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Poems by Jim Fulcomer

Old Sol, by any Other Name

Our puny little nearby star, seems to like us where we are.
Located in an orbital spot, that’s not too frigid or too hot.
He blasts us constantly with radiation, regardless of our choice location.
And “constant” seems to be the key, for he shines on dependably.

But careful study has revealed that he has cycles, well concealed,
which vary in longevity and affect us accordingly.
The longest is the cycle “Maunder,” when quiet seem to linger longer,
but other cycles far more brief, can cause us no end of grief.

When Solar Flares erupt our way, Astronomers know there’s hell to pay,
as Protons energetic, spill out in manner most frenetic.
Then electrons in torrential rains, overload our power trains,
tripping massive circuit breakers; bad for movers and for shakers.

We now start cycle twenty-five, while solar-watchers strive
to figure out what’s going on, within the sphere of old Aton.
Could it be his middle age, or a show of inner rage?
Will the Parker Probe reveal, the answer to our, “what’s the deal?”

For times when Solus seems quiescent, but just as always luminescent -
then the result is greater cooling and ice returns to Polar pooling.
The seas begin to shrink once more as glaciers rise in frigid score.
An ice-age now descends to prove that Nature mocks our every move.

But there isn’t much that we can do, if the sun decides to spew
a gout of particles our way.  It certainly could spoil our day.
For there is almost no protection from this solar interjection.
And we, like dinosaurs before us, together sing our final chorus