The Speed of Light
by I. E. Sbace Weruld
If one could travel at the speed of light,
then one could see…light stationary, stopped.
But it’s impossible to have such sight;
and one can only posit that in thought.
It makes one pause to think about this World,
upon which we are spinning round the sun,
which is within this galaxy’s realm hurled,
the Milky Way itself upon a run.
No matter where one is, light moves…about
three hundred trillion centimeters in
a second—absolutely. Is there doubt?
This cosmos seems to be its suzerain.
And so, what’s changing, all the time, is time,
and us, attempting to reach light’s sublime.
Mr. I. E. Sbace Weruld is a poet of light.
~~~
Newsreel:
The new Prime Minister is Takaichi in Japan.
The Nikkei market, after thirty-five years, soared again.
~~~
The Moon Above the Castle
by Wu “Sacred Bee” Li
He drank all through the moon’s long journey through the depths of night,
still drunk upon the waking up at dawn’s good morning light.
How could he stay awake, the house-boy’s snoring thundering?
It was moon light that kept him up amidst such blubbering.
Upon a stick, he listened to the river in himself.
O, how he wished his body now belonged to someone else.
He wondered when he could escape the turmoil that he felt.
In deepest night, the wind was still. He left behind his belt.
He’d find a boat to drift away and spend his years afloat;
but would he ever leave behind the moon upon that moat?
Wu “Sacred Bee” Li is a poet of Ancient China. This poem draws from Su Shi (1037-1101), a Song dynasty poet.
~~~
The Disappearing of Hu Chenfeng
by Bic Uwel, “Erased”
As CCP attempts to scrub all posts of Hu Chenfeng,
by using Android logic they desire to make him gone;
just as they have most recently put the kibosh upon
the media accounts of tutor blogger Zhang Xuefeng.
The Cyberspace Administration dislikes all pessimists,
and therefore, they want only sunny sentimentalists.
Don’t notice the economy is strug-gl-ing and bleak,
the birth-rate has hit bottom, and job numbers now are weak.
No wonder Hu Chenfeng is banned from platforms far and wide,
creating class antagonisms, no one could abide;
and, therefore, it makes perfect sense he should be disappeared,
as that is what the CCP does well year after year.
Bic Uwel, “Erased” is a poet of disappearing people.
~~~
The Man Behind a Leafy Camo Screen
by War di Belecuse
I sat upon a long and mossy log. My lips closed tight.
I thought I heard a man in boots come by. I stood still—quite—
and quiet as the grassy hills where I was hiding at.
I also heard another man shoot rat-a-tat-tat-tat.
I tried to keep a low profile on my hands and knees.
I hid behind a bush. I sought a leafy camo screen.
I sucked my stomach in and breathed through nostrils silently.
I did not want to end up badly, battered vi’lently.
But though they came so close to me, they did not hear me gasp.
I clasped the moment perfectly. I wanted it to last.
The Raging War
by War di Belecuse
The Sun was rising o’er the hills. The day was beautiful.
But he was dressed in camouflage, and he was dutiful.
The war was raging all around him in that open field.
The drones were hovering his covering. Would he need yield?
He wished there was a wood nearby to hide and to protect;
but safety wasn’t in his future where he stood erect.
He saw a four-legg’d creature pausing by the grassy lea.
He crawled along th’ environment, and sprawled in a bouquet.
It was so lovely, but the dangers lurked round ev’ry bush.
Where he was at, in that plant mat, a shrub would be cush.
War di Belecuse is a poet of conflict. According to Beau Lecsi Werd, “cush” is a trunc.
~~~
The Mariner
by Acwiles Berude
He was an ancient mariner, akin to Odysseus,
in sailor stripes and pearl strings, this worshipper of Zeus.
He bore his chalice through the fallacies of palace guards,
and held his cup up to the bards, this bearer of the gods.
He firmly held his bearded head up to the force of fate,
and could withstand the fire-fury of Achilles’ hate.
He gave his all to all who gave as much as these could give.
He was a mighty mariner who truly longed to live.
He did his best to keep his curved and floating boat on course,
through turbulent, uncharted seas to distant, twice-kissed shores.
Acwiles Berude is a poet of Ancient Greece. Homer (c. 8th century BC) is main compiler of the Greek epics, the Iliad and the Odyssey.
~~~
A Musical Moem
by Ewald E. Eisbruc
Alessandro Marcello’s “D-Minor
Oboe Concerto”, transcribed for trumpet,
could hardly be finer, or diviner;
and it, so profound and deeply heart-felt,
is “one of the supremely beautiful
works,” Hutchings wrote “of the Venetian school.”
The Concerto
by Ewald E. Eisbruc
While the symphony was driven to abstraction, the concerto never shed its theatrical flair. Even in a century of distraction, the Twentieth, it kept reál-political, the most vital genre of orchestral music, holding securely to the operatical. When other genres became rather elusive, the concerto continued on its tradition, whether its composer’s manner was effusive or restrained. Despite the friction and the faction, it remained, through all the fighting and abusive words hurled at it, headstrong and steadfast in action.
Ewald E. Eisbruc is a poet of Central European music. Alessandro Marcello (1673-1747) was a Baroque Italian composer. “The Concerto” is a prosem.
~~~
Newsreel:
John Clarke, Michel H. Devoret and John M. Martinis.
received the Nobel Prize for work on quantum tunneling.
~~~
The Squeeze Theorem
by Eulcidrew Base
Squeeze Theorem can be handy finding limits, doing math,
especi’lly when one’s looking for a straight and narrow path.
It helps computing limits sought for in the calculus,
confirming by comparing change within analysis.
It’s known, too, as the pinching theorem or the sandwich rule,
and also two policemen and a drunkard spewing drool,
whose drunken prisoner may be out wob-bl-ing about
between policemen, he may also end up with some clout.
First utilized by ancient Greeks—Eudoxus comes to mind—
though not divine, it is a stroke of genius—quite a find.
The Necker Cube
by Euclidrew Base
The Necker cube can be interpreted in two known ways,
each one the mirror image of the person’s viewing gaze.
The perceived shift between the two can be thought of as a
rotation in the fourth dimension, gorgeous in display.
Dimension 4 disrupts the delicate and balanced force
that keeps our planet Earth revolving in a stable orb.
According to Charles Hinton, once you enter 4-D space,
the planet will begin to spiral to the solar face.
A heat shield and some polarized sunglasses wouldn’t hurt,
while velcro shoes and earplugs might aid you in your pursuit.
To move through 4-D space-time, you may need to chip and row,
and be prepared for being aired out in to vertigo.
Euclidrew Base is a poet of dimensions. Eudoxus (c. 406 BC – c. 355 BC) was an Ancient Greek mathematician. Louis Albert Necker (1786-1861) was a Swiss crystallographer. Charles Hinton (1853-1907) was a British Victorian mathematician and science fiction writer.
~~~
In the Goat Rocks Wilderness
by Ubs Reece Idwal
He still remembered hiking in the Goat Rocks Wilderness.
He was the boy among grown men. Where was the Silver Ess?
He was the first who got t’ unload his back pack first for lunch,
so his load would be lightest there amongst that hearty bunch.
They brought their guns, they brought their liquor, and their vile talk;
but he, the boy, did not partake in that part of the walk.
He kept up with them, saying nothing, simply going on,
as they went on their merry, very primal way along.
His father was his lone companion, yet close to his friends.
Was this his chance to introduce the boy manhood’s ends?
There wasn’t much that he remembered from that distant time;
but he indeed, felt like a goat, as he got through that climb.
Bud “Weasel” Rice is a poet of the Pacific Northwest.
~~~
On a Couch Potato
by Cawb Edius Reel
I saw him sitting on a sofa watching some old film,
an old man leaning backwards, his milieu run-of-the-mill.
His legs were spread out far and wide, his arms were folded back,
as if he were an inert hunk of beef upon the rack.
He followed some men’s wild exploits on the TV screen,
some guys who seemed to have to him a lot more energy.
He watched the growing tension of the actions on the show,
while at the same time simply sat, a couch potato beau.
The odd thing was, it seemed to me, while doing nothing there
that he was building something more than castles in the air.
The Actor
by Cawb Edius Reel
He was an actor in a movie; he had roles to play.
He took his acting serious, perhaps beyond the pale.
He dressed for his most recent part. It was an action shot.
He had to fight off two hard foes. But was it fake, or not.
It seemed to be so real there in that city of cement,
Who was the camera-man who was filming this event?
Was he, as well, the main director setting up the scene?
And were the actors really acting? Was this the real thing?
They seemed to put their hearts into performing this seen show,
emotions flying all about this early morning glow.
The central actor did his best to show his mighty strength;
but how much longer would the takes take? Could he take the length?
Cawb Edius Reel is a poet of film. Alistair McClean (1922-1987) was a Postmodern British novelist of works drawn from WW2 experiences, such as “The Guns of Navarone” and “Where Eagles Dare”, where the imaginary castle Schloss Adler appears.
~~~
By a Pneumatic Drill
by Des Wercebauli
He sat up at his desk again, the descant ever on,
while he was sitting on his troubles, evening, noon, or dawn.
He strove to sit erect, his spine uplifted, straight and tall.
although it wasn’t very easy positing withal—
what Fichte posited as setzen, self-determined acts,
both practical and theoretic’lly constructed facts,
that Kant said can’t deny one’s duty without thought or will,
weren’t really only limited by a pneumatic drill.
Des Wercebauli is a poet of work. Johann Gottlieb Fichte (1762-1814) and Immanuel Kant (1724-1804) were German philosophers.
~~~
O, Why?
by Erisbawdle Cue
O, why dig up your past? What do you gain by doing it?
It may be beautiful, but, o, it is a gooey pit.
By focusing upon the end, you never reach the start—
that lovely dart, those running, legs, that moving, gorgeous art.
O, why not grab the present currently before your eyes?
Its radiance is ravishing, o, smashing with surprise.
Just snatch it, clutch it, catch it, pluck it from life’s giving tree.
Forego the impulse that you have to sit in history.
O, why not see the future coming up right next to you?
It longs to lift you up to the magnificent and true.
It longs to carry you away into the grand unknown.
So go with it. From now on ride time’s rising-high cyclone.
On a Mission
by Erisbawdle Cue
Each day and night, each dark and light, each waking after sleep,
one always is upon a mission; time is very steep.
The daily challenges replace the prior battlefronts,
the constant call for food, and haul, requires constant hunts.
There are so many missions and submissions one must face.
From day to day that never changes. Be glad for the days.
For
by Erisbawdle Cue
He felt he always was behind. How could he catch up to
all that he needed all the time. That was so hard to do.
In fact, it was impossible, and yet, he had to try
to get all that he could and should, although he know not why.
He loved it when he thought he had achieved—at last—a goal,
that he’d been striving for some time, for that made him feel whole.
Erisbawdle Cue is a poet of philosophy.
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