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We have more patents on pigmented inks than anybody else.

quote by Antonio Perez
Added by Lucian Velea
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Stranger in Strange Crowd

STRANGER IN STRANGE CROWD

Dreams stranger’s path divide
from crowd’s uneven t[h]read
who's tissue, issues poorly understood, through dread
is left behind, swirls second rate as flotsam on life's tide,
noise windmills, senses silent, life-blood sped,
bled white, so often fearing fear, by wisdom wide,
unblessed, unsteady set sights low instead.

Despite stress, sentiments denied, imagination set aside,
stranger story stores till head heeds heart, until desires well led
fire understanding rich allied with empathy sustaining ride.
Swift Pegasus is supplied
with neither saddle, A to Zed accoutrements life tears to shreds
when vested interests, motives pure collide.

Defy temptations of soft ride
along straight road which, comfort fed,
selects ‘safe way’, too often dreads
free choice, autonomy. Self-pride
corresponds to quest for bread.

Distrust that moment Fortune’s tide
entwines in fickle thread
conformity, convention wed.
Scorn empty homage, those who glide
through vain p[l]ain life, misled.

Survival instinct, safe homestead, a ‘living wage’, priorities
appear, as opportunities to seize as each spins finite set
tripped, snipped, then ripped by Norms with ease.

Far from madding crowd who dares assign
himself true rôle in life, who thinks,
who sifts chaff, grain, drains lees from wine, palms pearls from swine?
Who, intact, acts and interacts, discerning fiction, facts,

opposes expedience, authority which hoodwinks
manipulated herd unheard, which lacks
true overview impartial, thus reacts
rather than responds, its armour: chinks.
On each new generation weigh rigid systems spawned by Fate unkind.
As pawns most men play puppet parts in Time’s relay game of tiddly-winks.

Is search for self through mirrored minds
just base reflection on sight lost?
Insisting on base ‘skills’ man finds
intuitions atrophy - cost

[...] Read more

poem by Jonathan Robin
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Creative Perceptions

Artist appropriate palette prepares
as poet intuitive channels and shares -
perceptions highlighted in paint or in rhyme,
on screen, paper, canvas, [b]rushed, touched outside Time.
Each reaches out writing, foresighting, prepares
stalls [f]rigid for music of spirit sublime.
But few can interpret the talent they praise
in the style of an artist in true paraphrase.

(24 September 2005 robi03_1306)

Bridgework
Artists palette, paints, prepare,
poets channel insight rare.
One canvas fills, one paper inks,
imagination interlinks.

Each respective stream compares
perceptions, self-respecting, thinks
perspectives sensitively, shares
intuitive fruition, links
symphonic patterns, well aware
individuals everywhere
sense beauty way beyond time's brink -
horizons widen, never shrink.

Images accompany
free originality.

(7 May 2008 variant of As Artist, Poet robi03_1396_robi03_0986 16 February 2002 robi03_0986 and also variant of Creative Perceptions
24 September 2005 robi03_1306_robi03_0986)

As Artist, Poet
As artists palette, paints, prepare
so poets channel insight rare.
One canvas fills, one paper inks,
the foremost and the least of links.

Both tune respective streams, compare
perspective, sensitively share
where, true to self there neither sinks
as each through intuitions thinks
the way to harmony, aware
that perfect strangers anywhere
may beauty sense beyond time's brink -
horizons widen, never shrink.

Both pictures form, accompany
creative thrust with spirit free.

[...] Read more

poem by Jonathan Robin
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I think software patents are a bad idea. Many patents are given for trivial inventions.

quote by Larry Wall
Added by Lucian Velea
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Fighting patents one by one will never eliminate the danger of software patents, any more than swatting mosquitoes will eliminate malaria.

quote by Richard Stallman
Added by Lucian Velea
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Between the Times

Braggart on Time's edge razor thin
Evolving frame by anxious frame,
Tired Man spiders fate or fame,
Weaves threads soon dewless dust - none win.
Each, casting dice - who's spun, who's spin? -
Expectant, losses would reclaim.
Now's leaves fall swift to Styx domain.
Telomeres shorten, cease to twin,
Hold all in hostage to chagrin.
Each page youth inks, seeks wings, pride flame,
Till age sooth sinks, weak wrings, ride lame, -
Insects' ambered Time-trap gin.
Maybe technology shall speed up change,
Extend short sojourn, mankind's range so strange.

6 May 2001 revised 4 May 2008
robi03_0934_robi03_0000 ASX_DJZ
for previous version see below

Between the Times

Balanced upon Time's razor thin
Edge, advancing frame by frame,
Tired Man spiders fate or fame,
Weaves threads soon dewless dust - none win.
Each throws the dice - who's spun, who's spin?
Each lost winnings would reclaim -
None independence dare proclaim.
Telomeres shorten, cease to twin,
Hold all in hostage to chagrin.
Each page youth inks, seeks wings, pride flame,
Till age sooth sinks, weak wrings, ride lame, -
Insects caught within Time's gin?
Maybe the Net shall speed up change,
Extend Man's sojourn range so strange.

6 May 2001
Between the Times poem (c) Jonathan Robin

poem by Jonathan Robin
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Power In The Pen

Such powers in ink
that gushes out link
It inks, inks and roll
That flows on apaged floor
Pushing and pushing
Arminder of the day
Twisting ang twisting
Mr keep walking
Dribbling and dribbling
The footballer of the year
And remains the same
In memorable clothed page

poem by Paul Mwenelupembe
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Foolin' Wid De Seasons

Seems lak folks is mighty curus
In de way dey t'inks an' ac's.
Dey jes' spen's dey days a-mixin'
Up de t'ings in almanacs.
Now, I min' my nex' do' neighbour,--
He's a mighty likely man,
But he nevah t'inks o' nuffin
'Ceptin' jes' to plot an' plan.

All de wintah he was plannin'
How he 'd gethah sassafras
Jes' ez soon ez evah Springtime
Put some greenness in de grass.
An' he 'lowed a little soonah
He could stan' a coolah breeze
So 's to mek a little money
F'om de sugah-watah trees.

In de summah, he 'd be waihin'
Out de linin' of his soul,
Try 'n' ca'ci'late an' fashion
How he 'd git his wintah coal;
An' I b'lieve he got his jedgement
Jes' so tuckahed out an' thinned
Dat he t'ought a robin's whistle
Was de whistle of de wind.

Why won't folks gin up dey plannin',
An' jes' be content to know
Dat dey 's gittin' all dat's fu' dem
In de days dat come an' go?
Why won't folks quit movin' forrard?
Ain't hit bettah jes' to stan'
An' be satisfied wid livin'
In de season dat 's at han'?

Hit 's enough fu' me to listen
W'en de birds is singin' 'roun',
'Dout a-guessin' whut 'll happen
W'en de snow is on de groun'.
In de Springtime an' de summah,
I lays sorrer on de she'f;
An' I knows ol' Mistah Wintah
Gwine to hustle fu' hisse'f.

We been put hyeah fu' a pu'pose,
But de questun dat has riz
An' made lots o' people diffah
Is jes' whut dat pu'pose is.
Now, accordin' to my reas'nin',

[...] Read more

poem by Paul Laurence Dunbar
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On some peculiar pigmented cells found in two mosquitoes fed on malarial.

quote by Ronald Ross
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A book is made from a tree. It is an assemblage of flat, flexible parts (still called "leaves") imprinted with dark pigmented squiggles. One glance at it and you hear the voice of another person, perhaps someone dead for thousands of years. Across the millennia, the author is speaking, clearly and silently, inside your head, directly to you. Writing is perhaps the greatest of human inventions, binding together people, citizens of distant epochs, who never knew one another. Books break the shackles of time ― proof that humans can work magic.

quote by Carl Sagan
Added by Catalin Popescu
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Eclampsia

A catheter leaks,
quality of hearing suffers.
A tethered song sears on blue flames.
The actual, displaces the pain
truth becomes non-pigmented.

In space you move noisily
waking the birds.
Tomorrow will come with writhing cries-
bounties of past.
Not myself, himself, yourself.

The new experiments in womb
remained fruitless.
A malformed, distorted progeny was born
on payments without glory.
Masses were swelling without self knowing.

Thinker was silent. Philosopher was dumb.
Architect had the thumbs amputated.
A mausoleum of love remained unbuilt.
Sky was overcast, hid the sun.
The earth inherited the broken glass.

poem by Satish Verma
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Tears Reflection

Tears reflection

Moving sand, on them, I stand
Deserted In driest self esteem
Shadow of mine questioned me repeatedly
To whom my soul chained to
My soul, am i departed from you?

Silence abduct the sound
As if the flowing air ceased
Till the pain to be clearly heard
Loud in mind louder in heart
Whispering sharp, bleed me hard

On this finest sand, i still stand
When all energy now left broken
By the burning sun in front
So another step has frozen
Burned strength with aches pain

Illuminated rays, behind these eyes
Pigmented my vision for years
But as for now, fears deserted mind
Images seems blur, make pain so real
Dark as red rose to be lachrymose
Bleeding emotion wash out all sights
Dissolves my colorful thoughts
Be in the drops by my eyes pressure
Free fall touching my dry heels
Rainy tears soon wet my toes
And drained my sober continuously
Soaked me in the tears sea

Front of these eyes
All white, faded sight
No Images, left, up or right
The only one is below,
There's someone
The one that once was mine
Self reflection in another side

Dive into you, i will lost to
Drowning in you, I want back to
Stain my sight of past chromatic vision
Swimming with images back to mind
In a long trail of sleeping
Revived dream draw lines
Lead my soul find home
The lost has returned
Again...

[...] Read more

poem by Unwritten Soul
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The History Of Frog Pigment

A frog is green not by design,
but by his own volition,
it started all with Father Rhine
where Grandpa did his fishing.

Back then pollution was a word
used only by the teachers,
it's what they read and overheard
on air wave science features.

Each Saturday, my Opa sat
down by the raging river
he was a stocky man, not fat
and had a touchy liver.

I think they told us kids that fate
had brought him this affliction
I had my doubts....at any rate
it was a plain addiction.

His tackle box contained the lure
and hooks and rooster feathers,
two flasks of Russian Vodka, pure
a snot rag which was Heather's.

He'd spend the afternoon in place
and caught some on occasion,
a buddy from a different race
would join him, he was Asian.

The Asian fellow saw him first,
a frog of brownish colour,
and while they stilled their urgent thirst
Opa began to holler:

'This animal seems bigger then
the fishes in these waters
I think it is a water hen
with lots of sons and daughters.'

It is unclear what happened now,
the frog took great exception
he raised one eye beneath each brow
to tender this subreption.

He had, from passing fishermen
heard of the Northern creatures,
there was a land beyond Big Ben
where publicans and preachers

[...] Read more

poem by Herbert Nehrlich
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If you're a large corporation, you can afford to pay the money to register patents, but if you're an individual like me, you can't.

quote by Larry Wall
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I decry the current tendency to seek patents on algorithms. There are better ways to earn a living than to prevent other people from making use of one's contributions to computer science.

quote by Donald Knuth
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The software patent problem is not limited to Mono. Software patents affect everyone writing software today.

quote by Miguel de Icaza
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Sure, President Bush can say that the U.S. government won't fund stem cell research, but believe me, Japan is applauding. Because they will just do it first and get all the patents.

quote by Kevin J. Anderson
Added by Lucian Velea
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Our strategy in dealing with patents in Mono is the same strategy that any other software developer would take. In the event of a patent claim, we will try to find prior art to the claim of the patent.

quote by Miguel de Icaza
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Wistful

The wistful tiger wondered why
Some leaves were making noise...
He watched them slowly moving by
Yet knew they had no choice...
Something alive was very close...
And yet what could it be?
There was no scent that reached his nose...
It stayed a mystery...
Then all at once, as if by chance,
He saw some ants below...
They made those tiny leaves to dance
As onward they must go.
The wistful tiger humbly praised
The strength they all possessed
And marvelled as he stared amazed,
For teamwork made them blessed!
From them, that's how his hunting plans
Formed in his mind that day...
Wise is the mind that understands
That there's a better way!
From that day on, his thoughts evolved,
To copy Nature's friends,
Who worked things out till they were solved!
On this, success depends!
Mankind has learnt this lesson, too...
He's learnt to swim and fly...
He's made some profit from each clue
That Nature's friends supply.
From submarines to aeroplanes,
Cows' milk and bees' honey,
From small machines to awesome trains!
Wisdom helps make money!
Inventors test their patents out
In countries far and wide!
So like the tiger, look about!
Let Nature be your guide...
You might get rich someday, real soon
And live life like a king!
If Nature's friends grant you a boon,
Who knows what Fate may bring?

The poem is based on the magnificent painting
by Stephen Gayford called 'Wistful'.

poem by Denis Martindale
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Tesla Knew

Telsa knew of infinite power in empty space
Enough to satisfy all mankind’s energy needs
Jealous scientists tried to put him in his place
Yet, he did shine with many wondrous deeds

(In light of today’s energy crisis, is it not prudent to review Tesla’s work, patents and inventions?)

ROTMS

poem by Ray Lucero
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To The Right Hon. Mr. Dodington

Long, Dodington, in debt, I long have sought
To ease the burden of my graceful thought:
And now a poet's gratitude you see:
Grant him two favours, and he'll ask for three:
For whose the present glory, or the gain?
You give protection, I a worthless strain.
You love and feel the poet's sacred flame,
And know the basis of a solid fame;
Though prone to like, yet cautious to commend,
You read with all the malice of a friend;
Nor favour my attempts that way alone,
But, more to raise my verse, conceal your own.
An ill-tim'd modesty! turn ages o'er,
When wanted Britain bright examples more?
Her learning, and her genius too, decays;
And dark and cold are her declining days;
As if men now were of another cast,
They meanly live on alms of ages past,
Men still are men; and they who boldly dare,
Shall triumph o'er the sons of cold despair;
Or, if they fail, they justly still take place
Of such who run in debt for their disgrace;
Who borrow much, then fairly make it known,
And damn it with improvements of their own.
We bring some new materials, and what's old
New cast with care, and in no borrow'd mould;
Late times the verse may read, if these refuse;
And from sour critics vindicate the Muse.
'Your work is long', the critics cry. 'Tis true,
And lengthens still, to take in fools like you:
Shorten my labour, if its length you blame:
For, grow but wise, you rob me of my game;
As haunted hags, who, while the dogs pursue,
Renounce their four legs, and start up on two.

Like the bold bird upon the banks of Nile
That picks the teeth of the dire crocodile,
Will I enjoy (dread feast!) the critic's rage,
And with the fell destroyer feed my page.
For what ambitious fools are more to blame,
Than those who thunder in the critic's name?
Good authors damn'd, have their revenge in this,
To see what wretches gain the praise they miss.

Balbutius, muffled in his sable cloak,
Like an old Druid from his hollow oak,
As ravens solemn, and as boding, cries,
'Ten thousand worlds for the three unities!'
Ye doctors sage, who through Parnassus teach,
Or quit the tub, or practise what you preach.

[...] Read more

poem by Edward Young
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