Poem on The Sly

It’s almost like
I grab her and press her against the wall
In a warm, cosy recess in time and place
In the middle of a busy hour,
drawing something like —
‘Hey! What’s this all about!”
Accompanied by a peel of pianoesque laughter,
Then melting into each other’s arms
for that million-year-long split second.

The sky would peek —
Only from around the concrete ogres.
The odd flowers that are,
When they are not whoring away their beauty
to stones dull or sparkling,
each spare an indulgent smile at us lovers.

I reach out
Reach out for the blues,
The sun scorch my hand in the quest,
The sun that otherwise makes my days what they are.

This is how I steal poetry
that blossoms within,
loved but uncared,
This is how I sneak a little time for the dewdrop
That sometimes become a diamond
By the same sun that scorches me . . .

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The Precious Laptop

So, the laptop is ready to join that elite band of heirlooms formerly enjoyed by watches, crockeries? Why not?
clipped from www.engadget.com

The Luvaglio folks still seem a bit press shy — either due to the info “leaked” last month, or a willful attempt to drum up interest — but now they’re back for more, and this time they’ve got a much better pic of this outlandishly priced laptop of theirs. Of course, it’s pretty dang difficult to cram enough technology and precious materials into something this size to ever begin to justify that million dollar price tag, but the supposed Blu-ray, SSD and “full” upgradability specs have all piqued our interest in a theoretical sense — much more fun than slapping some shiny stuff on the case and calling it good. The built-in USB memory stick / MP3 player, and “integrated screen cleaning” seem a bit odd, but hopefully all will be revealed in time. The extra fancy part is that the notebook can be built with the “owner’s choice of precious metals, leathers and real woods,”
blog it
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This is Greg Tenorly . . .

This book (The Bicycle Shop Murder) is not the introduction, not to me anyway. I accidentally bumped into Mr. Greg Tenorly when I was rifling through the freebies in the Google Books. The first title that I came across was The Hideaway Hospital Murders. I was too excited to find the word “Murders” in the Title and with the fact that the book could be read online free to notice that It was “Book Two of the Greg Tenorly Mystery Series”.
That I hunted down the first one in the series is — I guess — indication enough how much I liked the Book Two.
Robert Burton Robinson brings in a freshness in his writing that I haven’t seen in this genre for a while. The reason could be that the last mystery that I read was written almost seventy years ago. The author’s name is familiar and will strike an immediate chord to many. Of course, Agatha Christie’s work continue to thrill readers even fifty years after its publication. But then a classic is a classic and contemporary is, after all, contemporary. And if Greg Tenorly is the shape of things to come, then I, for one, am not going to complain.
Greg Tenorly as the central character is – if we may call his character that – is one of us. He is not the traditional ‘hero’ with almost supernatural abilities to find clues and arrive at conclusions from them. He is not very physical in solving mysteries, kicking and punching, delivering deadly martial art chops. When he does react at the call of the circumstances, it is in a bumbling sort of way, we would find in ourselves.
Robert Burton Robinson’s storytelling is unique in the way that he doesn’t keeps his readers at edge by making them guess who did what, but what’s going to happen next. The fun – and I must say the thrill – remains in guessing what might we learn at the coming pages. The suspense that he builds is of a different kind, and it is delicious in its own sweet way.


Posted in Table by the Recliner | 1 Comment

The Sigh of The Albatross

I am designed to scale great heights
I amd designed to ride on all storms
I am designed to take on the entire sky with my massive wingspan

Yes, I’ll look down at the world from great blue vault
– skim the cities, towns and villages and empires big and small
It’s all to heal the wound with gusts wind,
And balm my sore being with the balm of chill
Patiently hearing the footfalls of the Time on steps upon steps,
Until there isn’t any more floors to climb and it is face to face with me.

Why?
Just why do little flowers happen?
Just why do little flowers get close to an albatross?
Just why do little flowers permeate the being of such a large bird?
When time, oh Time is sure to take it away from under the wing . . .

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Strike of The Time

The strikes come all of a sudden . . .
This isn’t a war, for I am not fighting back
They come hurting from inside, asking why can’t this be –
I don’t know the answer
I only know the searing pain
And the fact that for all the brilliant days lit by ascending or descending footsteps
echoing all around my being . . .
I can’t, really can’t hang on to the time . . .
The Time . . .
The Time must win
And the Prisoners of Time will be left with a collection of smiles, tosses of the head,
And the few odd moments spend sitting together

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Lines wrenched out from a throbbing wound

This fire burns
But doesn’t burn down,
This spike tears the heart apart
Yet it keeps on beating.
No, I don’t put the flame and the iron on the dock
But how long must I keep climbing the days?
How long would it take to end?
When would I reach the rooftop where there’s no pain, no tears, no hurt . . .

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Hey!

Hey Darkness!
I’d puncture your shield of sorrow
With the last living little flower in the dried up bouquet,
With the shortest strain of music caught from the radio of a passing car,
With the briefest scene from a romantic film caught on TV as I run between errands,
With the smallest patch of sky seen from amongst the top of multitude of buildings,
With the minutest whiff of fragrance as she hurries past me, looking ahead on the road,
With the smallest piece of that wonderful cake that I munch before lunch,
And I will WIN! WIN!! WIN!!!
In millions of ways in millions of times . . .

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