The Solar Minima
by I. E. Sbace Weruld
Though many claim that global warming ‘s due to CO2,
perhaps this view, still plausible, is not entirely true.
Back on September 27, Tony Phillips said,
Earth’s entering one of its deepest Solar Minima.
Sunspots have been unseen for most of 2018’s length;
Earth’s TCI of nitrous oxide is of lower strength.
Today it’s very low indeed, says Martin Mlynczak at
the NASA Langley Research Center, pointing out this fact.
Though CO2 has some influence on a warmed-up Earth,
perhaps a greater influence will be the Solar Dearth.
I. E. Sbace Weruld is a poet of the Universe. TCI, the new Thermosphere (the upper layer of our planet’s air) Climate Index, records how much energy is stored in our atmosphere above the Mesosphere and Stratosphere. One of Weruld’s favourite movie characters is Darth Vader from “Star Wars”: “Pray, I don’t alter it myself”.
by Lars U. Ice Bedew
It seems that Finland’s GPS was interrupted by
the Russians during NATO war games in their exercise.
On Sunday, Juha Sipila, the Finnish head of state,
suggested Russia would be likely culprit in its fate.
Though not a NATO member, Finland took an ally’s part,
in Trident Juncture, from the Baltic to Icelandic heart.
The countries that participated numbered thiry-one;
Norway, as well, had noticed such, when war games had begun;
the start back in October causing Norway’s GPS
to be disrupted, warning pilots not to second guess.
Lars U. Ice Bedew is a poet of Scandanavia. This week Macron & Merkel proffered the idea of a European military force.
Poem on a Greek Amphora
by Acwiles Berude
Not hating, but engaged in game, Achilles and Ajax
are playing with a die, at some board game upon a box.
The artist working in black-figure was Exekias,
assessed by art historians as one of Attic’s greats.
The text proclaims Achilles tossed a four, Ajax a three,
while they are still in body armour, holding to their spears.
The scene’s relaxed, a pause from fighting in the Trojan War,
completed in 6th century BC—amphora formed.
The kalos name that’s on the urn is Onetorides;
but the words truth or beauty are not found upon the vase.
Acwiles Berude is a poet of ancient Greece. His favourite literary characters are Homer’s Achilles and Odysseus. Exekias was a Greek potter and painter, a black-figure master of the 6th century BC, regarded by art historians as one of the greatest of Attic vase painters.
by Ercules Edibwa
No longer are they heard, the ancient melodies
of Greece, so beautiful and lovely to the ear.
One now can only imagine their mellow ease
played o’er the centuries, so far are they from here.
Like waters from th’ Aegean Sea, they lap upon
the rocky shores of sandy, sunlit yesteryear
and splash in waves of luscious foam in rosy dawn.
That music draws us back to simpler times and ways,
but they, like those of then, are all forever gone;
and yet we long for them—those wonderful, sweet lays,
those haunting and inviting sounds, those bellowings
beyond our world, our understanding, and our praise.
Ercules Edibwa is a poet of ancient Greek power.
by B. S. Eliud Acrewe
“Oriole, also, may be realist.”
He said, “I’ll show you fear in a hand full of dry cement.”
What did he mean? I couldn’t understand him—what he meant.
“All poetry is flawed. Each poem is an epitaph.”
He had a grin upon his face. Why did he start to laugh?
I saw him walking in the wind. He said, “Bonjour, mon frère.”
But how could I respond, a gold cat falling through the air?
I cried out in despair, “Your words are meaningless, and less.
I’ll show you concrete in the bright blue birds of happiness.”
And then his shadow, long and gaunt, moved on beyond the grave.
The sentence had been passed. I sighed. There was no more to save.
B. S. Eliud Acrewe is a poet and literary critic of England. Oil Test is an anagram of T. S. Eliot.
The Grave of William Butler Yeats
by Cearul Ebwides
It seems as if the grave of William Butler Yeats contains
somebody else’s bones, perhaps another man’s remains.
He had longed to be buried in Co Sligo when he died,
but his bones had to wait for a world war’s flames to subside.
Back then when he was buried, poet Louis MacNeice thought
the Naval Service coffin held a Frenchman with club foot.
Perhaps he was correct, because French documents suggest
the bones from Roquebrune-Cap-Martin haphazard at the best.
And so, the epitaph Yeats wrote rings true: “Cast a cold eye
On Life, on Death.” and finishing with this: “Horseman pass by.”
Cearul Ebwides is a poet of Ireland.
The Canadian Museum For Human Rights
by Arcideb Usewel
How strange it is; its changing scape, the grand Canadian
Museum—forged for human rights by architect Predock.
Appearing like a Prussian Pickelhelm in Winnipeg,
it rises up into the sky, like dove wings from an egg.
One goes down first into its roots in order to ascend,
to make one’s way into the Great Hall, ramps and spaces bend;
until one gets up to the top, Hope’s Tower jutting up,
providing panoramic views of Manitoba’s hub.
It’s finished in cream-coloured, local Tyndall stone of lime,
a tapestry’s pervasive mottled, darker dolomite—
Thalassinoides ichnogenus fossil-trace, that leaves
a vision of a vanished world beneath glass-paneled eaves.
The tower, like a steeple, crystalline, shines, gleaming tall;
three berms of prairie sweet grass growing, lithe and natural.
Complex geometry with steel membranes fill its shape,
almost as if it were a giant engine’s moving scrape.
Arcideb Usewel is a poet of architectural structures. Antoine Predock is a New Mexican architect.
The Camp Fire
by Cal Wes Ubideer
It started at sunrise, November 8, 6:33,
the worst fire in the state of California history,
near Camp Creek Road, near Pulga, California, county, Butte,
beneath the power lines, P G & E, where it took root.
First units on the scene observed the rapid growing flames;
from low humidity and high winds, the destruction came.
Immediately Paradise was told—Evacuate!
The fire flew, and higher grew. There was no time to wait.
And yet, some dozens died. The fire raged—a total rout.
The winds that were predicted came and wiped the city out.
Cal Wes Ubideer is a poet of California, Paradise, a city in northern California of over 25,000 residents.
by Ira “Dweeb” Scule
Since 1889 the kilogram has been defined
by one specific, vaulted object, ever cleaned and shined.
It’s been a cylinder of platinum iridium,
beneath three sealed bell jars that it has been sitting in.
The problem is it has been picking up pollutants from
the air around it, in Sèvres, where it’s stored on a drum.
Redefinition will proceed, a Kibble balance used,
to calculate Planck’s constant from this metal hunk dechoosed.
The energy that’s needed, thus, for balancing the mass
will be the definition, then, for future kilograms.
Ira “Dweeb” Scule is a poet of science. The Planck Constant is 6.63 x 10-34 Joule seconds.
Maurice-René Frèchet (1878-1973)
by Euclidrew Base
“A mathematician, like a painter or a poet, is a maker of patterns.”
—G. H. Hardy
The student of Jacques Hadamard, Maurice-René Frèchet—
in his doctoral thesis, had advanced a metric space,
not only sets of numbers, but of curves and points as well;
its title was “Sur quelque points du calcul fonctionnel”.
His dissertation led to functional analysis,
new fundamental mental landscapes, novel balances.
He formulated the idea of compactness and
devised a method of applying limits to this plan
of making functions elements within a vector space,
and measuring among them varied distances and lengths.
Euclidrew Base is a poet of mathematics.
by Euclidrew Base
When someone speaks of rigour, we assume accuracy,
precise and careful terms with logical validity.
We also think one’s axioms and postulates should be
as obvious as possible, not fantasy or free.
We should strive for the minimum assumptions that we use,
because we want the very least of errors that confuse.
We also think a step-by-step, or line-by-line approach,
will keep us off the trail of a wayward, wand’ring coach.
We’d like examples to be thorough, checking as we go;
we’d like to be methodical in what we come to know.
Euclidrew Base is a poet of logic.
Uncanny Valley Anchor
by Aw “Curbside” Lee
“This is my very first day at Xinhua News Agency,”
said China’s first AI news anchor animatedly.
It’s modeled after re-al newsman; Zhang Zhao is his name.
Its voice is flat; it’s single-paced; its rhythm is the same.
It sounds robotic, movement of the mouth is edited;
text words are typed; expression of the face is limited.
This virtual and artificial avatar drones on
without the overzealous, journalistic jargoning.
As it signed off, it spoke of new advances coming on.
Max Headroom take a seat and pause to see the brave new dawn.
Aw “Curbside” Lee is a poet of technological China. The new AI news anchors come in Chinese and English.
by Cawb Edius Reel
While flossing in between my teeth, the piece of floss got stuck;
I yanked upon the string, the high-pitched sound—kérplunk-kérplunk—
reminding me of the insistent Twilight Zone theme-song,
announcing something isn’t right—it’s off, it’s frought, it’s wrong.
How many hours did I watch that show so long ago?
How many hours did I watch the television, o?
And I remember watching people playing their charades—
the passing time—the shiny backdrop—strangeness rearranged.
What did it mean? What could it mean? What place had I come to,
where stars were stumped and products dumped upon a picture tube?
Cawb Edius Reel is a poet of TV.
by Bard Eucewelis
He sat upon a long log in the middle of a grove.
It was a place of rugged nature; not much joy or love.
Though far from jet or plane, he felt like he was flying high;
no car near, still he felt like he was riding on the sky.
Here was a place that he could face, free from job stress and strife,
a chance to view such gorgeous hues, the beauties found in life.
He felt complete, and in control, just sitting, being there,
his right arm hanging at his side, his head turned right in air.
He felt secure, at peace in flux, a poised pause in space-time.
He felt like he was at the pinnacle of the sublime.
Bard Eucewelis is a poet of the forest glen.
by “Lice Brews” Ueda
One wants more me time,
doing things upon one’s own,
stuck in a bird’s nest.
“Lice Brews” Ueda is a poet of Japan.