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Spin_Drift
01-26-2009, 08:25 AM
It's winter in Alaska.
And the gentle breezes blow,
down from the arctic at 62 below!

Oh, how I love Alaska!
When the snow's up to your butt;
You take a breath of winter air
And your nose is frozen shut.

Yes, the weather here is wonderful,
I guess I'll hang around.
I could never leave Alaska,
"Cause I'm frozen to the ground."

http://i202.photobucket.com/albums/aa111/Spin_Drift/Toons%20and%20Funnies/outhouse.gif

Spin_Drift
01-26-2009, 12:40 PM
..bump...

Old Sailor
01-26-2009, 02:46 PM
I'm in a hilarious mood (if it wasn't so cold)
Old Sailor

J. Dillon
01-26-2009, 03:06 PM
Great Spinner .:D It reminds me of a poem by Robert Service.;)

JD

Spin_Drift
01-26-2009, 04:05 PM
And people live there by choice? :p

LOL...Yes, hard to believe. As long as there is a lot of firewood and a toasty house, it's OK.;)

I love to have some snow in the winter, but I think I'm tired of such a loooong winter and cold summer. :eek:

Spin_Drift
01-26-2009, 04:06 PM
Great Spinner .:D It reminds me of a poem by Robert Service.;)

JD

I love Robert Service's poems.

Which poem comes to your mind?

.

elf
01-26-2009, 04:10 PM
LOL...Yes, hard to believe. As long as there is a lot of firewood and a toasty house, it's OK.;)

I love to have some snow in the winter, but I think I'm tired of such a loooong winter and cold summer. :eek:

and you haven't even moved yet! Stop, before you make a biiig mistake!

Spin_Drift
01-26-2009, 04:18 PM
and you haven't even moved yet! Stop, before you make a biiig mistake!

I hear you, -but home is there, husband is there, most of my friends are there. I got a 20 year history there....

Husband mentioned about spending summers in Alaska and sailing in Southern waters in the winter, but we haven't talked about it yet.

It won't happen for at least a couple of years, but I think I'd like that...

.

J. Dillon
01-26-2009, 04:29 PM
The Cremation of Sam McGee.

Many years ago there was on a NY station a humorist named Gene Shepard. He used to read some of the poems of Robert service.

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Jean_Shepherd

This gentlemen has gone on but what a great story teller he was . Several other fourmites were fans of his.

JD

J. Dillon
01-26-2009, 04:31 PM
Here's a link to the poem.

JD

http://www.wordinfo.info/words/index/info/view_unit/2640/?letter=C&spage=26

http://www.wordinfo.info/words/images/fire-boiler.gif

skuthorp
01-26-2009, 04:34 PM
I take a Robert Service anthology when ski touring.

The Call of the Wild

Have you gazed on naked grandeur where there's nothing else to gaze on,
Set pieces and drop-curtain scenes galore,
Big mountains heaved to heaven, which the blinding sunsets blazon,
Black canyons where the rapids rip and roar?
Have you swept the visioned valley with the green stream streaking through it,
Searched the Vastness for a something you have lost?
Have you strung your soul to silence? Then for God's sake go and do it;
Hear the challenge, learn the lesson, pay the cost.

Have you wandered in the wilderness, the sagebrush desolation,
The bunch-grass levels where the cattle graze?
Have you whistled bits of rag-time at the end of all creation,
And learned to know the desert's little ways?
Have you camped upon the foothills, have you galloped o'er the ranges,
Have you roamed the arid sun-lands through and through?
Have you chummed up with the mesa? Do you know its moods and changes?
Then listen to the Wild -- it's calling you.

Have you known the Great White Silence, not a snow-gemmed twig aquiver?
(Eternal truths that shame our soothing lies).
Have you broken trail on snowshoes? mushed your huskies up the river,
Dared the unknown, led the way, and clutched the prize?
Have you marked the map's void spaces, mingled with the mongrel races,
Felt the savage strength of brute in every thew?
And though grim as hell the worst is, can you round it off with curses?
Then hearken to the Wild -- it's wanting you.

Have you suffered, starved and triumphed, groveled down, yet grasped at glory,
Grown bigger in the bigness of the whole?
"Done things" just for the doing, letting babblers tell the story,
Seeing through the nice veneer the naked soul?
Have you seen God in His splendors, heard the text that nature renders?
(You'll never hear it in the family pew).
The simple things, the true things, the silent men who do things --
Then listen to the Wild -- it's calling you.

They have cradled you in custom, they have primed you with their preaching,
They have soaked you in convention through and through;
They have put you in a showcase; you're a credit to their teaching --
But can't you hear the Wild? -- it's calling you.
Let us probe the silent places, let us seek what luck betide us;
Let us journey to a lonely land I know.
There's a whisper on the night-wind, there's a star agleam to guide us,
And the Wild is calling, calling. . .let us go.

Seems a long way away when we are forecast 5 days of above 100F.

Spin_Drift
01-26-2009, 05:37 PM
The Cremation of Sam McGee.

........

JD

The Cremation of Sam McGee was my introduction to him. I had a best friend "Uncle Chuckie" (now passed away) who recited that and other poems by Robert Service, -on our long distance driving trips.

I built a base for a wood burning heater in my old log cabin. The base has beautiful hand picked rocks from the beach of K-Bay.

I found four rocks that were shaped like footprints. I arranged them so that they looked like the footprints were going directly to the stove....

They were my Sam McGee footprints, and I kept him warm.

.

Spin_Drift
01-26-2009, 05:41 PM
Thanks for the great poem Skuthorp...

Here is another one I really like.

I thought this might have been one that JD thought of...


The Law of the Yukon

This is the law of the Yukon, and ever she makes it plain:
"Send not your foolish and feeble; send me your strong and your sane--
Strong for the red rage of battle; sane, for I harry them sore;
Send me men girt for the combat, men who are grit to the core;
Swift as the panther in triumph, fierce as the bear in defeat,
Sired of a bulldog parent, steeled in the furnace heat.
Send me the best of your breeding, lend me your chosen ones;
Them will I take to my bosom, them will I call my sons;
Them will I gild with my treasure, them will I glut with my meat;
But the others--the misfits, the failures--I trample under my feet.
Dissolute, damned and despairful, crippled and palsied and slain,
Ye would send me the spawn of your gutters--Go! take back your spawn again.


"Wild and wide are my borders, stern as death is my sway;
From my ruthless throne I have ruled alone for a million years and a day;
Hugging my mighty treasure, waiting for man to come,
Till he swept like a turbid torrent, after him swept--the scum.
The pallid pimp of the dead-line, the enervate of the pen,
One by one I weeded them out, for all that I sought was--Men.
One by one I dismayed them, frighting them sore with my glooms;
One by one I betrayed them unto my manifold dooms.
Drowned them like rats in my rivers, starved them like curs on my plains,
Rotted the flesh that was left, poisoned the blood in their veins;
Burst with my winter upon them, searing forever their sight,
Lashed them with fungus-white faces, whimpering wild in the night;


"Staggering blind through the storm-whirl, stumbling mad through the snow,
Frozen stiff in the ice-pack, brittle and bent like a bow;
Featureless, formless, forsaken, scented by wolves in their flight,
Left for the wind to make music through ribs that are glittering white;
Gnawing the black crust of failure, searching the pit of despair,
Going outside with an escort, raving with lips all afoam,
Writing a cheque for a million, driveling feebly of home;
Lost like a louse in the burning...or else in the tented town
Seeking a drunkard's solace, sinking and sinking down;
Steeped in the slime at the bottom, dead to a decent world,
Lost 'mid the human flotsam, far on the frontier hurled;
In the camp at the bend of the river, with its dozen saloons aglare,
Its gambling dens ariot, its gramophones all ablare;
Crimped with the crimes of a city, sin-ridden and bridled with lies,
In the hush of my mountained vastness, in the flush of my midnight skies.
Plague-spots, yet tools of my purpose, so natheless I suffer them thrive,
Crushing my Weak in their cluthces, that only my Strong may survive.


"But the others, the men of my mettle, them who would 'stablish my fame
Unto its ultimate issue, winning me honor, not shame;
Searching my uttermost valleys, fighting each step as they go,
Shooting the wrath of my rapids, scaling my ramparts of snow;
Ripping the guts of my mountains, looting the beds of my creeks,
Them will I take to my bosom, and speak as a mother speaks.
I am the land that listens, I am the land that broods;
Steeped in eternal beauty, crystalline waters and woods.
Long have I waited lonely, shunned as a thing accurst,
Monstrous, moody, pathetic, the last of the land and first;
Visioning camp-fires at twilight, sad with longing forlorn,
Feeling my womb o'er-pregnant with the seed of cities unborn.
Wild and wide are my borders, stern as death is my sway,
And I wait for the men who will win me--and I will not be won in a day;
And I will not be won by weaklings, subtle, suave and mild,
But by men with the hearts of vikings, and simple faith of a child;
Desperate, strong and resistless, unthrottled by fear or defeat,
Them will I gild with my treasure, them will I glut with my meat.


"Lofty I stand from each sister land, patient and wearily wise,
With the weight of a world of sadness in my quiet, passionless eyes;
Dreaming alone of a people, dreaming alone of a day,
When men shall not rape my riches, and curse me and go away;
Making a bawd of my bounty, fouling the hand that gave--
Till I rise in my wrath and I sweep on their path and I stamp them into a grave.
Dreaming of men who will bless me, of women esteeming me good,
Of children born in my borders of radiant motherhood,
Of cities leaping to stature, of fame like a flag unfurled,
As I pour the tide of my riches in the eager lap of the world."


This is the Law of the Yukon, that only the Strong shall thrive;
That surely the Weak shall perish, and only the Fit survive.
Dissolute, damned and despairful, crippled and palsied and slain,
This is the Will of the Yukon,--Lo, how she makes it plain!

Bob Triggs
01-26-2009, 07:06 PM
The Cremation of Sam McGee.

Many years ago there was on a NY station a humorist named Gene Shepard. He used to read some of the poems of Robert service.

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Jean_Shepherd

This gentlemen has gone on but what a great story teller he was . Several other fourmites were fans of his.

JD

Jean Shepard was my boyhood hero!!!

paladin
01-26-2009, 07:54 PM
When it's springtime in Alaska it's 40 below.........

and not Robert Service, but a good one....
The Face on the Barroom Floor

'TWAS a balmy summer evening, and a goodly crowd was there,
Which well-nigh filled Joe's barroom, on the corner of the square;
And as songs and witty stories came through the open door,
A vagabond crept slowly in and posed upon the floor.

"Where did it come from?" someone said. " The wind has blown it in."
"What does it want?" another cried. "Some whiskey, rum or gin?"
"Here, Toby, sic 'em, if your stomach's equal to the work --
I wouldn't touch him with a fork, he's filthy as a Turk."

This badinage the poor wretch took with stoical good grace;
In face, he smiled as tho' he thought he'd struck the proper place.
"Come, boys, I know there's kindly hearts among so good a crowd --
To be in such good company would make a deacon proud.

"Give me a drink -- that's what I want -- I'm out of funds, you know,
When I had cash to treat the gang this hand was never slow.
What? You laugh as if you thought this pocket never held a sou;
I once was fixed as well, my boys, as any one of you.

"There, thanks, that's braced me nicely; God bless you one and all;
Next time I pass this good saloon I'll make another call.
Give you a song? No, I can't do that; my singing days are past;
My voice is cracked, my throat's worn out, and my lungs are going fast.

"I'll tell you a funny story, and a fact, I promise, too.
Say! Give me another whiskey, and I'll tell what I'll do --
That I was ever a decent man not one of you would think;
But I was, some four or five years back. Say, give me another drink.

"Fill her up, Joe, I want to put some life into my frame --
Such little drinks to a bum like me are miserably tame;
Five fingers -- there, that's the scheme -- and corking whiskey, too.
Well, here's luck, boys, and landlord, my best regards to you.

"You've treated me pretty kindly and I'd like to tell you how
I came to be the dirty sot you see before you now.
As I told you, once I was a man, with muscle, frame, and health,
And but for a blunder ought to have made considerable wealth.

"I was a painter -- not one that daubed on bricks and wood,
But an artist, and for my age, was rated pretty good.
I worked hard at my canvas, and was bidding fair to rise,
For gradually I saw the star of fame before my eyes.

"I made a picture perhaps you've seen, 'tis called the `Chase of Fame.'
It brought me fifteen hundred pounds and added to my name,
And then I met a woman -- now comes the funny part --
With eyes that petrified my brain, and sunk into my heart.

"Why don't you laugh? 'Tis funny that the vagabond you see
Could ever love a woman, and expect her love for me;
But 'twas so, and for a month or two, her smiles were freely given,
And when her loving lips touched mine, it carried me to Heaven.

"Boys, did you ever see a girl for whom your soul you'd give,
With a form like the Milo Venus, too beautiful to live;
With eyes that would beat the Koh-i-noor, and a wealth of chestnut hair?
If so, 'twas she, for there never was another half so fair.

"I was working on a portrait, one afternoon in May,
Of a fair-haired boy, a friend of mine, who lived across the way.
And Madeline admired it, and much to my surprise,
Said she'd like to know the man that had such dreamy eyes.

"It didn't take long to know him, and before the month had flown
My friend had stole my darling, and I was left alone;
And ere a year of misery had passed above my head,
The jewel I had treasured so had tarnished and was dead.

"That's why I took to drink, boys. Why, I never see you smile,
I thought you'd be amused, and laughing all the while.
Why, what's the matter, friend? There's a tear-drop in you eye,
Come, laugh like me. 'Tis only babes and women that should cry.

"Say, boys, if you give me just another whiskey I'll be glad,
And I'll draw right here a picture of the face that drove me mad.
Give me that piece of chalk with which you mark the baseball score --
You shall see the lovely Madeline upon the barroon floor."

Another drink, and with chalk in hand, the vagabond began
To sketch a face that well might buy the soul of any man.
Then, as he placed another lock upon the shapely head,
With a fearful shriek, he leaped and fell across the picture -- dead.

Hugh Antoine D'Arcy

paladin
01-26-2009, 07:57 PM
another favorite....

Abdul Abulbul Amir

The sons of the prophet were hardy and bold,
And quite unaccustomed to fear,
But the bravest of these was a man, I am told
Named Abdul Abulbul Amir.

This son of the desert, in battle aroused,
Could spit twenty men on his spear.
A terrible creature, both sober and soused
Was Abdul Abulbul Amir.

When they needed a man to encourage the van,
Or to harass the foe from the rear,
Or to storm a redoubt, they had only to shout
For Abdul Abulbul Amir.

There are heroes aplenty and men known to fame
In the troops that were led by the Czar;
But the bravest of these was a man by the name
Of Ivan Skavinsky Skivar.

He could imitate Irving, play Euchre and pool
And perform on the Spanish Guitar.
In fact, quite the cream of the Muscovite team
Was Ivan Skavinsky Skivar.

The ladies all loved him, his rivals were few;
He could drink them all under the bar.
As gallant or tank, there was no one to rank
With Ivan Skavinsky Skivar.

One day this bold Russian had shouldered his gun
And donned his most truculent sneer
Downtown he did go, where he trod on the toe
Of Abdul Abulbul Amir

"Young man" quoth Bulbul, "has life grown so dull,
That you're anxious to end your career?
Vile infidel! Know, you have trod on the toe
Of Abdul Abulbul Amir."

"So take your last look at the sunshine and brook
And send your regrets to the Czar;
By this I imply you are going to die,
Mr. Ivan Skavinsky Skivar."

Quoth Ivan, "My friend, your remarks, in the end,
Will avail you but little, I fear,
For you ne'er will survive to repeat them alive,
Mr. Abdul Abulbul Amir!"

Then this bold mameluke drew his trusty chibouque
With a cry of "Allah Akbar!"
And with murderous intent, he ferociously went
For Ivan Skavinsky Skivar.

Then they parried and thrust and they side-stepped and
cussed
'Till their blood would have filled a great pot.
The philologist blokes, who seldom crack jokes,
Say that hash was first made on that spot.

They fought all that night, 'neath the pale yellow moon;
The din, it was heard from afar;
And great multitudes came, so great was the fame
of Abdul and Ivan Skivar.

As Abdul's long knife was extracting the life -
In fact, he was shouting "Huzzah!" - -
He felt himself struck by that wily Kalmuck,
Count Ivan Skavinsky Skivar.

The sultan drove by in his red-breasted fly,
Expecting the victor to cheer;
But he only drew nigh to hear the last sigh
Of Abdul Abulbul Amir.

Czar Petrovich, too, in his spectacles blue
Rode up in his new crested car.
He arrived just in time to exchange a last line
With Ivan Skavinsky Skivar.

A loud-sounding splash from the Danube was heard
Resounding o'er meadows afar;
It came from the sack fitting close to the back
Of Ivan Skavinsky Skovar.

There's a tomb rises up where the blue Danube flows;
Engraved there in characters clear;
"Ah stranger, when passing, please pray for the soul
Of Abdul Abulbul Amir."

A Muscovite maiden her lone vigil keeps,
"Neath the light of the pale polar star;
And the name that she murmurs as oft as she weeps
Is Ivan Skavinsky Skivar.

-----------------------------------------------------------------
Written in 1877 by Percy French, an Irish music hall entertainer.
A London publisher ripped him off an printer copies of the song
with no author's name listed, so most sources say the authorship
of the song is "unknown'" which is a great shame. The setting is
the Crimean War in the 1850's. Few people take this poem
seriously, so I'll suggest that you look carefully for the truths
behind the jest.

David G
01-26-2009, 07:59 PM
Ms. Drift,

Thanks, I sent that to me nephew in Alaska. He replied that frozen nostrils are better than webbed feet (he grew up in Astoria, on the Oregon coast).

J. Dillon
01-26-2009, 08:46 PM
Chuck ,That's two good ones I'd forgotten about.:)

David, I think I'd rather have the webbed feet.;)
I 've lived with snotty noses.:(

JD

Spin_Drift
01-27-2009, 03:01 AM
Great poems Chuckie... Thanks..

,

boylesboats
01-29-2009, 08:27 AM
http://i202.photobucket.com/albums/aa111/Spin_Drift/Toons%20and%20Funnies/outhouse.gif



Oooooh geeez, Spin.....:eek: :)
a flashback of my time alone in the wilderness...
carrying a bucket of glowing embers to outhouse in the middle of night....