"eureka" poems
Stomped earth with broad feet
Fastening fresh saplings into
Whole forests
Eight feet by eight feet, the grid
Through winter month's
To early spring
Line of tree planters, twenty
Sometimes less, sometimes more
On Shasta, on Lassen, on Trinity Alps
Douglas Firs and Ponderosa Pines
In Mendocino, in Eureka
Planting baby giants, Redwoods
Sequoias in Sequoia National and Klamath
Young men with hoe-dads
Knew some old ones too
Women as well, though few
If you could bear the snow, the rain
If you could bear back-breaking pain
The glory is yours
As was once mine
Reforestation
Go plant your line
To be eternally in
Mother Nature's good graces
And kinship known by campfire
Dec 26, 2015
Dec 26, 2015 at 9:56 PM UTC
John Green made me sad in the best possible way...
So thanks
Augustus,who taught me to love people no matter what.
Hazel,for showing me we are all beautiful.
Alaska,for saying its okay to be a bit mischievous.
Pudge,for proving that you don't have to have millions of friends to feel loved.
The Coronel, for teaching me to believe in myself,no matter where I had come from.
Colin,for my eureka moment.
Both Will Graysons,for showing me is okay to not know exactly who you are.
And every character in Paper Towns,who just made me really happy.
But lastly and most importantly I'd like to thank John Green,because you made my life a better place with your books, and for that I'm forever greatful
Jun 15, 2014
Jun 15, 2014 at 2:24 PM UTC
© 2009 (Jim Sularz)
Quiet mounds of yellowed tailings and dead weeds whisper low.
And proud rusting relics telling tales of striking gold.
The rush from East, from North and South, by wagon, train or foot.
Days not all that long ago, in tall ships made of wood.
“A gold rush struck in’49, all quite by accident.
A burning fever that cut men to bone, in a sea of dingy tents.
Day and night, they toiled and tolled, many headed home without a cent.
But some packed out bags of glistening gold, and made a stop at "Buzzard’s Breath."
"The town’s mud logged street, deep with horse manure, bubbled like a shallow grave.
With a Sheriff’s office, a livery stable, and a church for souls to save.
And a fancy house, on a grassy knoll – sign read, “Madam Lil la ****
With soft, curvaceous ladies who mined for hearts – and gold of a different sort.
Didn’t take long before easy gold, was extremely hard to find.
And burly miners, tough as steel, moved in to hard rock mine.
With bloodied knuckles, dented hats, they blasted at a furious pace.
To find the gold, called the Mother Lode, yellow blood coursing through their veins!
The mine they worked was called “Long Shot”, the men thought that name a curse.
But the miners hankered for the handle, "Buzzard’s Breath”, and the mine’s name was reversed.
As luck would say, they held a royal flush, when they hit that horse-wide vein.
Of the purest gold, yet to be found, this side of the Pearly Gates.
Eyes wide as saucers, they were all in awe, everyone was filthy rich.
The miners should have all retired and should have cashed in all their chips.
But a man’s hard to figure, when his blood is yellow, and he’s stricken with a gold fever.
“Eureka! Boys, *** the dynamite and a whole lot more mining timbers!”
They mined that vein to the bowels of the Earth, and the heat increased by day.
"Buzzard’s Breath" became the hottest place, to Hell – the shortest way.
And then one day, the men never came back. – Hell must have jumped that claim.
Of the purest gold, yet to be found – that’s where the Devil mines today!”
Quiet mounds of yellowed tailings and dead weeds whisper low.
And proud rusting relics telling tales of striking gold.
The rush from East, from North and South, died a slow and quiet death.
Along with days of tall wooden ships, and the ghosts of Buzzard’s Breath.
Jul 8, 2012
Jul 8, 2012 at 5:46 PM UTC
Dear Poet Friends, I hope you like this slice of Early History presented
below in simple verse. Please do read the short notes at the end, before giving your comments. Thanks, - Raj
ARCHIMEDES : THE PIONEERING
STREAKER OF HISTORY!
There lived in the Third Century BC, in the Sicilian
town of Syracuse, then a Greek colony,
A Greek mathematician named Archimedes.
He was tasked by King Hiero of his town,
To find the purity of gold in his crown;
Suspicious of the goldsmith having mixed
some material of inferior kind,
Which the King wanted Archimedes to find!
So, Archimedes lost in thought one day,
Entered the public bath on his way!
And as his body began to get submerged,
He happened to notice perchance,
Water spilling over from the tub!
The answer suddenly flashed across his
mind,
And he jumped up leaving everything
behind,
Wearing only his birthday suit,
Running through the street of Syracuse,
Exclaiming - “Eureka! Eureka!”
(I have found it! I have found it!)
Perhaps to become the first known streaker
of History!
While establishing the Principles of Buoyancy!
@ (see notes)
Archimedes, son of the astronomer Pheidias,
studied at the great Alexandrian city,
Remembered even to this day for his many
pioneering works, -
In Hydrostatics, Mechanics, and Geometry.
With his ingenious mechanical discoveries,
He held the great Roman galleys of Marcellus
at bay,
For more than three years, as Plutarch the
Roman Historian says! + (see notes)
Later one day, while lost in deep thought,
When some intricate problem of geometry
he was trying to resolve,
Refused to hear Marcellus' bidding,
To be slain by the Roman soldiers who had
come to fetch him!
O those Romans, with lesser brains and more
brawn!
And some hundred and thirty years after
his death in 75 BC,
Cicero, then the Roman Governor of Sicily,
Found the tomb of great Archimedes, near the
Agrigentine Gate, over grown with bushes and
thorns;
Where he lay buried in the scented dust of History!
- Raj Nandy, New Delhi.
NOTES:
@ Principle of Buoyancy = any floating object displaces its own
weight of fluid. So weight displaced by a crown of pure gold and
the one already made could be compared to find the truth!
+ Archimedes designed large stone throwers, & crossbows, and
also grappling hooks using large cranes to grab Roman ships and
capsize them!
Jun 25, 2016
Jun 25, 2016 at 9:04 AM UTC
Wondrous whirling worlds of words
Wander away.
Smooth musical tunes from the Muses melt my mind
And make my heart go boom.
Sunny sylvan scenes ****** my soul.
In a simmering silence
Broken only
By birdsong.
It starts with simple wordplay,
Toying with those letters
Until some magic kicks in.
Visions of versified viewscapes
Mess with my head.
Eureka moments marching across the mountains
Of my brain like screaming Banshees.
So thus a poem is born
From seemingly idle play.
Those words are worked again
And posted here
To brighten the reader’s day.
Paul Butters
Oct 20, 2015
Oct 20, 2015 at 6:08 AM UTC
My pet cat licks my face repeatedly; it feels a bit strange
to jut my jaw forward for a feline to lick and make my face wet.
but as I sit my eyes shut, it feels unreasonably nice, then, it dawns:
she is clicking her LIKES on my real Facebook page
the way she knows best.
Eureka! this is my tender Archimedes moment !
the naked truth, reveals itself before me like Venus
why the crazy craving, without rhyme or reason
for LIKES in Facebook and cyberspace;
now, I understand so well.
Jun 12, 2014
Jun 12, 2014 at 1:00 PM UTC
It caught me off guard, this sudden feeling of loss, this sense that something beautiful was gone forever. I didn't know what to do with it, this overwhelming idea that now, out of neglect or shame or starvation, a work of art had withered away into nothing.
I suppose that I'm beginning to understand that the world isn't a narrative, it's not a story by an author with a plot and a hero.
This is the essential fallacy taught to children with a streak of the hopeless romantic in them:
the desperate belief that somewhere out there is a place for people who live their lives waiting for King Arthur instead of Jesus.
And even now, with every word comes the terrifying truth that my babbling is going to change absolutely nothing, not a single atom is going to **** an electron on the completion.
I won't feel better, the situation won't change, you the reader aren't going to say EUREKA!!!! at the end of it, so what's the point?
Expression, that is the point of it, and to be be completely blunt about it all, I hope some one I love and admire will read this and say the typical things that are said when people are honest on public forums. Do I have a point? No, not really.
So what do I do with this loss, this empty fireplace in my soul?
I drink and smoke and **** it away, stay so busy that I don't have time to consider it, this knowledge that the fire has gone out. How typical of me, how unoriginal and bourgeoise to write another ode to the trials of the individual.
Who am I to feel loss and pain when my stomach is full and my needs are met?
Aren't I another servant of economic output?
Should I not donate time and money to a cause more worthy of respect than a withering example of excessive individualism such as myself?
No, and what's more, **** you society, **** you for taking away the only haven I ever had: my head. **** you for marketing my imagination,
for inventing a bunch of ******** about responsibility for the greater good,
for poisoning the little freedom I do have with feelings of uselessness.
And most especially **** you for your greatest crime of all;
implanting this feeling of guilt whenever I do anything with my own well-being in mind.
You have created a system that perpetuates itself on shame and output,
you have killed the desire to create for it's own sake.
**** you, and I'm going to unplug from you if it's the last ****** thing I ever do.
Jul 16, 2013
Jul 16, 2013 at 10:06 PM UTC
Do the bathmat shuffle
To the closet in the hall
It's never very graceful
But try not to fall
No towels on the shelf
Must be in the dryer
Do the bathmat shuffle
But now you’ll do it slyer
Shuffle down the hall
And hope no one's about
Or shimmy like you don’t care
Shake, dance, belt out
Do the bathmat shuffle
You’re nearly almost there
Made it to the dryer
But the towels are elsewhere
Do the bathmat stumble
Your quads are feeling tight
Eureka in the living room
The end is now in sight
Do the towel toga boogie
Time to celebrate
You could put the towels away
But maybe you’ll just wait
NCL April 2019
Apr 24, 2019
Apr 24, 2019 at 4:30 PM UTC
I stuck to my vows, but your morals died.
The story is deep, but I'm far from demoralized.
Who am I? Who are you?
Can you look inside.
You broke everything that you took of mine.
The realization captures a eureka moment.
Aspiring to conquer those arguments, like those Ancient Romans.
I should have never tried to drink your potions.
Your very agenda should be beneath the oceans.
Let's go back to the start, was she in my dreams.
Nightmares projecting larger than those silver screens.
As furious as she was she couldn't get her way.
Two steps ahead no..sweetie not today.
There was a time where I could have loved you more.
But your actions have helped me understand the score.
Fast forward me now, to help me open that door.
To help open that door.
Mar 26, 2015
Mar 26, 2015 at 10:02 AM UTC
my hands brush over the wall,
guiding me through the room
as my eyes are blindfolded
by a thick, grey, opaque fog.
my hands stumble over every surface
until they glide over a smooth lamp.
the blindfold is taken off my eyes.
and I see my reflection staring at me.
I blink at the handheld mirror, bewildered
as my eyes pursue the direction of the light.
I look into the mirror, yelling "eureka!"
because my heart is glowing, even in the night.
Apr 12, 2021
Apr 12, 2021 at 1:04 AM UTC
Trolling Amazon I found my inner Kurtz
Harrison foreswore my bear totem: darkness
Lady gal pal taught me soul-mating hurts
Martha Muffins vinyl v. Kirby’s Agatha Harkness
Saved my twins made them productive
Mutating FF X to Avengers indie 80s on me take
Man-starring all the boogie children say code this grandpa
Gaiman Miller Moore Morrison invade Waid
Wrightson Kaluta Jones Smith put bronze to paint
McKean Sienkiewicz Mack Maleev mimic The Studio
Now let’s gallery our portals strung from kid dimensions
Makers engaging history NOW NEW 52 intervals starstruck
Spread indie throughout known multiverse in craft crooks
While nursing nannies coddle light corners scuttling roaches
Bell & Schrödinger's cat transport trainspotting to a fine art
Oct 5, 2014
Oct 5, 2014 at 12:03 AM UTC
Here,
I’ve done it,
A new kind of verse,
All by counting syllables.
The lines all have odd numbers of them.
One, three, five, seven and nine,
Then back down to one.
Just like this,
See?
Once
Paul Verlaine,
Famous French poet,
Claimed there was more music in
Lines with odd numbers of syllables.
I can’t say if he was right.
Is there music in
This simple
Verse?
Look,
Number three
In my collection
Of syllable-counted verse.
They are not really too difficult.
So now what shall I call them?
That is the question,
As Hamlet
Said.
Ha,
Eureka!
Make it a Greek word.
Now what’s Greek for forty-one?
E n a k a i s a r a n d a s y l l a b i c s.
That is what I can call them.
Such an easy name,
Don’t you think?
No?
Well,
I’ll tell you.
Why don’t you try it?
Not so easy now, is it?
Can’t you think of anything at all?
Are you ready to give up?
Can’t say I blame you.
That’s all now.
Bye.
Oct 22, 2018
Oct 22, 2018 at 3:54 PM UTC
True tangled Gordian thoughts entwine
Amid labyrinthine paths that wind
Sliding sledding serpentine
To assay value and extent
Braid a mind a shoreward end
Seeking weeping thrashing send
Infused with knowledge deep and sound
A consciousness cogitabund
Within the portals self confined
Disconnected judgements breed
Diffuse journeys often made
To darkened places
Where no light
Of vision lucid sparkling bright
Will penetrate and seem so safe
Writhing heavy leaden womb
Elusive dissolute abound
Reclusive and so moribund
But in the darkened space there seems
A distant tendril sparkling white
A reaching focal point to strive
To make that leap
Great grasping bound
Wrapping arms so safe around
Clasping forgone lines abandoned
Sublimating impasse upward
Strength of purpose
Welling forward
Great eruption spewing outwards
Lava flowed eureka moment
Spreading outwards
Flowing downwards
Cogent sentient live born
Brewed in darkness
Drinks the bright
With clarity and strength unite
Dazzling brilliant shining moment
Cleft asunder glorious light ....!
Oct 14, 2009
Oct 14, 2009 at 2:13 AM UTC
Eureka
My thanks to the man who tasted
cyanide and voiced his last Eureka.
“Almonds”
To the man who saw dragons
to be slayed with pen and sword
in windmills.
To the Danish Prince who said
“What a piece of work is man.”
Well, man’s a piece of work alright.
Did you ever think about how
men wear their ovaries on the outside?
Or how you can always win arguments with yourself
in the shower?
My boyfriend traces the edge
of my chewed nails as he asks
me what I am thinking about.
I’m thinking about the consistency of jellyfish
and how it compares to human brains
and the taste of nectarines, overripened
drawing fruitflies to picnic tables.
Maybe I see colors differently
and will never know that my blues
are only a midnight shadow of what they
could be and if I’ve never truly seen the color red.
And how after nineteen years
I still can’t tell if I’m a good person
or just faking really well.
And if that Chinese Emperor
who strapped rockets to his thrown
to find dragons
ever found any.
Did the chicken getting crushed while crossing
the road get him to the other side.
If I died young, could I motivate people
to be nicer to each other?
When did my grandmother die
and when can I ask my mother without her
crying? There was a little girls skeleton
found next to her donkey in the ancient ruins
of an earthquake. There were several
different species of human alive at the same time
and my favorite color isn’t really blue
And I’m really glad I couldn’t ****
myself when I was 13 because I tasted
my first plum last week. AND FOR THE LOVE
OF GOD
WHAT
AM
I DOING
WITH
MY
LIFE.
My happy moments will always outweigh the bad
And are my ***** uneven because
when I look down—
What are you thinking about?
Almonds. They
taste like cyanide.
Jan 26, 2015
Jan 26, 2015 at 11:11 PM UTC
Senses heightened
beyond space traveled
Eureka
You've found it
Nerve endings gathered
Awaiting his next move
Dont be alarmed by my counter
My response
To a feeling of a thousand *******
Countless knocks
Opening every door
Each window to my soul
Ecstacy spilling over
Releasing all demons
Letting go of all fear
No choice but to face it
And take in this beauty
Of these foreign places
I humbly surrender
My heart I'll sacrifice. My offer
& in return, all that I ask
Is that u keep bringing me back
On this trip through bliss
Tangled legs and hair
I love us best like this
Jan 29, 2015
Jan 29, 2015 at 10:45 AM UTC
silence
sweet silence
like none other
despite the library door
slamming everytime
someone leaves or arrives
it seems to slam louder
when they leave
i am not perturbed
or distracted, nor am i
expecting not to be
here, alone, surrounded by books,
i just am
lamenting this place not being
as busy
as it should be
who’s fault is that?
celebrating this place not being
as busy
as it should be
guilty as charged
all these faces i see
it’s like a small town here
sometimes abandoned
sometimes inhabited
once again,
i don’t care
how can i?
my head, full of
Aurelius and Bukowski
doesn’t have space to
well, deep down,
i guess i do care
but not as much as
i suppose society begs i
should
how can i?
i’m too busy figuring out
who i truly am
and the books help, Bukowski
was correct, these philosophers are
like brothers to me and i speculate
my deep “connection” to them
to men whom i never met
yet felt more fatherly care from
than my own
maybe that’s the root
sometimes, all this reading begs the question
do i like books
more than people?
or people more
than books?
i think i know the answer,
eureka!
i love books, and individuals alike
i don’t like people
especially when they group up
in congregations and crowds,
strangers in a
can of sardines
with no space to possibly
ever care
only to survive and barely breathe
or to escape such a reality
how could i?
when they don’t
even care for themselves
it’s disheartening, really
to witness such potential
in one soul
and watch it *******
melt away
around his or her friends
around their families’
incessant influence and needs
abusing providers
consumed by their personal troubles and struggles
and vices, infected by the amplification of
a hang out
girls night
boys night
the clubs, the bars
the gossips of nonsense and ****
that simply isn’t their business
sewage
their obvious and yet
radiantly painful,
like a sunburn that isn’t on you
but hurts to look at on someone else,
avoidance of themselves
begging the following:
could these souls spend
an hour, alone, with a book
and paper and pencil?
how could they?
they’d like to, i’m sure,
but hate themselves just enough
to not be able to.
-melancholicreator
Feb 27, 2024
Feb 27, 2024 at 4:30 PM UTC
Boom! The explosion of creativity , when all the lanes or veins in the brain connect , causing you to know what to do , such a great feeling, when it hits you...
Like a train , moving like clockwork to its destination , you having no hesitation , just forward-forward momentum , making you feel Centum per centum , in other words you feel 50 plus 50 or happy and nifty
All distractions blocked, you like a ****** , target locked, you full of finesse, no hater can tell you less
your mind like : idea , idea, idea
having feelings of : no fear, no fear , no fear
your mind : so clear , so clear , so clear
you on a roll , perputual motion.
Flowing wavy like the ocean.
Just enjoying the productive notion
The moment of eureka ,
Like lady luck just blessed you and you meet her
Free flowing, no sign of slowing....down
you so excited , as if you want to give yourself a creativity... crown
Shout-out to everyone , you're creative , innovative , you're all artists in your own right
Each and everyone of you having a light so bright
Sep 1, 2018
Sep 1, 2018 at 1:58 PM UTC
Willie sat by the side of
the river in a philosophical
mood under a weeping willow.
Midway, between the two
banks, was a small island
only paddling distance away.
Debris from a previous flood
had accumulated on the low
foliage of an uprooted tree.
A funnel of cold air from the
ten arch bridge made a wind
sock of a plastic net nitrate bag.
In all his time, Willie had never
ventured on to this little islet,
even wondered if he should flag it.
Off with the shoes, rolled up the
legs of his trousers and slowly he
negotiated his way over the stones.
On exploring the land mass, which
was an isthmus of a mere ten square
meters, he decided to return to land.
Just before his disembarkation, he
noticed a large denominational euro
note caught in the gills of a dead fish.
Eureka Eureka money and food all
in the one catch (was his thought as
he made his way back).
The sodden state of the 100 euro note
was what guided ******* wise decision
to take it, as was, to the local Credit Union.
In the queue whilst waiting for a vacant
teller, everyone was admiring *******
dead fish.
Eventually, at the desk, and known to
those working therein, a 100 euro note
was not his norm and created suspicion.
After tendering the note attached to the
Trout, that had apparently been fowl
hooked up the river by Johnny Logan,
The lady behind the desk called for the
manager, who immediately held the note
up to the halogen fraud lamp.
Willie had never encountered anything like
this when he made a 5 euro deposit once a
month to his savings account.
He enquired of the manager as to why he
was holding his fish and 100 euro note up
against the bright light.
The manager responded, “ It is the policy of
all banking systems to check high denominational
notes for visible water marks “ !!
Sep 5, 2018
Sep 5, 2018 at 4:01 AM UTC
I saw a Bengal tiger
in Eureka, California
Sadly, they had not “found it.”
In a place kept afloat by something ephemeral as ***** smoke
A cage, not more than twenty feet long
by twelve feet wide
Held power in check
But a few steps away
He or she
they did not say
played with a round pillow in front of us
crushed it with a mighty paw
like one of our skulls might be
If we came upon her
a frightened ape
in the steaming green jungles
of the part of the world
Where Kolkata rests
on Kali’s Ghat
The city of creative Destruction
Where millions eat
sleep and **** in polluted air
and brush their teeth with their fingers
at the gushing water
of a communal fountain
Where milky sweet chai
in a small clay cup
costs two cents
provided with a smile
and allows the man to turn a profit
In a way, I understand why we did it.
It is great to see such a grand thing so close
Orange fur and black stripes
beauty clothing strength
And the fear of it.
Without metal bars
vertical iron rods of power
I would be nothing but a warm
squishy snack
My head as useless as a coconut
Skull only a shell for the meat inside
My legs, fast as they are,
Would amount to only drumsticks
Yet is it not best
to leave such powerful beauty be?
It is a great arrogance that chains
such a powerful thing
For the benefit of ****** poets,
old couples, and howling children
Selling the soul of a wild beast
Second by second
glimpse by glimpse
for the price
of a fairground ticket.
May 9, 2013
May 9, 2013 at 12:13 AM UTC
I'll write a poem a day,
and maybe that way everything will be
okay.
I'll look up at that oil covered sky,
that peculiar black stained shade of grey,
those wisps of condensation tilled out,
like fields of wheat and
creased tightly through golden streaks,
of setting suns' last gleams,
and I'll sit lack jawed, if just for a second,
and wonder if truly my existence is worth it.
So much doubt running,
so very deep.
Yes, I'll write a poem a day,
as if...
nothing,
really.
Aye,
Eureka, I know my meaning,
Yes I will express that frustration,
of an infinite empty feeling.
That little almost insignificant voice that says to you,
It doesn't matter, none of this is real,
Well for each and every one of you I'll feel,
quite intensely in fact,
that ignominious void,
the elephant in the room,
and with tact and poise,
I'll illuminate it for you,
so you can live, and I can dream,
Sweet fruitful dreams of nothing.
Feb 8, 2015
Feb 8, 2015 at 2:11 AM UTC
how adorably self-centered
over thinking the tiniest action
looking for the smallest flaw
creating where there were
none, not one at all
how incredibly oblivious
too concerned with the
inflection of your i love yous
than the meaning of it all
I understand you
Jan 9, 2014
Jan 9, 2014 at 9:22 PM UTC
For so long I watched people fall into darkness.
Like the stars that shone so bright in my life.
Put out by others darkness the beauty removed, the light extinguished.
I was one of those stars, gone.
I couldn't shine as so many dark clouds hung over me.
We are all the same.
All we are is the dust from stars, nothing more... or are we.
I wallowed in darkness of depression like a weather front obscured me.
Dark clouds others left.
But sometimes I would see a star shine in the night sky I just had to wait for the clouds to clear.
I would hang onto its light like my very life depended upon it.
The wind simply blew them...away.
That was it!!
They hadn't stopped shining, nor had I.
We just couldn't be seen for all the dark clouds in life.
It was like a eureka moment.
What if each day I did one act to clear someones clouds.
Try and blow them away a little bit.
Do that and someone sees them shine.
Ask nothing in return save this..
When you can however small, blow someone elses clouds away if you can.
So I began.
Sometimes it was something big to move a cloud.
More often just something they couldn't do themselves but massive to them.
I mean we are just the stuff of stardust, just energy so why not use it?
Could it be that simple?
One cloud at a time pushing them out of the way.
Little clouds mostly and occassional big cloud and the odd storm.
But.. it worked.
Putting the stars back in the sky one deed at a time.
Here's the point.
My life is full of stars again.
People who shine because helping them clear their clouds gave me back that.
Try it
Just one little thing to remember..
If you help one star shine
you brighten your own sky..
Their clouds may be your clouds too!
You may not get it right every time.
One day at a time
One cloud at a time
But try x
Jan 26, 2015
Jan 26, 2015 at 8:54 PM UTC
This is your final warning!
Got really scared when they said if you don't accept it, you'll lose it!
In a glowing shiny e-mail, that screamed at me, you must accept.
Except, I didn't know how.
Tried once , twice, maybe thrice, could not accept their promises of honest riches.
Sons of ******* ****** pay pal.
Asked me to change my password a million times.
To log in tons of times!
Finally I did it, Eureka, payment of my royalties succeeds!
(c) Livvi
Mar 27, 2014
Mar 27, 2014 at 5:12 AM UTC