dark brown suit and tie,
down to his black socks and his black shoes; he needed to be tight.
He walked down his apartment stairs, where he could meet his ride.
He was prepared. He wanted to be there when they arrived.

They were attending an important meeting. They were psyched.
It would be fun to be with workers, none high as a kite.
He was picked up at the appointed time. The car was full.
They drove on to a castle with a mint and arsenal.

The party was in full swing; and the people were enthused.
They longed to be there with each other; they were gladly fused.
The function was important as it helped make new con-tacts
for business for those businessmen who came for business pacts.

Brad Lee Suciew is a poet of business.

~~~

Vitamin D
by Rudi E. Welec, “Abs”

He took a walk around the block. The Solar Rays were hot.
He paused to orient his hat so it would block his top.
Though he had quite a tan upon his head, his neck and nape,
he still was thankful for his vitamin D dose again.

The Fat Man
by Rudi E. Welec, “Abs”

He wondered how he could live with himself—he was so fat.
He had so much flab everywhere around him where he sat.
He wondered what would people think to see such curves and folds.
He needed to reduce his carbs. He had too many rolls.
At times, he felt so dirty, nasty; he was just a chunk.
He was no hunk, but rather a large slab of pork, or chuck.
Love handles didn’t help. He wished that he could be more sveldt.
He wished he didn’t feel like that, but that was how he felt.
If only his abs weren’t so flabby, his ass not so big,
and he was not a bulky, hulking, gargantuan gig.

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

~~~

A Walk Around the Block
by Waulcer Beside

He walked along the thoroughfare—no squirrel on a fence—
There was no shade, this time, this place, where he could take a rest.
He turned the concrete corner on the gray-white sidewalk way,
proceeding past discarded mowers and cut-grass bags of hay.

He heard an oriental man pray loudly to the air,
who aired his anger, saying he would walk out of despair.
So that impelled the walking man to expedite his walk.
He didn’t want an upset follower, to crow or caw.

Left-Right, Left-Right
by Waulcer Beside

Left-right, left-right, he went out for an early morning run.
Had he been brainwashed some time back, because he thought it fun?
He kept on moving—back and forth—left-right, left-right, left-right.
O, he was pounding pavement, but he still felt such delight.

He gulped for air. O, he was panting, panting fulsomely.
O, yes, he kept on running past curved curbs carved handsomely.
His mouth was open, breathing fast; his tongue relaxed in it.
It was as if some god was pushing him along this git.

One-two-three-four, he went for more. O, how much could he take?
His body quaked, his body shaked, good Lord, for goodness sake.
O, on he went, a human vent, a man on concrete flats:
Could he be really satisfied in such a state of pants?

Waulcer Beside is a poet of movement.

~~~

There, Grandma, Hanging on for Dear Life
by Cu Ebide Aswerl

He loved to go out in the sunshine to a theme park’s pride,
where he could sit down for a bit upon a fun-filled ride.
And bounce about, in bounding, towering, thrill-seeking trips,
that weren’t too long—He must be strong. He needed knuckled grips.

O, high above the flowers, up above the upright poles.
He saw the lovely fountain gushing o’er the camisoles.
He held on tight. He was so high. Why had he come to this—
there, Grandma, hanging on for dear life over the abyss?

Cu Ebide Aswerl is a poet of amusement parks.