That soon the end of March is here,
But where’s the meaning of
A life without a dear, a cheer,
Not ev’n a taste of love?
A taste of love, a touch of you,
A spark inside your eyes,
A feeling lighting worlds of two,
A fire that never dies.
Something gotta change! See you in April.
It is the blue December sky
That shines on forests wide,
In snow reflecting evening nigh,
The night arising spied.
Amidst the trees a vast array,
A frozen lake extends
For kids to play and men to sleigh,
On which the moon ascends.
Well, it’s a beautiful lake in Quebec you never heard of. Google it and come for a wonderful winter vacation.
The mist of twilight down upon
The forest hills in snow,
Whose reign extending far beyond
The little vale aglow.
A tiny hut beside the lake
Amid the vale in peace,
The calm before the storm to break
Of clouds afar in fleets.
And fleets above the mountains pale
That hide their wolves that cry,
Whose cries be heard by stars to wail
In tears of ice tonight.
A Christmas tree aside my stay
Salutes the stars afar,
In snow to greet the ice, it may,
The pellets come to scar.
The sound of “Us” contagious be
In “pages,” “living in,”
“A den of thieves,” contagious she,
And on it goes to win.
Contagious and contagious be,
In mumbling strange unseen,
A song not drunk or drunk in “sleep,”
In “keep” and rhymes that mean.
Contagious and contagious be
Her music heav’nly knit –
“We’re living in a den of thieves,” –
In changes swift and lit.
Hilarious and contagious be
A voice that haunts the mind
To make one ask, “So who is she?” –
“A Russian, Western find.”
Hmm, it’s a bit old.
A little wit, a breeze of fall,
An autumn fresh and new
Is life again in Montreal
And love forever two.
A stunning face, a flawless nose
Atop her lips that touch,
Is brighter than a budding rose,
A spark of fire too much.
Oh my God, she’s beautiful, leaving a speechless me…
Beyond the ocean blue and green,
I sense a poet’s mind
Who searched through pages old and seen,
In prints refined, resigned.
Nostalgic, artful, loved but sold
Were books for her to pick
To have a life anew, behold,
The charm of words that click.
A day as slow as winding creeks
Of memories to fade,
To end with outlooks bright and sleek
In waves of oceans swayed.
The hours gone by
In strings of bytes
Run through by night
To show the light.
In ports to hear
The world drawn near
In packets dear
Of joys and fears.
With data fresh
Through miles to fetch
Now deep in flesh
In one to mesh.
In keeping pace
Through time and space
By now in place
A 4 by 4 by 4 iambic poem mirrors the way computers actually work: everything in fixed sizes, interlinked only to form variable structures. There was enough heat to keep a room warm in a cold winter night, all night long, until all strength was gone. Full hardware utilization makes a difference in everything we do.