by Pa Rock
Poetry Appreciator
From my perch by the living room window I am struck by the wandering nature of the fowl who reside here at Rock's Roost. There are four varieties of domestic farm fowl who call The Roost home, and each has its own distinctive roaming patterns.
The chickens, which in reality are two hens and eight roosters, stick very close to the chicken coop during the day, and it is rare when they drift more that twenty-five feet from their abode. The two little hens, in fact, spend most of their time inside of the coop, perhaps due to the pronounced gender imbalance within their community.
The five geese also sleep in the chicken coop, reluctantly allowing themselves to be shooed in right at dark and then bursting forth in gleeful anticipation of a new day when the coop door is opened just before dawn. They roam the entire yard, but have the good sense to stop at the road.
The guineas, who for the past couple of years have numbered only three, also sleep in the coop, generally going in voluntarily as it starts to get dark. During the day they roam much of the neighborhood, and are not afraid to cross the road, albeit quickly. Guineas establish a touring pattern and can generally be found in the same locations at the same times throughout the day - seldom varying from their schedule.
The peacocks, who were confined in an aviary and barn for their first three years at The Roost, have been running free for the past few weeks, and they are busy establishing their roaming patterns. The first few days the peacocks (two actual peacocks and five peahens) were loose, they would return to their pen each evening to be locked up for safety. Soon the two peacocks and four of the hens decided that they preferred to roost in the treetops, and they gave up the pen. One hen, however, continued to show up each evening to be locked safely into the pen.
Now one peahen, perhaps the one who was sleeping on her own in the pen, appears to have taken up residence on down the road. I hear her calling the others most mornings, but they ignore her pleas to come visit. The remaining six roam the neighborhood, much as the guineas do. They still sleep at The Roost in a pair of their favorite trees.
Rock's Roost, it would seem, has become the home base of a multitude of feathered wanderers. To honor these free spirits, I have chosen as this week's poetry selection, "The Wanderlust," by one of my favorite poet's - Robert W. Service. It is an introspective piece in which the poet discusses his lifetime of wanderings and anticipates his final trek, the one that will lead him into the unknown territory of eternity.
Please enjoy this piece by America's gold rush poet who did so much to chronicle life on the Alaskan frontier. There is much to be said for wanderlust.
The Wanderlust
by Robert W. Service
The Wanderlust has lured me to the seven lonely seas,
Has dumped me on the tailing-piles of dearth;
The Wanderlust has haled me from the morris chairs of ease,
Has hurled me to the ends of all the earth.
How bitterly I've cursed it, oh, the Painted Desert knows,
The wraithlike heights that hug the pallid plain,
The all-but-fluid silence, -- yet the longing grows and grows,
And I've got to glut the Wanderlust again.
Soldier, sailor, in what a plight I've been!
Tinker, tailor, oh what a sight I've seen!
And I'm hitting the trail in the morning, boys,
And you won't see my heels for dust;
For it's "all day" with you
When you answer the cue
Of the Wan-der-lust.
The Wanderlust has got me . . . by the belly-aching fire,
By the fever and the freezing and the pain;
By the darkness that just drowns you, by the wail of home desire,
I've tried to break the spell of it -- in vain.
Life might have been a feast for me, now there are only crumbs;
In rags and tatters, beggar-wise I sit;
Yet there's no rest or peace for me, imperious it drums,
The Wanderlust, and I must follow it.
Highway, by-way, many a mile I've done;
Rare way, fair way, many a height I've won;
But I'm pulling my freight in the morning, boys,
And it's over the hills or bust;
For there's never a cure
When you list to the lure
Of the Wan-der-lust.
The Wanderlust has taught me . . . it has whispered to my heart
Things all you stay-at-homes will never know.
The white man and the savage are but three short days apart,
Three days of cursing, crawling, doubt and woe.
Then it's down to chewing muclucs, to the water you can eat,
To fish you bolt with nose held in your hand.
When you get right down to cases, it's King's Grub that rules the races,
And the Wanderlust will help you understand.
Haunting, taunting, that is the spell of it;
Mocking, baulking, that is the hell of it;
But I'll shoulder my pack in the morning, boys,
And I'm going because I must;
For it's so-long to all
When you answer the call
Of the Wan-der-lust.
The Wanderlust has blest me . . . in a ragged blanket curled,
I've watched the gulf of Heaven foam with stars;
I've walked with eyes wide open to the wonder of the world,
I've seen God's flood of glory burst its bars.
I've seen the gold a-blinding in the riffles of the sky,
Till I fancied me a bloated plutocrat;
But I'm freedom's happy bond-slave, and I will be till I die,
And I've got to thank the Wanderlust for that.
Wild heart, child heart, all of the world your home.
Glad heart, mad heart, what can you do but roam?
Oh, I'll beat it once more in the morning, boys,
With a pinch of tea and a crust;
For you cannot deny
When you hark to the cry
Of the Wan-der-lust.
The Wanderlust will claim me at the finish for its own.
I'll turn my back on men and face the Pole.
Beyond the Arctic outposts I will venture all alone;
Some Never-never Land will be my goal.
Thank God! there's none will miss me, for I've been a bird of flight;
And in my moccasins I'll take my call;
For the Wanderlust has ruled me,
And the Wanderlust has schooled me,
And I'm ready for the darkest trail of all.
Grim land, dim land, oh, how the vastness calls!
Far land, star land, oh, how the stillness falls!
For you never can tell if it's heaven or hell,
And I'm taking the trail on trust;
But I haven't a doubt
That my soul will leap out
On its Wan-der-lust.
Poetry Appreciator
From my perch by the living room window I am struck by the wandering nature of the fowl who reside here at Rock's Roost. There are four varieties of domestic farm fowl who call The Roost home, and each has its own distinctive roaming patterns.
The chickens, which in reality are two hens and eight roosters, stick very close to the chicken coop during the day, and it is rare when they drift more that twenty-five feet from their abode. The two little hens, in fact, spend most of their time inside of the coop, perhaps due to the pronounced gender imbalance within their community.
The five geese also sleep in the chicken coop, reluctantly allowing themselves to be shooed in right at dark and then bursting forth in gleeful anticipation of a new day when the coop door is opened just before dawn. They roam the entire yard, but have the good sense to stop at the road.
The guineas, who for the past couple of years have numbered only three, also sleep in the coop, generally going in voluntarily as it starts to get dark. During the day they roam much of the neighborhood, and are not afraid to cross the road, albeit quickly. Guineas establish a touring pattern and can generally be found in the same locations at the same times throughout the day - seldom varying from their schedule.
The peacocks, who were confined in an aviary and barn for their first three years at The Roost, have been running free for the past few weeks, and they are busy establishing their roaming patterns. The first few days the peacocks (two actual peacocks and five peahens) were loose, they would return to their pen each evening to be locked up for safety. Soon the two peacocks and four of the hens decided that they preferred to roost in the treetops, and they gave up the pen. One hen, however, continued to show up each evening to be locked safely into the pen.
Now one peahen, perhaps the one who was sleeping on her own in the pen, appears to have taken up residence on down the road. I hear her calling the others most mornings, but they ignore her pleas to come visit. The remaining six roam the neighborhood, much as the guineas do. They still sleep at The Roost in a pair of their favorite trees.
Rock's Roost, it would seem, has become the home base of a multitude of feathered wanderers. To honor these free spirits, I have chosen as this week's poetry selection, "The Wanderlust," by one of my favorite poet's - Robert W. Service. It is an introspective piece in which the poet discusses his lifetime of wanderings and anticipates his final trek, the one that will lead him into the unknown territory of eternity.
Please enjoy this piece by America's gold rush poet who did so much to chronicle life on the Alaskan frontier. There is much to be said for wanderlust.
The Wanderlust
by Robert W. Service
The Wanderlust has lured me to the seven lonely seas,
Has dumped me on the tailing-piles of dearth;
The Wanderlust has haled me from the morris chairs of ease,
Has hurled me to the ends of all the earth.
How bitterly I've cursed it, oh, the Painted Desert knows,
The wraithlike heights that hug the pallid plain,
The all-but-fluid silence, -- yet the longing grows and grows,
And I've got to glut the Wanderlust again.
Soldier, sailor, in what a plight I've been!
Tinker, tailor, oh what a sight I've seen!
And I'm hitting the trail in the morning, boys,
And you won't see my heels for dust;
For it's "all day" with you
When you answer the cue
Of the Wan-der-lust.
The Wanderlust has got me . . . by the belly-aching fire,
By the fever and the freezing and the pain;
By the darkness that just drowns you, by the wail of home desire,
I've tried to break the spell of it -- in vain.
Life might have been a feast for me, now there are only crumbs;
In rags and tatters, beggar-wise I sit;
Yet there's no rest or peace for me, imperious it drums,
The Wanderlust, and I must follow it.
Highway, by-way, many a mile I've done;
Rare way, fair way, many a height I've won;
But I'm pulling my freight in the morning, boys,
And it's over the hills or bust;
For there's never a cure
When you list to the lure
Of the Wan-der-lust.
The Wanderlust has taught me . . . it has whispered to my heart
Things all you stay-at-homes will never know.
The white man and the savage are but three short days apart,
Three days of cursing, crawling, doubt and woe.
Then it's down to chewing muclucs, to the water you can eat,
To fish you bolt with nose held in your hand.
When you get right down to cases, it's King's Grub that rules the races,
And the Wanderlust will help you understand.
Haunting, taunting, that is the spell of it;
Mocking, baulking, that is the hell of it;
But I'll shoulder my pack in the morning, boys,
And I'm going because I must;
For it's so-long to all
When you answer the call
Of the Wan-der-lust.
The Wanderlust has blest me . . . in a ragged blanket curled,
I've watched the gulf of Heaven foam with stars;
I've walked with eyes wide open to the wonder of the world,
I've seen God's flood of glory burst its bars.
I've seen the gold a-blinding in the riffles of the sky,
Till I fancied me a bloated plutocrat;
But I'm freedom's happy bond-slave, and I will be till I die,
And I've got to thank the Wanderlust for that.
Wild heart, child heart, all of the world your home.
Glad heart, mad heart, what can you do but roam?
Oh, I'll beat it once more in the morning, boys,
With a pinch of tea and a crust;
For you cannot deny
When you hark to the cry
Of the Wan-der-lust.
The Wanderlust will claim me at the finish for its own.
I'll turn my back on men and face the Pole.
Beyond the Arctic outposts I will venture all alone;
Some Never-never Land will be my goal.
Thank God! there's none will miss me, for I've been a bird of flight;
And in my moccasins I'll take my call;
For the Wanderlust has ruled me,
And the Wanderlust has schooled me,
And I'm ready for the darkest trail of all.
Grim land, dim land, oh, how the vastness calls!
Far land, star land, oh, how the stillness falls!
For you never can tell if it's heaven or hell,
And I'm taking the trail on trust;
But I haven't a doubt
That my soul will leap out
On its Wan-der-lust.
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