Friday Poem: To be or not to bee

If u were me And I were you

Tell me something ‘What would you do?

Live life fading ,Like a rose past its prime.

And then fall withered, When its closing time

Or would you turn, Like a marigold to the sun

Just be beautiful ,Thus please everyone.


(Photo Credit-
Boston Rose Museum Closing down)
Poem from my personal collection downloadable for free from Scribd

Friday OT: Eclectic

Eclectic the person said, across the ocean to me.

I did not know what the word meant,

I opened my dictionary.


I do good interviews, bad cartoons and mediocre poetry,

I blog and slog, making productive my eccentricities.


I love cloud computing, and with my head is in the clouds,

I try some coding too.

I dont get paid for that all,

Open source has money few.


Beating the recession, with the roller coaster ups and down,

Enjoying Indian elections, with a shoe throwing hack,

I focus on R code and cloud computing slams

But daily demands force me back


And if you ever feel overwhelmed,

with the boring drudgery and daily flim flam,

read some poetry from here

or there


Less expensive than a glass of wine,

Just as relaxing, works faster at times,

either moves you to tears or to sleep,

Irreverent and blasé, these eclectic rhymes.


blog cat 4

Slum Dogs Come

Young slum dogs chipping away,

writing code,plugging away.

Take the place under shiny sun someday,

Slum puppies wont go away.


You let them in,

They are hungry for more, they stay,

Nobody ever gave them a break on the way,

Grew up fast,slum childhood wasn’t a child’s play.



Still here they are firing away,

Full steam ahead, and

Damn no Torpedo’s to dissuade.

Before you could pause, object

Cut them short saying Boy hey.


Slum dog walks away,

In his teeth , the shiny bone of the day.

Blood on his fur ,its there 

Long enough to stay.


The dog beens much worse,

 Much tougher days.

His brain the only weapon ,

he chooses to play.


Brain red hot, it keeps firing away.

That dog wont roll down, play dead, no way.

Been through much pain already this way,

Now numb, The Slum Dogs come here to stay.

The Race -by D.H Groberg

The Race 
by D. H. Groberg

Whenever I start to hang my head in front of failure’s face, 
my downward fall is broken by the memory of a race.

A children’s race, young boys, young men; how I remember well, 
excitement sure, but also fear, it wasn’t hard to tell.

They all lined up so full of hope, each thought to win that race 
or tie for first, or if not that, at least take second place.

Their parents watched from off the side, each cheering for their son, 
and each boy hoped to show his folks that he would be the one.

The whistle blew and off they flew, like chariots of fire, 
to win, to be the hero there, was each young boy’s desire.

One boy in particular, whose dad was in the crowd, 
was running in the lead and thought “My dad will be so proud.”

But as he speeded down the field and crossed a shallow dip, 
the little boy who thought he’d win, lost his step and slipped.

Trying hard to catch himself, his arms flew everyplace, 
and midst the laughter of the crowd he fell flat on his face.

As he fell, his hope fell too; he couldn’t win it now. 
Humiliated, he just wished to disappear somehow.

But as he fell his dad stood up and showed his anxious face, 
which to the boy so clearly said, “Get up and win that race!”

He quickly rose, no damage done, behind a bit that’s all, 
and ran with all his mind and might to make up for his fall.

So anxious to restore himself, to catch up and to win, 
his mind went faster than his legs. He slipped and fell again.

He wished that he had quit before with only one disgrace. 
“I’m hopeless as a runner now, I shouldn’t try to race.”

But through the laughing crowd he searched and found his father’s face 
with a steady look that said again, “Get up and win that race!”

So he jumped up to try again, ten yards behind the last. 
“If I’m to gain those yards,” he thought, “I’ve got to run real fast!”

Exceeding everything he had, he regained eight, then ten…
but trying hard to catch the lead, he slipped and fell again.

Defeat! He lay there silently. A tear dropped from his eye. 
“There’s no sense running anymore! Three strikes I’m out! Why try? 

I’ve lost, so what’s the use?” he thought. “I’ll live with my disgrace.” 
But then he thought about his dad, who soon he’d have to face.

“Get up,” an echo sounded low, “you haven’t lost at all, 
for all you have to do to win is rise each time you fall.

Get up!” the echo urged him on, “Get up and take your place! 
You were not meant for failure here! Get up and win that race!”

So, up he rose to run once more, refusing to forfeit, 
and he resolved that win or lose, at least he wouldn’t quit.

So far behind the others now, the most he’d ever been, 
still he gave it all he had and ran like he could win.

Three times he’d fallen stumbling, three times he rose again. 
Too far behind to hope to win, he still ran to the end.

They cheered another boy who crossed the line and won first place, 
head high and proud and happy — no falling, no disgrace.

But, when the fallen youngster crossed the line, in last place, 
the crowd gave him a greater cheer for finishing the race.

And even though he came in last with head bowed low, unproud, 
you would have thought he’d won the race, to listen to the crowd.

And to his dad he sadly said, “I didn’t do so well.” 
“To me, you won,” his father said. “You rose each time you fell.”

And now when things seem dark and bleak and difficult to face, 
the memory of that little boy helps me in my own race.

For all of life is like that race, with ups and downs and all. 
And all you have to do to win is rise each time you fall.

And when depression and despair shout loudly in my face, 
another voice within me says, “Get up and win that race!”


-This is a nice poem I found on the net. Hope you liked it.