Rye Whisky

by Anonymous

I'll eat when I'm hungry, I'll drink when I'm dry;
If the hard times don't kill me. I'll live till I die.

I'll tune up my fiddle, and I'll rosin my bow,
And make myself welcome wherever I go.

Beefsteak when I'm hungry, red liquor when I'm dry,
Greenbacks when I'm hard up, and religion when I die.

They say I drink whisky; my money's my own,
All them that don't like me can leave me alone.

Jack o' diamonds, jack o' diamonds, I know you of old,
You've robbed my poor pockets of silver and gold.

Oh whisky, you villain, you've been my downfall;
You've kicked me, you've cuffed me, but I love you for all.

I'll buy my own whisky, I'll make my own stew;
If I get drunk, madam, it's nothing to you.

My foot in the stirrup, my bridle in my hand,
A-courting fair Mollie, to marry if I can.

I've no wife to quarrel, no babies to bawl;
The best way of living is no wife at all.

You may boast of your knowledge, and brag of your sense,
'Twill be all forgotten a hundred years hence.

"Rye Whisky". Traditional.

Pessimists calculate the odds. Optimists believe they can overcome them. –Ted Koppel

Easter Morning is not printed here but click on the link to see it. Garrison got the author's permission.

These are my favorite poems from "The Writers Almanac"

http://writersalmanac.publicradio.org/programs/2008/04/07/index.html#tue... is a link to the poem about a different kind of customer.

This is a poem from Ogden Nash call "Song To Be Sung by the Father of Infant Female Children" http://www.westegg.com/nash/infant-female.html

http://writersalmanac.publicradio.org/programs/2008/02/18/index.html

The poem ends with this:
"There is a place called Colorado where you will,
Of course, be very glad to arrive, where the others
Wanted to go; and you will sit smug in the shade
High up on a mountain, feeling the wind
Send shivers over your body, looking back
At the great sickening swoop of the plain
And think it part of a grand design:
Satisfying, necessary, even beautiful. "

http://writersalmanac.publicradio.org/programs/2008/02/04/#sunday

This poem reminds me of people who think life is not worth living. Of course thinking such things is socially unacceptable. Yet, not to me. If you can't see the beauty of breathing, like most people don't, then whatever illogical notion you have about ending life is just as illogical as what I seem most do everyday.

"All That Is Glorious Around Us
(title of an exhibit on The Hudson River School)

is not, for me, these grand vistas, sublime peaks, mist-filled
overlooks, towering clouds, but doing errands on a day
of driving rain, staying dry inside the silver skin of the car,
160,000 miles, still running just fine. Or later,
sitting in a café warmed by the steam
from white chicken chili, two cups of dark coffee,
watching the red and gold leaves race down the street,
confetti from autumn's bright parade. And I think
of how my mother struggles to breathe, how few good days
she has now, how we never think about the glories
of breath, oxygen cascading down our throats to the lungs,
simple as the journey of water over a rock. It is the nature
of stone / to be satisfied / writes Mary Oliver, It is the nature
of water / to want to be somewhere else, rushing down
a rocky tor or high escarpment, the panoramic landscape
boundless behind it. But everything glorious is around
us already: black and blue graffiti shining in the rain's
bright glaze, the small rainbows of oil on the pavement,
where the last car to park has left its mark on the glistening
street, this radiant world."

Today 11/29 is the birthday of C.S. Lewis. See here for some more information.
http://www.factmonster.com/spot/narnia-lewis.html

Thanks to Garrison Keillor for his Writer's Workshop.

Today is the first day of my next phase in my twenty four year old love affair with Washington Square. Heather just came by to take my building pass card and return it to the property and give me a copy of our check out report that says “no tenant charges.”
As she walked away, she turned around and said “good job.” I think this is the start of a wonderful friendship.

Of course there is never any rest for the weary. My rough, cracked, bloody hands can’t rest as I have to keep on going in organizing my new place and my life. I may be physically and financially broke, it may hit a feel like temperature of a hundred today, when anything over 75 makes me uncomfortable, but it is wonderful to start all over.

Here is a link to a pretty cool poets work. It is on the PBS web site.

Online NewsHour: Poetry Series | Poet Profile | Paul Hunter.

My favorite is "For the Miracle".

Click this Ben Hecht's entry on Britannica.com. The day he died was the day I was born. I have heard it was even in the same hospital. I am no Ben Hecht, I am no Ben Hecht, I never knew Ben, but I know I am no Ben.

Pete

Not only is this Alice's choice for a good poem. I think IF my family would post something here, that would be great.

If by Rudyard Kipling:

Click on If to read it...

He also points to the link: Click here to see article on the poem "If"
So while some learned from a tech journal, I learned it from my Mom. And that is cool.