A WINTER POEM

It's winter time in Pennsy
And the gentle breezes blow
Seventy miles an hour
At five degrees below.

Oh, how I love Pennsy
When the snow's up to your butt
You take a breath of winter
And your nose gets frozen shut.

Yes,
The weather here is wonderful
So I guess I'll hang around
I could never leave Pennsy
Cuz I'm frozen to the ground!

There's only ONE National Pastime.

For quite some time, it was a morning ritual on a New York radio station to play read the following poem on the morning of the Super Bowl. The reason was obvious: The program's DJ/host was not a great fan of football but was a fanatic of the Nation's Pastime. Time and distance have robbed me of the name of that host and of the station upon which he held court (although I believe it was WCBS). Even so, I would like to provide you with the iconic baseball poem: "Casey at the Bat".



Of course, it was made into a cartoon which was NOT faithful to the original poem but entertaining nonetheless: "Casey At The Bat"



Which brought about a sequel: "Casey Bats Again"

The Reckoning

I know that there are some out there that partied hard on New Year's Eve. And that some of you may still be paying the price. For you who may still feel the pounding between your ears and the spin cycle at work in your stomach, I have a bit of advice from Robert W. Service:

THE RECKONING


It's fine to have a blow-out in a fancy restaurant,
With terrapin and canvas-back and all the wine you want;
To enjoy the flowers and music, watch the pretty women pass,
Smoke a choice cigar, and sip the wealthy water in your glass;
It's bully in a high-toned joint to eat and drink your fill,
But it's quite another matter when you

Pay the bill.

It's great to go out every night on fun or pleasure bent,
To wear your glad rags always, and to never save a cent;
To drift along regardless, have a good time every trip;
To hit the high spots sometimes, and to let your chances slip;
To know you're acting foolish, yet to go on fooling still,
Till Nature calls a show-down, and you

Pay the bill.

Time has got a little bill--get wise while yet you may,
For the debit side's increasing in a most alarming way;
The things you had no right to do, the things you should have done,
They're all put down: it's up to you to pay for every one.
So eat, drink, and be merry, have a good time if you will,
But God help you when the time comes, and you

Foot the bill.

Not bad advice for daily living either.

A little poetry on a cold, cold day.

Oh, not any of mine. I've not the skill to twine words together in rhythm and rhyme. No, this comes from the pen of Robert W. Service. It's the story of a man considered by his "betters" a failure. Yet which is in touch with his soul more? Which understands the world more? Which has lead an more enjoyable life?

The Rhyme of the Remittance Man

There's a four-pronged buck a-swinging in the shadow of my cabin,
And it roamed the velvet valley till to-day;
But I tracked it by the river, and I trailed it in the cover,
And I killed it on the mountain miles away.
Now I've had my lazy supper, and the level sun is gleaming
On the water where the silver salmon play;
And I light my little corn-cob, and I linger, softly dreaming,
In the twilight, of a land that's far away.

Far away, so faint and far, is flaming London, fevered Paris,
That I fancy I have gained another star;
Far away the din and hurry, far away the sin and worry,
Far away -- God knows they cannot be too far.
Gilded galley-slaves of Mammon -- how my purse-proud brothers taunt me!
I might have been as well-to-do as they
Had I clutched like them my chances, learned their wisdom, crushed my fancies,
Starved my soul and gone to business every day.

Well, the cherry bends with blossom and the vivid grass is springing,
And the star-like lily nestles in the green;
And the frogs their joys are singing, and my heart in tune is ringing,
And it doesn't matter what I might have been.
While above the scented pine-gloom, piling heights of golden glory,
The sun-god paints his canvas in the west,
I can couch me deep in clover, I can listen to the story
Of the lazy, lapping water -- it is best.

While the trout leaps in the river, and the blue grouse thrills the cover,
And the frozen snow betrays the panther's track,
And the robin greets the dayspring with the rapture of a lover,
I am happy, and I'll nevermore go back.
For I know I'd just be longing for the little old log cabin,
With the morning-glory clinging to the door,
Till I loathed the city places, cursed the care on all the faces,
Turned my back on lazar London evermore.

So send me far from Lombard Street, and write me down a failure;
Put a little in my purse and leave me free.
Say: "He turned from Fortune's offering to follow up a pale lure,
He is one of us no longer -- let him be."
I am one of you no longer; by the trails my feet have broken,
The dizzy peaks I've scaled, the camp-fire's glow;
By the lonely seas I've sailed in -- yea, the final word is spoken,
I am signed and sealed to nature. Be it so.

All the remittance man asks is to be left alone to enjoy his meager fare and the peace of nature's bounty.

Musings/Ravings

Another glorious day at the Aerie with the sun shining and the temperature reaching 45 degrees. What?

Why am I giving another weather report?

There's no football, no baseball, I don't like/follow hockey, Rutgers basketball (men and women) is terrible. The hunting season is over. The fishing season has yet to begin. (I like ice fishing as much as I do hockey.) The birds in the yard have been the same ones for the past month. There's too much snow on the bike trails to do much birding or riding. And it's not yet time to plant a garden or work outdoors.

That leaves only food, sex, and politics. I'm not going to talk about sex. Terry's been doing all the cooking. So that brings us to politics and, damn it!, that raises my blood pressure too high.

Suffice to say I am not pleased with my "Republican" Senator, Arlen Specter. Unless he turns around in the next 48-72 hours and realizes what a huge mistake he has made and votes against the "Stimulus" bill under consideration.... I've already emailed his office several times to express my disappointment and suggest he might as well put a "D" after his name. I tried calling several of the contact numbers for his offices through out the state and in Washington but could only hold a phone to my ear so long as the busy signals buzzed on and on and on....

Being pro-life and pro-guns are good positions to have but his understanding of Economics 101 and Immigration (he signed on to the Amnesty plan Bush and McCain were pushing) plus his deafness to his constituency on matters such as these are going to come back and bite him on the ass in 2010 IF he plans to run again.

And what the hell is in the water up in Maine? Snowe and Collins both are allegedly Republicans and yet they sign on to this Crap Sandwich?

I just may have to begin using the GuyK Investment Plan.

Well, the explanations being offered are about as lucid as this piece and don't sound nearly as pretty when read aloud:

Jabberwocky
by Lewis Carroll


'Twas brillig, and the slithy toves
Did gyre and gimble in the wabe;
All mimsy were the borogoves,
And the mome raths outgrabe.

"Beware the Jabberwock, my son
The jaws that bite, the claws that catch!
Beware the Jubjub bird, and shun
The frumious Bandersnatch!"

He took his vorpal sword in hand;
Long time the manxome foe he sought—
So rested he by the Tumtum tree,
And stood awhile in thought.

And, as in uffish thought he stood,
The Jabberwock, with eyes of flame,
Came whiffling through the tulgey wood,
And burbled as it came!

One, two! One, two! And through and through
The vorpal blade went snicker-snack!
He left it dead, and with its head
He went galumphing back.

"And hast thou slain the Jabberwock?
Come to my arms, my beamish boy!
O frabjous day! Callooh! Callay!"
He chortled in his joy.

'Twas brillig, and the slithy toves
Did gyre and gimble in the wabe;
All mimsy were the borogoves,
And the mome raths outgrabe.

(from Poets.org)