Heaven Is Never Too Far~~Author Unknown.

Heaven Is Never Too Far.

Her hair was up in a ponytail, her favourite dress tied with a bow. Today was Daddy's Day at school, and she couldn't wait to go. But her mommy tried to tell her, that she probably should stay home. Why the kids might not understand, if she went to school alone. But she was not afraid; she knew just what to say. What to tell her classmates of why he wasn't there today. But still her mother worried, for her to face this day alone. And that was why once again, she tried to keep her daughter home. But the little girl went to school eager to tell them all, about a dad she never sees, a dad who never calls. There were daddies along the wall in back, for everyone to meet. Children squirming impatiently, anxious in their seats. One by one the teacher called a student from the class, to introduce their daddy, as seconds slowly passed. At last the teacher called her name, every child turned to stare, each of them was searching, a man who wasn't there. 'Where's her daddy at?' she heard a boy call out. 'She probably doesn't have one,' another student dared to shout. And from somewhere near the back, she heard a daddy say, 'Looks like another deadbeat dad, too busy to waste his day.' The words did not offend her, as she smiled up at her Mom, and looked back at her teacher, who told her to go on. And with hands behind her back, slowly she began to speak. And out from the mouth of a child, came words incredibly unique. 'My Daddy couldn't be here, because he lives so far away. But I know he wishes he could be, since this is such a special day. And though you cannot meet him, I wanted you to know, all about my daddy, and how much he loves me so. He loved to tell me stories, he taught me to ride my bike, and he surprised me with pink roses, and taught me to fly a kite. We used to share fudge sundaes, and ice cream in a cone, and though you cannot see him, I'm not standing here alone. Because my daddy's always with me, even though we are apart, I know because he told me, he'll forever be in my heart. ‘With that, her little hand reached up, and lay across her chest, feeling her own heartbeat, beneath her favourite dress. And from somewhere here in the crowd of dads, her mother stood in tears, proudly watching her daughter, who was wise beyond her years. She stood up for the love of a man not in her life, doing what was best for her, doing what was right. And when she dropped her hand back down, staring straight into the crowd, she finished with a voice so soft, but its message clear and loud. 'I love my daddy very much, he's my shining star, and if he could, he'd be here, but heaven's just too far. You see he is a soldier and died just this past year, when a roadside bomb hit his convoy and taught the world to fear. But sometimes when I close my eyes, it's like he never went away.' And then she closed her eyes, and saw him there that day. And to her mother’s amazement, she witnessed with surprise. A room full of daddies and children, all starting to close their eyes. Who knows what they saw before them, who knows what they felt inside. Perhaps for merely a second, they saw him at her side. 'I know you're with me Daddy,' to the silence she called out. And what happened next made believers, of those once filled with doubt. Not one in that room could explain it, for each of their eyes had been closed. But there on the desk beside her, was a fragrant long-stemmed rose. And a child was blessed, if only for a moment, by the love of her shining star. And given the gift of believing, that heaven is never too far.

~~Author Unknown.

END RACISM and PEACE OF MIND by Robert M. Hensel

END RACISM by Robert M. Hensel

We all must bring our Racism 

to end.

A message to all, I long to send.

The colours of the world, all join as

one.

For the Lord is our shepherd, and

we as his son.

Christ made all man in the likes of

him.

So please let us all, "End Racism".

PEACE OF MIND by Robert M. Hensel

Carry me out the ocean, where

my drifting thoughts flow free.

Guide them to a far distant land,

that only the mind can see.

There I shall paint a great portrait,

of what this world should be.

A place without senseless wars,

and human poverty.

The Survival Edmund Blunden (1896-1974)

The Survival

To-day’s house makes to-morrow’s road;

I knew these heaps of stone

When they were walls of grace and might,

The country’s honour, art’s delight

That over fountain’d silence show’d

Fame’s final bastion.

Inheritance has found fresh work,

Disunion union breeds;

Beauty the strong, its difference lost,

Has matter fit for flood and frost.

Here’s the true blood that will not shirk

Life’s new-commanding needs.

With curious costly zeal, O man,

Raise orrery and ode;

How shines your tower, the only one

Of that especial site and stone!

And even the dream’s confusion can

Sustain to-morrow’s road.

--Edmund Blunden

The Child's Grave-Edmund Blunden (1896-1974)

The Child's Grave

I came to the churchyard where pretty Joy lies

On a morning in April, a rare sunny day;

Such bloom rose around, and so many birds' cries

That I sang for delight as I followed the way.

I sang for delight in the ripening of spring,

For dandelions even were suns come to earth;

Not a moment went by but a new lark took wing

To wait on the season with melody's mirth.

Love-making birds were my mates all the road,

And who would wish surer delight for the eye

Than to see pairing goldfinches gleaming abroad

Or yellowhammers sunning on paling and sty?

And stocks in the almswomen's garden were blown,

With rich Easter roses each side of the door;

The lazy white owls in the glade cool and lone

Paid calls on their cousins in the elm's chambered core.

This peace, then, and happiness thronged me around.

Nor could I go burdened with grief, but made merry

Till I came to the gate of that overgrown ground

Where scarce once a year sees the priest come to bury.

Over the mounds stood the nettles in pride,

And, where no fine flowers, there kind weeds dared to wave;

It seemed but as yesterday she lay by my side,

And now my dog ate of the grass on her grave.

He licked my hand wondering to see me muse so,

And wished I would lead on the journey or home,

As though not a moment of spring were to go

In brooding; but I stood, if her spirit might come

And tell me her life, since we left her that day

In the white lilied coffin, and rained down our tears;

But the grave held no answer, though long I should stay;

How strange that this clay should mingle with hers!

So I called my good dog, and went on my way;

Joy's spirit shone then in each flower I went by,

And clear as the noon, in coppice and ley,

Her sweet dawning smile and her violet eye! 

--Edmund Blunden

Autumn-Stephen Vincent Benêt, (1898-1943)

Autumn

Autumn is filling his harvest-bins

With red and yellow grain,

Fire begins and frost begins.

And the floors are cold again.

Summer went when the crop was sold,

"Summer is piled away,

Dry as the faded marigold

In the dry, long-gathered hay.

It is time to walk to the cider-mill

Through air like apple wine

And watch the moon rise over the hill,

Stinging and hard and fine.

It is time to cover your seed-pods deep

And let them wait and be warm,

It is time to sleep the heavy sleep

That does not wake for the storm.

Winter walks from the green streaked West

With a bag of Northern Spies

The skins are red as a robins breast,

The honey chill as the skies.

--Stephen Vincent Benêt,

The Last Word-Arnold Matthew (1822-1888)

The Last Word

Creep into thy narrow bed,

Creep, and let no more be said!

Vain thy onset! all stands fast;

Thou thyself must break at last.

Let the long contention cease!

Geese are swans, and swans are geese.

Let them have it how they will!!

Thou art tired; best be still!

They out-talked thee, hiss’d thee, tore thee.

Better men fared thus before thee;

Fired their ringing shot and pass’d,

Hotly charg’d—and broke at last.

Charge once more, then be dumb!

Let the victors, when they come,

When the forts of folly fall,

Find thy body by the wall

Night in the Old Home-Thomas Hardy (1840-1928)

Night in the Old Home

When the wasting embers redden the chimney-breast,

And Life’s bare pathway looms like a desert track to

me,

And from hall and parlour the living have gone to

                their rest,

The perished people who housed them here come back

                to me.

They come and seat them around in their mouldy

                places,

Now and then bending towards me a glance of wist-

                fullness

A strange upbraiding smile upon all their faces,

And in the bearing of each a passive trustfulness.

“Do you uphold me, lingering and languishing here,

A pale late plant of your once strong stock?” I say to

                them;

“A thinker of crooked thoughts upon Life in the sere,

And on That which consigns men to night after show-

                ing the day to them?”

“—O let be the Wherefore! We fevered our years not

                thus:

Take of Life what it grants, without question!” they

                answer me seemingly.

“Enjoy, suffer wait: spread the table here freely like

                us,

And, satisfied, placid, unfretting, watch Time away

                beamingly!”

The Man He Killed-Thomas Hardy (1840-1928)---The Futility of War

“Had he and I but met

By some ole ancient inn,

We should have sat us down to wet

Right many a nipperkin!

“But ranged as infantry,

And staring face to face,

I shot at him as he at me,

And killed him in his place.

I shot him dead because---

Because he was my foe,

Just so; my foe of course he was;

That’s clear enough, although

“He thought he’d ‘list perhaps,

Off-hand like---just as I---

Was out of work—had sold his traps—

No other reason why.

“Yes quaint and curious war is!

You shoot a fellow down

You’d treat, if met where any bar is,

Or help to half-a-crown.”

A Mothers Song-Laurence Binyon (1869-1943)

A Mothers Song

Over fast-closed baby eyes

In the garden’s golden air

Blossom-white the butterflies

Hover, hurry, part and pair,

Sudden shinings, flown nowhere!

Blue, above, the unbounded skies!

Little one, O downy head,

O fingers clasping, shaped and small,

Laid in soft nest of your bed,

How the trees are Titan-tall

Over you that slumber, all

Ignorant of hope and dread!

O so small, and all around

Life so vast works wonders new.

Yet to you shall desire and do,

Find and fashion and hold true;

Deepens you hold no thought can sound:

You are sought by powers unknown;

On your trembling heart-strings play

Airs unheard, O little one! Whisperings of far away,

Music made of day and day—

Lands of promise, all your own!

Wide as heaven the secrecies

You enfold: ev’n now, ev’n here,

You presage infinities, While above in hope, in fear

My white wishes, far and near,

Hover like the butterflies.

For the Fallen- Remembering, Where it Came,From-Laurence Binyon (1869-1943

For the Fallen

With proud thanksgiving, a mother for her children,

                England mourns for her dead across the sea.

Flesh of her flesh they were, spirit of her spirit,

                Fallen in the cause of the free.

Solemn the drums thrill: Death august and royal

                Sings sorrow up into immortal spheres.

There is music in the midst of desolation

                And a glory that shines upon our tears.

They went with songs to the battle, they were young,

                Straight of limb, true of eye, steady and aglow.

They were staunch to the end against odds uncounted,

                They fell with their faces to the foe.

They shall not grow old, as we that are left grow old:

            Age shall not weary them, nor the years condemn.

At the going down of the sun and in the morning

            We will remember them.

They mingle not with their laughing comrades again;

                They sit no more at familiar tables of home;

They have no lot in our labour of the day-time;

They sleep beyond England’s foam.

But where our desires are and our hopes profound,

Felt as a well-spring that is hidden from sight,

To the innermost heart of their own land they are known

                As the stars are known to the Night;

As the stars that shall be bright when we are dust,

                Moving in marches upon the starry plain,

As the stars are starry in the time of our darkness,

                To the end, to the end, they remain.

The Lion and the Cub-John Gay (1685-1732)

The Lion and the Cub

How fond are men of rule and place,

Who court it from the mean and base!

These cannot bear an equal nigh,

But from superior merit fly;

They love the cellar’s vulgar joke,

And lose their hours on ale and smoke;

There o’er some petty club preside,

So poor, so paltry is their pride!

Nay, ev’n with fools whole nights will sit,

In hopes to be supreme on wit.

If these can read, to these I write,

To set their worth in truest light.

A Lion-cub, of sordid mind,

Avoided all the lion kind;

Fond of applause, he sought the feasts

Of vulgar and ignoble beasts,

 With asses all his time he spent,

Their club’s perpetual president.

He caught their manners, looks and airs:

An ass in ev’ry thing, but ears!

If e’er his highness meant a joke,

They grinn’d applause before he spoke;

But at each word shat shouts of praise!

Good Gods! How natural he brays!

                Elate with flatt’ry and conceit

He seeks his royal sire’s retreat;

Forward, and fond to show his parts

His highness brays, the Lion starts.

                Puppy, that crust vociferation

Betrays thy life and conversation;

Coxcombs, an ever-noisy race,

Are trumpets of their own disgrace.

                Why so severe, the Cub replies?

Our senate always held me wise.

                How weak is pride, returns the Sire,

All fools are vain, when fools admire!

But know, what stupid asses prize,

Lions and noble beasts despise.

The Hare and Many Friends-John Gay (1685-1732)

You know my feet betray my flight;
To friendship every burden’s light.”
The Horse replied: “Poor honest Puss,
It grieves my heart to see thee thus;
Be comforted, relief is near;
For all your friends are in the rear.”
She next the stately Bull implored,
And thus replied the mighty Lord:
“Since every beast alive can tell
That I sincerely wish you well,
I may without offence pretend
To take the freedom of a friend.
Love calls me hence; a favourite cow
Expects me near yon barley-mow;
And when a lady’s in the case,
You know, all other things give place.
To leave you thus might seem unkind,
But see the Goat is just behind.”
The Goat remarked her pulse was high,
Her languid head, her heavy eye:
“My back,” says he, “may do you harm;
The sheep’s at hand, and wool is warm.”
The sheep was feeble, and complained
His sides a load of wool sustained;
Said he was slow, confessed his fears;
For hounds eat Sheep as well as Hares!
She now the trotting Calf addressed;
To save from death a friend distressed:
“Shall I,” says he, “of tender age,
In this important care engage?
Older and abler passed you by;
How strong are those! How weak am I!
Should I presume to bear you hence,
Those friends of mine may take offence.
Excuse me, then. You know my heart;
But dearest friends, alas must part;
How shall we all lament! Adieu,
For see the hounds are just in view.”
John Gay

The Younger Son by Robert William Service (1874-1958), the Ayrshire Poet

The Younger Son

If you leave the gloom of London and you seek a glowing land,
Where all except the flag is strange and new,
There's a bronzed and stalwart fellow who will grip you by the hand,
And greet you with a welcome warm and true;
For he's your younger brother, the one you sent away
Because there wasn't room for him at home;
And now he's quite contented, and he's glad he didn't stay,
And he's building Britain's greatness o'er the foam.

When the giant herd is moving at the rising of the sun,
And the prairie is lit with rose and gold,
And the camp is all abustle, and the busy day's begun,
He leaps into the saddle sure and bold.
Through the round of heat and hurry, through the racket and the rout,
He rattles at a pace that nothing mars;
And when the night-winds whisper and camp-fires flicker out,
He is sleeping like a child beneath the stars.

When the wattle-blooms are drooping in the sombre she-oak glade,
And the breathless land is lying in a swoon,
He leaves his work a moment, leaning lightly on his spade,
And he hears the bell-bird chime the Austral noon.
The parakeets are silent in the gum-tree by the creek;
The ferny grove is sunshine-steeped and still;
But the dew will gem the myrtle in the twilight ere he seek
His little lonely cabin on the hill.

Around the purple, vine-clad slope the argent river dreams;
The roses almost hide the house from view;
A snow-peak of the Winterberg in crimson splendour gleams;
The shadow deepens down on the Karroo.
He seeks the lily-scented dusk beneath the orange tree;
His pipe in silence glows and fades and glows;
And then two little maids come out and climb upon his knee,
And one is like the lily, one the rose.

He sees his white sheep dapple o'er the green New Zealand plain,
And where Vancouver's shaggy ramparts frown,
When the sunlight threads the pine-gloom he is fighting might and main
To clinch the rivets of an Empire down.
You will find him toiling, toiling, in the south or in the west,
A child of nature, fearless, frank, and free;
And the warmest heart that beats for you is beating in his breast,
And he sends you loyal greeting o'er the sea.

You've a brother in the army, you've another in the Church;
One of you is a diplomatic swell;
You've had the pick of everything and left him in the lurch,
And yet I think he's doing very well.
I'm sure his life is happy, and he doesn't envy yours;
I know he loves the land his pluck has won;
And I fancy in the years unborn, while England's fame endures,
She will come to bless with pride -- The Younger Son.

The World’s All Right by Robert W Service (1874-1958)

The World’s All Right

       Be honest, kindly, simple, true;

      Seek good in all, scorn but pretence;

      Whatever sorrow come to you,

      Believe in Life’s Beneficence!

The World’s all right; serene I sit,

And cease to puzzle over it.

There’s much that’s mighty strange, no doubt;

But Nature knows what she’s about;

And in a million years or so

We’ll know more than to-day we know.

Old Evolution’s under way —

      What ho! the World’s all right, I say.

Could things be other than they are?

All’s in its place, from mote to star.

The thistledown that flits and flies

Could drift no hair-breadth otherwise.

What is, must be; with rhythmic laws

All Nature chimes, Effect and Cause.

The sand-grain and the sun obey —

      What ho! the World’s all right, I say.

Just try to get the Cosmic touch,

The sense that “you” don’t matter much.

A million stars are in the sky;

A million planets plunge and die;

A million million men are sped;

A million million wait ahead.

Each plays his part and has his day —

      What ho! the World’s all right, I say.

Just try to get the Chemic view:

A million million lives made “you”,.

In lives a million you will be

Immortal down Eternity;

Immortal on this earth to range,

With never death, but ever change.

You always were, and will be aye —

      What ho! the World’s all right, I say.

Be glad! And do not blindly grope

For Truth that lies beyond our scope:

A sober plot informeth all

Of Life’s uproarious carnival.

Your day is such a little one,

A gnat that lives from sun to sun;

Yet gnat and you have parts to play —

      What ho! the World’s all right, I say.

And though it’s written from the start,

Just act your best your little part.

Just be as happy as you can,

And serve your kind, and die — a man.

Just live the good that in you lies,

And seek no guerdon of the skies;

Just make your Heaven here, to-day —

      What ho! the World’s all right, I say.

Remember! in Creation’s swing

The Race and not the man’s the thing.

There’s battle, murder, sudden death,

And pestilence, with poisoned breath.

Yet quick forgotten are such woes;

On, on the stream of Being flows.

Truth, Beauty, Love uphold their sway —

      What ho! the World’s all right, I say.

The World’s all right; serene I sit,

And joy that I am part of it;

And put my trust in Nature’s plan,

And try to aid her all I can;

Content to pass, if in my place

I’ve served the uplift of the Race.

Truth! Beauty! Love! O Radiant Day —

      What ho! the World’s all right, I say.

Was it You?-Robert Service (1874-1958)

Was it You
As you turn your ledger’s leaves

Was it you?

“Hullo, young Jones! With your tie so gay

And your pen behind your ear;

Will you mark my cheque in the usual way?

For I’m overdrawn, I fear.”

Then you look at me in a manner bland,

And you hand it back with a soft white hand,

And the air of a man who grieves….

“ Was it you, young Jones, was it you I saw

(And I think I see you yet)

With a live bomb gripped in your grimy paw

And your face to the parapet?

With your lips asnarl and your eyes gone mad

With a fury that thrilled you through….

Oh, I look at you now and I think, my lad,

Was it you, young Jones, was it you?”

Hullo, young Smith, with your well-fed look

And your coat of a dapper fir,

Will you recommend me a decent book

With nothing of War in it?”

Then you smile as you polish a finger nail,

And your eyes serenely roam,

And you suavely hand me a thrilling tale

By a man who stayed at home.

“ Was it you, young Smith, was it you I saw

In the battle’s storm and stench,

With a roar of rage and a wound red-raw

Leap into the reeking trench?

As you stood like a fiend on the firing-shelf

And you stabbed and hacked and slew….

Oh, I look at you and I ask myself

Was it you, young Smith, was it you?”

“Hullo, old Brown, with your ruddy cheek

And your tummy’s rounded swell,

Your gardens looking jolly chic

And your kiddies awf’ly well.”

Then you beam at me in your cheery way

As you swing your water-can;

And you mop your brow and you blithely say;

“What about golf, old man?”

Was it you, old Brown, was it you I saw

Like a bull-dog stick to your gun,

A cursing devil of fang and claw

When the rest were on the run?

Your eyes aflame with the battle-hate….

As you sit in the family pew,

And I see you rising to pass the plate,

 I ask: Old Brown, was it you?”

“Was it me and you? Was it you and me?

(is that grammar, or is i not?)

Who grovelled in filth and misery,

Who gloried and groused and fought?

Which is wrong and which is the right?

Which is the false and the true?

The man of peace or the man of fight?

Which is the ME and the YOU?”

--Robert W Service

Short Poems--NON-COPYRIGHT, PUBLIC DOMAIN---Robert William Service (1874-1958), the Ayrshire Poet

Interestingly, starting with what are probably his two shortest commercially published poems, (The Sunshine Seeks my Little Room and No Sourdough-Read also, his shortest poem), the short poems of Robert Service (The Ayrshire Poet) show a side of him that many people; especially those that think of him as being a Canadian—WHICH HE WAS NOT-- are not, at all, familiar with.

Robert Service Memorial, Kilwinning, Ayrshire.

 These poems, like all of his works, are PUBLIC DOMAIN:

THEY ARE NOT, AND CANNOT AGAIN, BE COPYRIGHTED BY ANYONE.
What really confounds me is that there are postings, on various web-sites, by people who think they have  "RIGHTS" to this material; which was written, and published, by a talent, far beyond their comprehension, long before they were even conceived--these people, can not, could not, do not have, any"RIGHTS".

The Sunshine Seeks my Little Room

The sunshine seeks my little room

To tell me Paris streets are gay;

That children cry the lily bloom

All up and down the leafy way;

That half the town is mad with May,

With flame of flag and boom of bell:

For Carnival is King to-day;

So pen and page, awhile farewell.

No Sourdough

To be a bony feed Sourdough

You must, by Yukon Law,

Have killed a moose,

And robbed a sluice,

AND BUNKED UP WITH A SQUAW….

Alas! Sourdough I’ll never be.

Oh, sad is my excuse:

My shooting’s so damn bad, you see….

I’ve never killed a moose

The Yukoner

He burned a hole in frozen muck,

He pierced the icy mould,

And there in six-foot dirt he struck

A sack or so of gold.

He burned holes in the Decalogue,

And then it cam about,

For Fortune’s just a lousy rogue,

His “pocket” petered out.

And lo! ‘twas but a year all told,

When there in a shadow grim,

In six feet deep of icy mould

 They burned a hole for him

Funk

When your marrer bone seems ‘oller,

And you’re glad you ain’t no taller,

And you’re all a-shakin’ like you ‘ad the chills;

When your skin creeps like a pullet’s,

And you’re duckin all the bullets,

And your green s gorgonzola round the gills;

When your legs seem made of jelly,

And you’re squeamish in the belly,

And you want to turn about and do a bunk:

For Gawd’s sake, kid don’t show it!

Don’t let your mateys know it—

You’re just sufferin’ from funk, funk funk.

Of course there’s no denyin’

That it ain’t so easy tryin’

To grin and grip your rifle by the butt,

When the ‘ole world rips asunder,

And you sees yer pal go under,

As a bunch of shrapnel sprays ‘im on the nut;

I admit it’s ‘ard contrivin’

When you ‘ears the shells arrivin’,

To discover you’re a bloomin’ bit o’ spunk;

But, my lad, you’ve got to do it,

For wot ‘E ‘ates is funk, funk, funk.

So stand up son; look gritty,

And just ‘um a lively ditty,

And only be afraid to be afraid;

Just ‘old yer rifle steady,

And ‘ave yer bay’nit ready’

For that’s the way  good soldier-men is made.

And if you ‘as to die,

As it sometimes ‘appens, why,

Far better die a ‘ero than a skunk;

A-doin’ of yer bit,

And so—to ‘ell with it,

There ain’t no bloomin’ funk, funk, funk

Grin

If you’re up against a bruiser and you’re getting knocked about—

Grin.

If you’re feeling pretty groggy, and you’re licked beyond a doubt—

Grin.

Don’t let him see you’re funking, let him know with every clout,

Though your face is battered to a pulp, your blooming heart is stout;

Just stand upon your pins until the beggar knocks you out—

And grin.

This life’s a bally battle, and the same advice holds true

Of grin.

If you’re up against it badly, then it’s only one on you

So grin.

 If the future’s black as thunder, don’t let people see you’re blue;

Just cultivate a cast-iron smile of joy the whole day through;

If they call you “Little Sunshine”, wish THEY”D no troubles, too—

You may—grin.

Rise up in the morning with the will that, smooth or rough,

 You’ll grin.

Sink to sleep at midnight, and although you’re feeling tough,

Yet grin.

There’s nothing gained by whining, and you’re not that kind of stuff;

You’re a fighter from away back, and you WON”T take a rebuff;

Your trouble is that you don’t know when you have had enough—

Don’t give in.

If Fate should down you, just get up and take another cuff;

You may bank on it that there is no philosophy like bluff,

And grin.

A Grain of Sand, a Poem to Think About

If starry space no limit knows

And sun succeeds to sun,

There is no reason to suppose

Our earth the only one.

‘Mid countless constellations cast

A million worlds may be,

With each a God to bless or blast

And steer to destiny.

Just think! Q million gods or so

To guide each vital stream,

With over all to boss the show

A Deity supreme.

Such magnitudes oppress my mind;

From cosmic space it swings;

So ultimately glad to find

Relief in little things.

For look! Within my hollow hand,

 While round the earth careens,

 I hold a single grain of sand

And wonder what it means.

 Ah! If I had the eyes to see,

And brain to understand,

 I think Life’s mystery might be

 Solved in this grain of sand.

The Ape And God, Another Poem to Think About.

Son put a poser up to me

That made me scratch my head:

“God made the whole wide world,” quoth he;

“That’s right, my boy,” I said.

Said son: “He made the mountains soar,

And all the plains lie flat;

But Dad, what did he do before

He did all that?

Said I: “Creation was his biz;

He set the stars to shine;

The sun and moon and all that is

 Were His unique design.

The Cosmos is his concrete thought,

The Universe his chore…”

Said Son: I understand, but what

Did He before?

I gave it up; I could not cope

With his enquiring prod,

And must admit I’ve little hope

Of understanding God.

Indeed I find more to my mind

The monkey in the tree

In whose crude form Nature defined

Our human destiny.

Thought I: “Why search for Deity

 In visionary shape?

“’Twould better be if we could see

The angel in the ape.

 Let mystic seek a God above

Far wiser he who delves,

To find kindness and love

 God in ourselves.

The Hand

Throughout my life I see

A guiding hand;

The pitfalls set for me

Were grimly planned.

But always when and where

They opened wide,

Someone who seemed to care

Stood by my side.

When up the pathway dark

I stumbled on,

Afar, ahead a spark

Of guidance shone.

When forked the tragic trail

And sad my plight,

My guardian without fail

Would lead me right.

How merciful a Mind

My life has planned!

Aye, though mine eyes were blind

I touched the Hand;

Though weary ways and wan

My feet have trod,

Always led me on,

Starways to God

A Cabbage Patch

Folk ask if I’m alive,

Most think I’m not;

Yet gaily contrive

To till my plot.

The world its say can go,

I little heed,

So long as I can grow

The grub I need.

For though long overdue,

The years to me,

Have taught a lesson true,

--Humility.

Such better men than I

I’ve seen pass on;

Their pay-off when they die;

--Oblivion.

And so I mock at fame,

With books unread;

No monument I claim

When I am dead;

Contented as I see

My cottage thatch

That my last goal should be

--A cabbage patch.

Little Brother

Wars have been and wars will be

Till the human race is run;

Battles red by land and sea,

Never peace beneath the sun,

I am old and little care;

I’ll be cold, my lips be dumb;

Brother mine, beware, beware…

Evil looms the wrath to come.

Eastern skies are dark with strife,

 Western lands are stark with fear;

Rumours of world-war are rife,

Armageddon draweth near.

 If your carcase you would save,

Hear, oh hear the dreadful drum!

 Fly to forest, cower in cave…

Brother, heed the wrath to come!

Brother, you were born too late;

Human life is but a breath.

Men delve deep where darkly wait

Sinister the weeds of death,

There’s no monument to delay;

Sorrowing the stars are blind.

Little Brother, how I prey

 You may sanctuary find.

Peoples of the world succumb…

Fly, poor fools the WRATH TO COME!

The above image of Robert W. Service in front of the cabin  is PUBLIC DOMAIN

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/File:Cabin_of_Robert_Service.JPG

Good-bye, Little Cabin

O dear little cabin, I loved you so long,

And now I must bid you good-bye!

I’ve filled you with laughter; I’ve thrilled you with song,

And sometimes I wished I could cry.

Your walls they have witnessed a weariful fight,

And rung to a won Waterloo:

But oh, in my triumph I’m dreary to-night—

Good-bye little cabin, to you!

Your roof is bewhiskered, your floor is a-slant,

Your walls seem to sag and to swing;

I’m trying to find just your faults, but I can’t—

You poor, tired, heart-broken old thing!

I’ve seen when you’ve been the best friend that I had,

Your light like a gem on the snow;

You’re sort of a part of me—Gee! But I’m sad;

I hate, little cabin, to go.

Below your cracked window red raspberries climb;

A hornet’s nest hangs from a beam;

Your rafters are scribbled with adage and rhyme, 
And dimed with tobacco and dream.

“Each day has its laugh”, and “Don’t worry, just work”.

Such mottoes reproachfully shine.

Old calendars dangle—what memories lurk

About you, dear cabin of mine!

I hear the world-call and clang of the fight;

I hear the hoarse cry of my kind;

Yet well do I know, as I quit you to-night,

It’s Youth that I’m leaving behind.

And often I’ll think of you, empty and black,

Moose antlers nailed over your door:

Oh, if I should perish my ghost will come back

To dwell in you cabin, once more!

How cold, still and lonely, how weary you seem!

A last wistful look and I’ll go.

Oh, will you remember the lad with his dream!

The lad that you comforted so.

The shadows enfold you, it’s drawing to-night;

The evening star needles the sky:

And huh! But it’s stinging and stabbing my sight—

God bless you, old cabin, good-bye

The Answer

Bill has left his house of clay,

Slammed the door and gone away:

How he laughed but yesterday!

I had two new jokes to tell,

Salty, but he loved them well:

Now I see his empty shell.

Poker-faced he looks at me;

Peeved to miss them jokes- how he,

Would have belly laughed with Glee!

He gives me the pip, I swear;

Seems just like he isn’t there:

Flown the coop- I wonder where?

Bill had no belief in “soul;

Thought the body was the whole,

And the grave the final goal.

Didn’t recon when we pass,

This old carcass maybe has

Spirit that sneaks out like gas.

“Look here, Bill, I’m asking you

What’ the Answer? Tell me true:

Is death the end of all we do?

Hand me out the dope-are we

No more than monkeys on a tree?”

..And then I swear to God I see

Bill bat an eye and-wink at me

A Sourdough Story, to Think About.

Hark to the Sourdough story, told at sixty below,

When the pipes are lit and we smoke and spit

Into the campfire glow.

Rugged are we and hoary, and attain’ a general rule,

A genooine Sourdough story

Ain’t no yarn for the Sunday school.

A Sourdough came to stake his claim in Heav’n one morning early.

Saint Peter cried: who waits outside them gates so bright and pearly?”

“I’m recent dead”, the Sourdough said, “and crave to visit Hades,

Where haply pine some pals o’ mine, includin’ certain ladies.”

Said Peter: “go, you old Sourdough, from life so crooly riven;

And if ye fail to find their trail, we’ll have a snoop round Heaven.”

He waved, and lo! That old Sourdough dropped down to Hell’s red spaces;

But though ‘twas hot he couldn’t spot them old familiar faces.

The bedrock burned, and so he turned, and climbed with footsteps fleeter,

The stairway straight to Heaven’s gate, and there, of course, was Peter.

“I  cannot see my mates,” sez he, “among those damned forever.

I have a hunch some of the bunch in Heaven I’ll discover.”

Said Peter: true; and this I’ll do (since Sourdough re my failing)

You see them guys in Paradise, lined up against the railing-

As bald as coots, in birthday suits, with beards below the middle..

Well, I’ll allow you in right now, if you can solve a riddle:

Among that gang of stiffs who hang and dodder round the portals,

Is one whose name is known to fame-it’s Adam, first of mortals.

For quiets sake he makes a break from Eve, which is his Madame..

Well, there’s the gate-to crash it straight, just spy the guy that’s Adam.”

The old Sourdough went down the row of greybeards ruminatin’

With optics dim, they peered at him, and pressed agin the gratin’.

In every face he sought some trace of our ancestral father;

But though he stared, he soon despaired the faintest clue to gather,

Then suddenly he whooped with glee: Ha! Ha! An inspiration.”

And to and fro, along the row, he ran with animation.

To Peter, bold he cried: “behold, all told there are eleven

Suppose I fix on Number Six-say Boy! How’s that for Heaven?”

“By gosh! You win,” said Pete. “Step in. but tell me how you chose him.

They’re like as pins; all might be twins. There’s nothing to disclose him.”

The Sourdough said: “’twas hard; my head was seething with commotion.

I felt a dunce; then all at once, I had a gorgeous notion.

I stooped and peered beneath each beard that drooped like fleece of mutton.
 My search was crowned.. That bird I found- aint got no belly button.”

My Cuckoo Clock

I bought a cuckoo clock

And glad was I

To hear its tick and tock,

Its dulcet cry.

But Jones, whose wife is young

And pretty too,

Winced when that bird gave tongue:

Cuckoo! Cuckoo!

I have a lady friend

Whom I would wed,

For dalliance should end

In bridal bed.

Until the thought occurred:

Can she be true?

And then I heard that bird:

Cuckoo! Cuckoo!

Though ignorance is bliss

And love be blind,

Faithless may be the kiss

Of womankind.

So now sweet echoes mock

My wish to woo:

Confound that cursed clock!

Cuckoo! Cuckoo!

 My Rival

If she met him or he met her,

I knew that something must occur;

For they were just like flint and steel

To strike the spark of woe and weal;

Or like two splinters broken fine,

 In perfect fitness to combine;

And so I ept them well apart,

For she was precious to my heart.

One time we all three met at church

I tried to give the lad the lurch,

But heard him say: how like a rose!

Is it your daughter, I suppose?

: Why no,” said I; my wife to be,

And six months gone wi’ child is she.”

He looked astonished and distraught:

My boy, that’s one for you I thought.

The wife asked: what a handsome lad!

A sailor…” Somehow she looked sad;

And then his memory grew dim,

For nevermore she mentioned him.

 And as I be nigh twice her age

I’ve always thought it mighty sage.

Lest she might one day go astray,

To keep her in the breeding way.

Oh did she ever dream of Jack?

The boy who nevermore came back,

And never will, I heard that he

Was drowned in the China Sea.

I told her not, lest she be sad

And me? It’s mean, but I was glad;

For if he’s come into my life

He would have robbed me of my wife.

But when at night by her I lie,

And in her sleep I hear her sigh,

I have a doubt if I did well

In separating Jack and Nell.

And though we have a brood of seven,

Yet marriage may be made in Heaven;

For Nell has cancer, Doctors state,

So maybe ‘tis the way of fate

That in the end them two may mate.

Death and Life

‘Twas in the grave-yard’s gruesome gloom

That May and I were mated;

We sneaked inside and on a tomb

Our love was consummated.

It’s quite all right, no doubt we’ll wed,

Our sin will go unchildden…

Ah! Sweeter than the nuptial bed

Are ecstasies forbidden.

And as I held my sweetheart close,

And she was softly sighing,

A could not help but think of those

In peace below us lying.

Poor folks! No disrespect we meant,

And beg you’ll be forgiving;

We hopes the dead will not resent

The rapture of the living.

And when in death I, too, shall lie,

And lost to those who love me,

Oh do not think that I will grieve

To hear the vows they’re voicing,

And if their love new life conceive,

‘Tis I will be rejoicing

A Year Ago

I’m sitting by the fire tonight,

The cat purrs on the rug;

The room’s abrim with rosy light,

Suavely soft and snug;

And safe and warm from dark and storm

It’s cosiness I hug.

Then petulant the window pane

Quakes in tempest moan,

And cries: forlornly in the rain

There starkly streams a stone,

Where one so dear who shared your cheer

Now lies alone, alone.

Go forth! Go forth into the gale

And pass and hour in prayer;

This night of sorrow do not fail

The one you deemed so fair,

The girl below the bitter snow

Who died your child to “bear.”

So wails the wind, yet here I sit

Beside the ember’s glow;

My grog is hot, my pipe is lit,

And loth am I to go

To her who died a ten-month bride,

Only a year ago.

To-day we weep: each morrow is

A littling of regret;

The saddest part of sorrow is

That we in time forget…

Christ! Let me go to graveyard woe,--

Yea, I will sorrow yet

Gangrene

So often in the mid of night

I wake me in my bed

With utter panic of affright

To find my feet are dead;

And pace the floor to ease my pain

And make them live again.

The folks at home are so discreet;

They see me walk and walk

 To keep the blood-flow in my feet,

And though they never talk

I’ve heard them whisper: Mother may

Have them cut off some day.

Cut off my feet! I’d rather die…

And yet the years of pain,

When in the darkness I will lie

And pray to God in vain,

Thinking in agony: Oh why

Can doctors not annul our breath

In honourable death?

Strip Teaser

My precious grand-child aged two,

Is eager to unlace one shoe,

And then the other;

Her cotton socks she’ll deftly doff

Despite the mild reproaches of

Her mother.

Around the house she loves to fare,

And with her rosy tootsies bare,

Pit-pat the floor;

And though remonstrances we make

She presently decides to take

Off something more.

Her pinafore she next unties,

And then before we realise,

Her dress drops down; 
Her panties and her brassiere,

Her chemise and her underwear

Are round her strown.

And now she dances all about,

As naked as a new-caught trout,

With impish glee;

And though she’s beautiful like that,

(A cherubim, but not so fat).

Quite shocked are we.

And so we dread with dim dismay

Some day she may her charms display

In skimpy wear;

Aye, even in a gee-string she

May frolic on the stage of the

 Folies-Bergère

But e’er she does, I hope she’ll read

This worldly wise and warning screed,

 That to conceal,

Unto the ordinary man

Is often more alluring than

To ALL reveal

Heart O’ The North

And when I come to the dim trail-end,

I who have been life’s rover,

This is all I would ask, my friend,

Over and over and over:

A little space on a stony hill

With never another near me,

Sky o’ the North that’s vast and still,

With a single star to cheer me;

Star that gleams on a moss-grey stone

Graven by those who love me—
There would I lie alone, alone,

With a single pine above me;

Pine that the north wind whinneys through—

Oh, I have been Life’s lover!

But there I’d lie and listen to

Eternity passing over

The Stretcher-Bearer—Speaks out Against Racism and War

My stretcher is one scarlet stain,

And as I tries I tries to scrape it clean,

I tll you wot—I’m sick with pain

For all I’ve ‘eard, for all I’ve seen;

Around me is the ‘ellish night,

And as the war’s red rim I trace,

I wonder if in ‘Eaven’s height,

Our Gos don’t turn away ‘Is Face.

I don’t care ‘oose the Crime may be;

I ‘olds no brief for kin or clan;

I ‘ymns no ‘ate: I only see

As man destroys his brother man;

I waves no flag: I only know,

As ‘ere beside the dead I wait,

A million ‘earts is weighed with woe,

A mill ‘omes is desolate.

In drippin’ darkness, far and near,

All night I’ve sought them woeful ones.

Dawn shudders up and still I ‘ear

The crimson chorus of the guns.

Look! Like a ball of blood the sun

‘Angs o’er the scene of wrath and wrong….

“Quick!  Stretcher-bearers on the run!”

O Prince of Peace! ‘Ow long, ‘ow long?

The End of The Trail

Life, you’ve been mighty good to me,

Yet here’s the end of the trail;

No more mountain, moor and sea,

No more saddle and sail.

Waves a-leap in the laughing sun

Call to me as of yore….

Alas! My errant days are done:

I’ll rove no more, no more.

Life, you’ve cheered me all the way;

You’ve been my bosom friend;

But gayest dog will have his day,

And biggest binge must end.

Shorebound I watch and see afar

A wistful isle grow wan,

While over is a last lone star

Dims out in lilac dawn.

Life, you’ve been wonderful to me,

But fleetest foot must fail;

The hour must come when all will see

The last lap of the trail.

Yet holding in my heart a hymn

Of praise for gladness gone,

Serene I wait my star to dim

In the glow of the Greater Dawn

My Bear

I never killed a bear because

I always thought them critters was

So kindo’ cute;

Though round my shack they often came,

I’d raise my rifle and take aim,

But couldn’t shoot.

Yet there was one full six-feet tall

Who came each night and gobbled all

The grub in sight;

On my pet garden truck he’d feast,

Until I thought I must at least

Give him a fight.

I put some corn mush in a pan;

He lapped it swiftly down and ran

With bruin glee;

A second day I did the same,

Again with eagerness he came

To gulp and flee.

The third day I mixed up a cross

Of mustard and tobacco sauce,

And ginger too,

Well spiced with pepper of cayenne,

Topped it with treacled mush, and then

Set out the brew.

He was a huge and husky chap;

I saw him shamble to the trap,

The dawn was dim.

He squatted down on his behind,

And through the cheese-cloth window-blind

I peeked at him.

I never saw a bear so glad;

A look of joy seraphic had

His visage brown;

He slavered, and without suspish-

-lon hugged that horrid dish,

And swilled it down.

Just for a moment he was still,

Then he erupted loud and shrill

With frantic yell;

The picket fence he tried to vault;

He turned a double somersault,

And ran like hell.

I saw him leap into the lake,

As if a thirst of fire to slack,

And thrash up foam;

And then he sped along the shore,

And beat his breast with raucous roar,

And made for home.

I guess he told the folks back there

My homestead was taboo for bear

For since that day,

Although my pumpkins star the ground,

No other bear has come around,

Nor trace of bruin have I found,

-Well, let me pray

Grey Gull

‘Twas on an iron, icy day

I saw a pirate gull down-pane,

And hover in a wistful way

Nigh where my chickens picked their grain.

An outcast gull, so grey and old,

Withered of leg I watched it hop,

By hunger goaded and by cold,

To where each fowl full-filled its crop.

They hospitably welcomed it,

And at the food rack gave it place;

It at and ate, it preened a bit,

By way of gratitude and grace.

It parleyed with my barnyard cock,

Then resolutely winged away;

But I am fey in feather talk,

And this is what I heard it say:

“I know that you and all your tribe

Are shielded warm and fenced from fear;

With food and comfort you would bribe

My weary wings to linger here.

An outlaw scarred and leather-lean,

I battle with the winds of woe:

You think me scaly and unclean…

And yet my soul you do not know,

“I storm the golden gates of day,

I wing the silver lanes of night;

I plumb the deep for finny prey,

On wave I sleep in tempest height.

Conceived was I by sea and sky,

Their elements are fused in me;

Of brigand birds that float and fly

I am the freest of the free.

From peak to plain, from palm to pine

I coast creation at my will;

The chartless solitudes are mine,

And no one seeks to do me ill.

Until some cauldron of the sea

Shall gulp for me and I shall cease…

Oh I have lived enormously

And I shall have prodigious peace.”

With yellow bill and beady eye

This spoke, I think, that od grey gull;

And as I watched it Southward fly

Life seemed to be a-sudden dull.

For I have often held this thought-

If I could change this mouldy me,

By heaven I would choose the lot,

Of all the gypsy birds, to be

A gull that spans the spacious sea.

The Rhyme of the Restless Ones

We couldn’t sit and study for law;

The stagnation of a bank we couldn’t stand;

 For our riot blood was surging, and we didn’t need much urging

To excitements and excesses that are banned.

So we took to wine and drink and other things,

And the devil in us struggled to be free;

Till our friends rose up in wrath, and they pointed out the path,

And they paid our debts and packed us o’er the sea.

 Oh, they shook us off and shipped us o’er the foam,

To the larger lands that lure a man to roam;

And we took the chance they gave

Of a far and foreign grave,

And we bade goo-bye for evermore to home.

And some of us are climbing on the peak,

 And some of us are camping on the plain;

By pine and palm you’ll find us, with never claim to bind us,

By track and trail you’ll meet us once again.

We are the fated serfs to freedom—sky and sea;

We have failed where slummy cities overflow;

But the stranger ways of earth know our pride and know our worth,

And we go into the dark as fighters go.

Yes, we go into the night as brave men go,

Though our faces they be often streaked with woe;

Yet we’re hard as cats to kill,

And our hearts are reckless still,

And we’ve danced with death a dozen times or so.

And you’ll find us in Alaska after gold,

And you’ll find us herding cattle in the South.

 We like strong drink and fun, and, when the race is run,

We often die with curses in our mouth.

We are wild as colts unbroken, but never mean.

Of our sins we’ve shoulders broad to bear the blame;

But we’ll never stay in town and we’ll never settle down,

And we’ll never have an object or an aim.

No, there’s that in us that time can never tame;

And life will always seem a careless game;

And they’d better far forget—

Those who say they love us yet—

Forget; blot out with bitterness our name.

At Thirty-Five

Three score and ten, the psalmist saith,

And half my course is well-nigh run;

I’ve had my flout at dusty death,

I’ve had my whack of feast and fun.

I’ve mocked at those who praise and preach;

I’ve laughed with any man alive;

But now with sobered heart I reach

The Great Divide of Thirty-five

And looking back I must confess

I’ve little cause to feel elate.

 I’ve played the mummer more or less;

I fumbled fortune, flouted fate.

 I’ve vastly dreamed and little done;

I’ve idly watched my brothers strive;

Oh, I have loitered in the sun

By primrose paths to Thirty-five!

And those who matched me in the race,

Well, some are out and trampled down’

The others jog with sober pace;

Yet one wins delicate renown.

O midnight feast and famished dawn!

O gay, hard life, with hope alive!

O golden youth, forever gone,

How sweet you seem at Thirty-five!

Each of our lives is just a book

As absolute as Holy Writ;

We humbly read, and may not look

Ahead, nor change one word of it.

And here are joys and here are pains;

And here we fail and here we thrive;

O wondrous volume! What remains

When we reach chapter Thirty-five?

The very best, I dare to hope,

Ere Fate writes Finis to the tome;

A wiser head, a wider scope,

And for the gipsy heart, a home;

A songful home, with loved ones near,

With joy, with sunshine all alive:

Watch me grow younger every year—

Old Age! Thy name is Thirty-five.

The Pines

We sleep in the sleep of ages, the bleak, barbarian pines;

The grey moss drapes us like sages, and closer we lock our lines,

And deeper we clutch through the gelid gloom where never a sunbeam shines.

On the flanks of the storm-gored ridges are our black battalions massed;

We surge in a host to the sullen coast, and we sing in the oceans blast;

From empire of sea to empire of snow we grip our empire fast.

To the niggard lands were we driven, ‘twixt desert and floes are we penned;

To us the Northland given, ours to stronghold and defend;

Ours till world be riven in the crash of the utter end;

Ours from the bleak beginning, through the aeons of death-like sleep;

 Ours from the shock when the naked pock was hurled from the hissing deep;

Ours through the twilight ages of weary glacier creep.

Wind of the East, wind of the west, wandering to and fro,

Chant your songs in our topmost boughs, that the sons of men may know

The peerless pine was the first to come, and the pine will be last to go!

We pillar the halls of perfumed gloom; we plume where eagles soar;

The North-wind swoops from the brooding Pole, and our ancients crash and roar;

But where one falls from crumbling walls shoots up a handy score.

We spring from the gloom of the canyon’s womb; in the valley’s lap we lie;

From the white foam-fringe, where breakers cringe to the peaks that tusk the sky,

We climb, and we peer on the crag-locked mere that gleams like a golden eye.

Gain to the verge of the hog-back ridge where vision ranges free;

Pines and pines and the shadow f pines as far as the eye can see;

A stead fast legion of stalwart knights in dominant empery.

Sun, moon and stars give answer; shall we not staunchly stand,

Even as now, forever, wards of the wilder strand

Sentinels of the stillness, lords of the last, lone land?

Milking Time

There’s a drip of honeysuckle in the deep green lane;

There’s old Martin jogging homeward on his worn old wain;

There are cherry petals falling, and cuckoo calling, calling,

And a score of larks (God bless ‘em)…but its all pain, pain.

For you see I am not really there at all, not at all;

For you see I’m in the trenches where the crump-crumps fakk;

And the bits o’ shells are screaming and it’s inly blessed dreaming

That in fancy I am seeming back in old Saint Pol.

Oh I’ve thought of it so often since I’ve come down here;

And I never dreamt that any place could be so dear;

The silvered whinstone houses, and the rosy men in blouses,

And the kindly, white-capped women with their eyes spring clear.

And the mothers sitting knitting where her roses climb,

And the angelus is calling with a soft, soft chime,

And the sea-wind comes caressing, and the light’s a golden blessing,

And Yvonne, Yvonne is guessing that it’s milking time.

Oh it’s Sunday, for she’s wearing of her broidered gown;

And she draws the pasture pickets and the cows come down;

 And their feet are powdered yellow, and their voices honey-mellow,

And they bring a scent of clover, and their eyes are brown.

And Yvonne is dreaming after, but her eyes are blue;

And her lips are made for laughter and her white teeth too;

And her mouth is like a cherry and a dimple mocking merry

Is lurking in the very cheek she turns to you.

So I walk beside her kindly, and she laughs at me;

And I heap her arms with lilac from the lilac tree;

And golden light is welling, and a golden peace is dwelling,

And a thousand birds are telling how it’s good to be.

And what are pouting lips for if they can’t be kissed?

And I’ve filled her arms with blossoms so she can’t resist;

And the cows are sadly straying, and her mother must be saying

That Yvonne is long delaying…God! How close that missed.

A nice polite reminder that the Boche are nigh;

That we’re here to fight like devils, and if need-be die;

That from kissing pretty wenches to the frantic firing-benches

O the battered, tattered trenches is far, far cry.

Yet still I’m sitting dreaming in the glare and grime;

And once again I’m hearing of them church-bells chime;

And how I wonder whether in the golden summer weather

We will fetch the cows together when it’s milking time….

(English voice, months later):--

“Ow Bill! A rotten’ Frenchy. Whew! ‘E ain’t arf prime.”

Include Me Out

I grabbed the new Who’s Who to see

My name-but it was not.

Said I: “the form they posted me

I filled and sent-so what?

I searched the essies, “dour with doubt…

Darn! It was plain as day

The scurvy knaves had left me out..

Oh was I mad? I’ll say.

Then all at once I sensed the clue;

‘Twas simple you’ll allow…

The book I held was Who WAS Who

Oh was I glad-and how!

The Headliner and the Breadliner

Moko, the Educated Ape is here,

The pet of vaudeville, so the posters say,

And every night the gaping people pay

To see him in his panoply appear;

To see him pad his paunch with dainty cheer,

Puff his perfecto, swill champagne, ane sway

Just like a gentleman, yet all in play,

Then bow himself off stage with brutish leer.

And as to-night, with noble knowledge crammed,

I ‘mid this human compost take my place,

I once a poet, now so dead and damned,

The woeful tears half freezing in my face:

“O God! I cry, “Let me but take his shape,

Mokos, the blessed, the Educated Ape.

Home and Love

Just Home and Love! the words are small

Four little letters unto each;

And yet you will not find in all

The wide and gracious range of speech

Two more so tenderly complete:

When angels talk in Heaven above,

I'm sure they have no words more sweet

Than Home and Love.

Just Home and Love! it's hard to guess

Which of the two were best to gain;

Home without Love is bitterness;

Love without Home is often pain.

No! each alone will seldom do;

Somehow they travel hand and glove:

If you win one you must have two,

Both Home and Love.

And if you've both, well then I'm sure

You ought to sing the whole day long;

It doesn't matter if you're poor

With these to make divine your song.

And so I praisefully repeat,

When angels talk in Heaven above,

There are no words more simply sweet

Than Home and Love.

The Low-down White

This is the pay-day up at the mines, when the bearded brutes come down;
There's money to burn in the streets to-night, so I've sent my klooch to town,
With a haggard face and a ribband of red entwined in her hair of brown.

And I know at the dawn she'll come reeling home with the bottles, one, two, three --
One for herself, to drown her shame, and two big bottles for me,
To make me forget the thing I am and the man I used to be.

To make me forget the brand of the dog, as I crouch in this hideous place;
To make me forget once I kindled the light of love in a lady's face,
Where even the squalid Siwash now holds me a black disgrace.

Oh, I have guarded my secret well! And who would dream as I speak
In a tribal tongue like a rogue unhung, 'mid the ranch-house filth and reek,
I could roll to bed with a Latin phrase and rise with a verse of Greek?

Yet I was a senior prizeman once, and the pride of a college eight;
Called to the bar -- my friends were true! but they could not keep me straight;
Then came the divorce, and I went abroad and "died" on the River Plate.

But I'm not dead yet; though with half a lung there isn't time to spare,
And I hope that the year will see me out, and, thank God, no one will care --
Save maybe the little slim Siwash girl with the rose of shame in her hair.

She will come with the dawn, and the dawn is near; I can see its evil glow,

Like a corpse-light seen trough a frosty paane in a night of want and woe;

And yonder she domes by the bleak bull-pines, swift staggering through the snow.

--Robert William Service