Forgetfulness

This is a great poem called Forgetfulness by Billy Collins. 

And someone made a fun video out of it. 

Simple as that. 

Enjoy

Favorite Poem - The Cremation of Sam McGee

                  Robert Service (1874-1958)

                  The Cremation of Sam McGee

    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 — Oh 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 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.

Poem; As Is

As Is

I'm learning to let moments exist in time, 

in space,

without my comment, my diagnosis.

John and Paul have it right: Let it be.

The integrity of the moment, the person

the conversation, the idea, 

is pure, untainted

when I walk away

leaving it to be what it wants to be,

a monument, a pivot,

a reminder, a definer,

or simply

Beautiful, 

rather than what I drive it to be,

coexisting in my actuality

as something important. 

How mysterious and memorable are those conversations,

those people we speak with once,

never to be seen again,

but who frequent our mind

because they simply were,

they just Are.

Those events, ideas that graze our identity 

then scatter, remembered with fondness 

for their simplicity,

their short appearance.

Maybe nothing happens for a reason.

It wasn't meant to be,

it isn't fate, the stars are

hardly writable.

Things just happen. 

And they are Beautiful.

That lyric, that painting, that scene,

that spark, the beauty of 

a moment, a person, 

a conversation, an idea,

can Be, without significance. 

Don't learn a lesson,

take away a moral,

or even be inspired by

this, that, him, her,

then, there. 

Quietly step back, 

let it take on whatever life it chooses,

Watch or don't watch it slip into the past,

just being exactly what it wants to be,

or not be,

a moment, a person,

a conversation, an idea,

nothing more than what it is

or was

or will be. 

Poem - Sex

Sex

Whispered and hidden, but known all around,

when shared by each other pleasure is found.

The passion and feelings that two people show,

are often times given to someone we know.

Our body is open exposed to attack,

but often accepted despite what we lack.

The feeling of closeness with husband or wife,

that brings us together by forming new life.

Can strengthen or weaken our love for the one,

who shares all our struggles when work days are done.

Jeremiah R. Turner - January 28, 2009