Byron,

Thanks for the poem, song, and reminding me of the movie. :-)
Your a sweetie :-)

---

Byron,

Thanks for the poem, song, and reminding me of the movie. :-)
Your a sweetie :-)

Hi Lynn

Thank you Lynn and God bless you.
You are a very nice person.

Byron

Hello Lynn, anniet, Julie, Jim Martin, Daniel Michel and everyone in our SETI@home community.

Best Wishes
Byron

I'm not very good at writing poetry But I love this poem


The men that don't


There's a race of men that don't fit in,
A race that can't stay still;
So they break the hearts of kith and kin,
And they roam the world at will.
They range the field and they rove the flood,
And they climb the mountain's crest;
Theirs is the curse of the gypsy blood,
And they don't know how to rest.


If they just went straight they might go far;
They are strong and brave and true;
But they're always tired of the things that are,
And they want the strange and new.
They say: "Could I find my proper groove,
What a deep mark I would make!"
So they chop and change, and each fresh move
Is only a fresh mistake.

And each forgets, as he strips and runs
With a brilliant, fitful pace,
It's the steady, quiet, plodding ones
Who win in the lifelong race.
And each forgets that his youth has fled,
Forgets that his prime is past,
Till he stands one day, with a hope that's dead,
In the glare of the truth at last.

He has failed, he has failed; he has missed his chance;
He has just done things by half.
Life's been a jolly good joke on him,
And now is the time to laugh.
Ha, ha! He is one of the Legion Lost;
He was never meant to win;
He's a rolling stone, and it's bred in the bone;
He's a man who won't fit in.



Robert Service of the Yukon Canada

Very nice poem, Thanks Byron :-)

---

Good poem selection, Byron. I was exposed to a bit of that attitude,
in Fairbanks, Alaska, in the early '70's.

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Truly lovely poem Byron, thank you! :) I had a friend very much like that. He was lovely but very difficult to keep track of. He would turn up every now and again though. Sadly he is now really ill and tied down to one spot, which he finds the hardest thing of all I think. :(

I think he'll love that poem though. Going to print it out and send it to him under the heading, "when you're better..." because if he does get well, he'll be shaking off all the moss he's accumulated and be off again, I know it :)

The Ultimate Dream


My own company.
Making a profit --
for me, and the investors.

It's completely automated --
with affordable products,
for everyone.

The ultimate dream.

* * *

jm
11 May 14

---

:) It's good to dream... thanks for the poem Jim.

Not sure this counts as a poem as such, more prose, but as moving as many a poem can be. Hope no one minds me posting it...

A very touching poem, anniet. Thanks.

---

A very touching poem, anniet. Thanks.

+1

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rOZZ
Music
Pictures

A very touching poem, anniet. Thanks.

+1

+2

Let's Go!


My Dodge Ram,
automatically,
asserts itself.

My Ford Focus'
road, is, always,
in focus.

My Cadillac,
lacks,
for nothing.

My Chevrolet,
always,
has its way.

Other countries' cars
are, also,
from Mars.

What do they have,
in common?

They drive themselves.

What do we, their owners, have,
in common?

We aren't allowed to drive them.

What are the benefits?

We're all allowed to
own, and travel,
in our own cars.

Let's go!


* * *

jm
16 May 14

---

nice one Jim.

Thank you, Byron.

---

The Cremation of Sam McGee

By Robert W. Service 1874–1958

There are strange things done in the midnight sun
By the men who moil for gold;
The Arctic trails have their secret tales
That would make your blood run cold;
The Northern Lights have seen queer sights,
But the queerest they ever did see
Was that night on the marge of Lake Lebarge
I cremated Sam McGee.


Now Sam McGee was from Tennessee, where the cotton blooms and blows.
Why he left his home in the South to roam 'round the Pole, God only knows.
He was always cold, but the land of gold seemed to hold him like a spell;
Though he'd often say in his homely way that "he'd sooner live in hell."


On a Christmas Day we were mushing our way over the Dawson trail.
Talk of your cold! through the parka's fold it stabbed like a driven nail.
If our eyes we'd close, then the lashes froze till sometimes we couldn't see;
It wasn't much fun, but the only one to whimper was Sam McGee.


And that very night, as we lay packed tight in our robes beneath the snow,
And the dogs were fed, and the stars o'erhead were dancing heel and toe,
He turned to me, and "Cap," says he, "I'll cash in this trip, I guess;
And if I do, I'm asking that you won't refuse my last request."


Well, he seemed so low that I couldn't say no; then he says with a sort of moan:
"It's the cursèd cold, and it's got right hold till I'm chilled clean through to the bone.
Yet 'tain't being dead—it's my awful dread of the icy grave that pains;
So I want you to swear that, foul or fair, you'll cremate my last remains."


A pal's last need is a thing to heed, so I swore I would not fail;
And we started on at the streak of dawn; but God! he looked ghastly pale.
He crouched on the sleigh, and he raved all day of his home in Tennessee;
And before nightfall a corpse was all that was left of Sam McGee.


There wasn't a breath in that land of death, and I hurried, horror-driven,
With a corpse half hid that I couldn't get rid, because of a promise given;
It was lashed to the sleigh, and it seemed to say: "You may tax your brawn and brains,
But you promised true, and it's up to you to cremate those last remains."


Now a promise made is a debt unpaid, and the trail has its own stern code.
In the days to come, though my lips were dumb, in my heart how I cursed that load.
In the long, long night, by the lone firelight, while the huskies, round in a ring,
Howled out their woes to the homeless snows— O God! how I loathed the thing.


And every day that quiet clay seemed to heavy and heavier grow;
And on I went, though the dogs were spent and the grub was getting low;
The trail was bad, and I felt half mad, but I swore I would not give in;
And I'd often sing to the hateful thing, and it hearkened with a grin.


Till I came to the marge of Lake Lebarge, and a derelict there lay;
It was jammed in the ice, but I saw in a trice it was called the "Alice May."
And I looked at it, and I thought a bit, and I looked at my frozen chum;
Then "Here," said I, with a sudden cry, "is my cre-ma-tor-eum."


Some planks I tore from the cabin floor, and I lit the boiler fire;
Some coal I found that was lying around, and I heaped the fuel higher;
The flames just soared, and the furnace roared—such a blaze you seldom see;
And I burrowed a hole in the glowing coal, and I stuffed in Sam McGee.


Then I made a hike, for I didn't like to hear him sizzle so;
And the heavens scowled, and the huskies howled, and the wind began to blow.
It was icy cold, but the hot sweat rolled down my cheeks, and I don't know why;
And the greasy smoke in an inky cloak went streaking down the sky.


I do not know how long in the snow I wrestled with grisly fear;
But the stars came out and they danced about ere again I ventured near;
I was sick with dread, but I bravely said: "I'll just take a peep inside.
I guess he's cooked, and it's time I looked"; ... then the door I opened wide.


And there sat Sam, looking cool and calm, in the heart of the furnace roar;
And he wore a smile you could see a mile, and he said: "Please close that door.
It's fine in here, but I greatly fear you'll let in the cold and storm—
Since I left Plumtree, down in Tennessee, it's the first time I've been warm."


There are strange things done in the midnight sun
By the men who moil for gold;
The Arctic trails have their secret tales
That would make your blood run cold;
The Northern Lights have seen queer sights,
But the queerest they ever did see
Was that night on the marge of Lake Lebarge
I cremated Sam McGee.

Says I, to thee -- Thankee!

---

Strings


Two puppets,
in a box.

Each day,
they leave their box
to live as everyone else --

Their lives manifest,
by the inheritance
of each other's
strings.


* * *

jm
3 June 2014

---

I love this thread :) will try write a poem for it soon I think, though my poetry does tend to sink to the level of limerick :/

Anniet


There was a young lady, Anniet,
whose prose-works would cause her to fret.

She changed lines to rhyme,
plus rhythm, most fine --

with Julie's plucked notes, o'er her frets.


* * *

jm
8 June 14

---

:)))

Indeed there IS one called she
whom Jim called "young", flatteringly :)

But with wrinkles galore
she got wedged in the door

And could only be freed with warm ghee :)