The Enormity of It All
by R. Lee Ubicwedas
It is the enormity of it all
that amazes and raises the feeling
of awe. This vision of our world, vital
and monumental, leaves one raw, reeling,
wondering if it is sustainable.
And then, as naturally as a tree
falling in the woods, that it not appall,
it vanishes, fades from reality,
and leaves the miracle of life peaceful,
standing at the door of eternity,
gazing on the grand and remarkable
everywhere around blazing, glittering,
glowing, entirely inexpressible,
an unexplainable, known mystery.
R. Lee Ubicwedas is a poet of Ubiquity.
~~~
Tanka
by “Wired Clues” Abe
From five miles away,
it ‘s come to hover over
neighbourhood roof-tops.
The whirligig drops down its line,
and delivers its package.
“Wired Clues” Abe is a NewMillennial poet.
~~~
from Ion Quest
Richard Feynman’s Admonition
by Ira “Dweeb” Scule
“But he grew old—This knight so bold—And o’er his heart a shadow—
Fell as he found No spot of ground That looked like Eldorado.”
—Earl Aldon Page
Imagine you have reached Mars haze, a bitter butterscotch;
the air so thin a firmament, it is an utter quatsch.
By Hohmann Transfer’s elegant mechanics one can fall
side-ways around the Sun and drift into Mars orbital.
But here’s the catch, that same trick doesn’t work well in reverse,
and thus, escaping Mars is arduous, a total curse.
Although one only needs, approximately, to finesse
escape velocity of five kilometers of s,
one has no depots, launching towers, nor commercial base;
and thus amassing that much fuel is hard in any case.
You face th’ equation-rocket-tyranny. What can you do?
Take th’ atmosphere, make methane, and break out of that grim stew?
How likely is that—millions of miles away—no repair crew,
no spare supply chain, and no room for failure? You are doomed.
Now timing is your enemy, since Mars and Earth both move;
you must wait each two years to even get out of that groove.
And there you are without air you can breathe; and though you’re bold,
down to minus one-hundred Celsius degrees, it’s cold.
And then there’s radiation damaging your DNA;
dust storms that can engulf th’ entire planet on their way.
Space isn’t only hostile, it is patient. Where’s your shield?
Can you survive without a powerful magnetic field?
Mars’ gravity is only thirty-eight percent of Earth’s,
but that dearth ‘s dangerous for bones and muscles, like the heart.
Galactic cosmic rays and solar particles attack,
like bullets passing through your body—rat-a-tat-tat-tat,
your cells in ways you do not fully understand, as yet:
When your time-window comes, could you get even, ready set?
Uncertainty ‘s not comforting. Can you reach Mars? Why, yes.
But a far better question is, do you possess egress?
Ira “Dweeb” Scule is a poet of space. Richard Feynman (1918-1988) was a PostModernist theoretical physicist, who shared the Nobel Prize in Physics in 1965. Ion Quest is a maga-zine of the Universe.
~~~
Newsreel:
From Habshan to Fujairah, a new pipeline to inspect;
United Arab Emirates has exited OPEC.
~~~
A Stasimon
by Esiad L. Werecub
You wild goddesses, who dart across the distant skies,
by seeking vengeance for the murders that you so despise,
We beg you, furies, please free Agamemnon’s son from hate.
Relieve his raging fury, let his madness, o, abate.
He sought revenge from his hard mother’s deed. We share his grief.
Grant him relief, for happiness in mortals’ lives is brief.
Release this boy from mania, from anguished sorrow’s din,
since it swoops down upon life’s sloop, like a swift gust of wind,
and leaves it tossing on the ocean, there wherein it sinks.
Let him, o rest at ease and peace. Seek sound Euripides.
Esiad L. Werecub is a poet of Ancient Greeks and Greece. The above lines come from Euripides play “Orestes”. Euripides (c. 480 BC – c. 406 BC) was a noted Greek playwright.
~~~
Handel’s Flugue
by Ewald E. Eisbruc
Seemingly imitative of the sound
of chickens fluttering all about in
a herky-jerky motion, nowhere bound,
in a coop, a gold, feathery fountain
of clucking and pecking is Händel’s Flug
of 1742, Concerto
Grosso Opus 6 Number 7, Fugue,
a veritable avian scherzo!
The fox outside stirring up such noises
from a single subject’s note near his face,
and who has started this wild goose chase,
sends forth, in th’ exposition, the voices,
the alto, soprano, tenor and bass,
such yellow fellows, cellos, and choices!
Ewald E. Eisbruc is a poet of German composition. According to Beau Lecsi Werd, “Flugue” is a neologistic mesh. George Handel (1685-1759) was a German Baroque composer in England.
~~~
American Lit Crit Note
by Earl Aldon Page
Edgar Allan Poe was frequently disparaged
for all sorts of things, one was his criticism.
When it was against Longfellow, it seemed too harsh
for Lowell; a bit too tame for Postmodernism.
Earl Aldon Page is a poet fond of Edgar Poe (1809-1849). James Lowell (1819-1891) and Henry Longfellow (1807-1882) were 19th century American poets.
~~~
New Jersey Turnpike
by Euclidrew Base
“Countin’ the cars on the New Jersey Turnpike…”
—Paul Simon, “America”
The Nash embedding theorems state, each Riemann manifold
can isometrically be embedded in, o, rolled
into, Euclidean space, since curves drawn upon the page
retain the same arclength, no matter how they’re bent, or age.
But people aren’t invertible in any neighbourhood,
and partially derived, life often flies off course for good.
On the New Jersey Turnpike, John Nash and his wife died when
the taxi they were riding in was in an accident.
The driver lost control and he crashed into a guard rail.
Because they didn’t wear seat belts, out of the car they sailed…
Euclidrew Base is a poet of mathematics. American PostModernist game theorist John Nash (1928-2015) won the Nobel Prize in 1994 with Hungarian mathematician John Harsanyi (1920-2000) and German PostModern mathematician Reinhart Selton (1930-2016).
~~~
The Pilot Lands the Plane
by Air Weelbed Suc
The pilot lands the plane along the lines
of shining lights upon the tarmac grid,
like a night bird alights upon a limb
near city neon with a sudden jerk.
Two hundred passengers coast to a stop;
each trepidation felt dissolves away;
they pull their luggage down and disembark;
each individual goes on their way.
Each action of reality’s instilled
with many layers of complexity
that everywhere one dares to look is filled
with more than patterns of perplexity,
a rich profusion at each turn of life
awaits each one prepared to meet it—rife.
Air Weelbed Suc is a poet of flight.
~~~
Newsreel:
His manifesto showing he was never a mugwump,
a third assassin has attempted killing Donald Trump.
~~~
In Sunny Southern-North
by “Wild” E. S. Bucaree
The traveler walked on along the sidewalks and the streets,
first past a red-tailed, glaring hawk, set in a branching tree.
He ambled on, his eyes upon the glaring, setting Sun,
his eyes downcast enough to face the light rays jettisoned.
He rushed across an avenue avoiding speeding cars.
He turned down to a turning curve, past news about Earth’s wars.
He heard a mockingbird and overhead two honking geese.
He saw the new construction near the dead end at his feet.
He saw the tiny purple flowers growing by the curbs,
though he was in the Metroplex, it seemed like neat suburbs.
He saw a jet cross overhead. He kept on moving forth,
until he reached his home sweet home in sunny southern-north.
“Wild” E. S. Bucaree is a poet of Texas.
~~~
The Purple Poppy Mallow Plant
by Brac Lei Uweeds
How beautiful it looks, the purple poppy mallow plant,
red violet and pretty, perky, in its roadside haunt.
Cup-shaped and showy in its blowing forth and back unsmudged,
magenta majesty on trailing deep-lobed fo-li-age.
Wine chalices at Eastertime filled to the brim with air,
so wonderful before the eyes beneath Sun’s glaring stare,
foot-high and hosting brightly painted, yellow butterflies,
beneath un-limited, illuminated azure skies.
Despite the litter scattered all about the roadside scene,
the purple poppy mallow plant enlightens everything.
Brac lei Uweeds is a poet of flowers.
~~~
He Heard the Baseball Players
by Rudi E, Welec, “Abs”
He heard the baseball players, in the distance, playing ball;
the temp approaching ninety Fahrenheit degrees in all.
There were no clouds, and yet the crowds were cheering all the while,
whenever any actions made the many shout arile.
He heard the joyous sounds above the sirens all around,
and flying aerojets that to the metroplex were bound.
The games continued on along with birds and passing cars,
all swirling in a whirling din, in spinning moving parts.
He heard the words fly out of windows in the windy air.
What were the people saying there—the World on a dare?
This Webbed Badminton Birdie
by Rudi E, Welec, “Abs”
“He flies so high up in the sky, out of reach of you and I,
and the only time he touches the ground is when that little bird…dies.”
—performed by Marianne Faithfull (1946-2025),
—composed by John D. Loudermilk (1934-2016)
One hits the webbed badminton birdie up;
perhaps one hits it over fifty times;
but it will always fall to earth—a-brupt-
ly. It is fun to watch it as it climbs;
one has an optimistic air and hope,
when following its arc with wishful eyes.
One wonders how one’s going next to cope,
when now it tumbles through the airy skies.
One swings the string-crossed racket once again;
the birdie spirals up to heaven’s blue;
it passes over grass and net, and then,
as it descends once more, one follows through,
and one again can watch it as it flies,
until it falls to earth and where it lies.
Rudi E. Welec, “Abs”, is a poet of sport.
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