Read about Douglas Mawson, this poem kept him alive when suspended in an ice crevasse in the antarctic.

The Quitter
by Robert W. Service
When you're lost in the Wild, and you're scared as a child, 
And Death looks you bang in the eye, 
And you're sore as a boil, it's according to Hoyle 
To cock your revolver and . . . die. 

But the Code of a Man says: "Fight all you can," 
And self-dissolution is barred. 
In hunger and woe, oh, it's easy to blow . . . 
It's the hell-served-for-breakfast that's hard. 

"You're sick of the game!" Well, now, that's a shame. 
You're young and you're brave and you're bright. 
"You've had a raw deal!" I know -- but don't squeal, 
Buck up, do your damnedest, and fight. 

It's the plugging away that will win you the day, 
So don't be a piker, old pard! 
Just draw on your grit; it's so easy to quit: 
It's the keeping-your-chin-up that's hard. 

It's easy to cry that you're beaten -- and die; 
It's easy to crawfish and crawl; 
But to fight and to fight when hope's out of sight -- 
Why, that's the best game of them all! 

And though you come out of each grueling bout, 
All broken and beaten and scarred, 
Just have one more try -- it's dead easy to die, 
It's the keeping-on-living that's hard.

For more inspiration - read the story of Antarctic explorer, Douglas Mawson.

This poem inspired him to stay alive (when the bottom skin of his feet had frozen off)--and he found himself hanging in an ice crevasse:

http://www.internal.org/Robert_W_Service/The_Quitter

The Quitter
by Robert W. Service

When you're lost in the Wild, 
and you're scared as a child, 
And Death looks you bang in the eye, 
And you're sore as a boil, 
it's according to Hoyle 
To cock your revolver and . . . die. 
But the Code of a Man says: 
"Fight all you can," 
And self-dissolution is barred. 

In hunger and woe, 
oh, it's easy to blow . . . 
It's the hell-served-for-breakfast that's hard. 
"You're sick of the game!" 
Well, now, that's a shame. 
You're young and you're brave and you're bright. 
"You've had a raw deal!" 
I know -- but don't squeal, 
Buck up, do your damnedest, and fight. 

It's the plugging away that will win you the day, 
So don't be a piker, old pard! 
Just draw on your grit; it's so easy to quit: 
It's the keeping-your-chin-up that's hard. 
It's easy to cry that you're beaten -- and die; 
It's easy to crawfish and crawl; 
But to fight and to fight when hope's out of sight -- 
Why, that's the best game of them all! 

And though you come out of each grueling bout, 
All broken and beaten and scarred, 
Just have one more try -- it's dead easy to die, 
It's the keeping-on-living that's hard.

A BIRTHDAY by: Christina Rossetti (1830-1894)

My heart is like a singing bird Whose nest is in a water'd shoot; My heart is like an apple-tree Whose boughs are bent with thick-set fruit; My heart is like a rainbow shell That paddles in a halcyon sea; My heart is gladder than all these, Because my love is come to me. Raise me a daïs of silk and down; Hang it with vair and purple dyes; Carve it in doves and pomegranates, And peacocks with a hundred eyes; Work it in gold and silver grapes, In leaves and silver fleurs-de-lys; Because the birthday of my life Is come, my love is come to me. "A Birthday" by Christina Rossetti reprinted from Macmillan's Magazine (April 1861).

Orange Coffee Cup courtesy ~ copyright Gary Priester

Dust of Snow by Robert Frost

Dust of Snow
by Robert Frost


The way a crow
Shook down on me
The dust of snow
From a hemlock tree
Has given my heart
A change of mood
And saved some part
Of a day I had rued.

Long, Long Ago ~ Anonymous

Long, Long Ago
~ Anonymous


Winds thru the olive trees
Softly did blow,
Round little Bethlehem
Long, long ago.


Sheep on the hillside lay
Whiter than snow
Shepherds were watching them,
Long, long ago.


Then from the happy sky,
Angels bent low
Singing their songs of joy.
Long, long ago.


For in a manger bed,
Cradled we know,
Christ came to Bethlehem,
Long, long ago.

Christmas Dance of the Hours by Michael T. Bee

Dust of forgotten dreams in my eyes - I rise with coughs and creaks
and cold morning on my legs.

The dark house rumbles with my father bear tread to the kitchen
and I loose a hundred screams of a Colombian morning from
black-howlers, and tamarins in the grinder.
I muffle their din with a dishtowel but a squawk or two -
of parrots and the carpinteros escape as I knock
and scrape the dark warm smelling coffee into the
yawning top of the pot.
I stand dully in front of that black gurgling fountain until
my cup is full.
No time for breakfast. Only a cup of scorching coffee
and a handful of dark chocolate (from the secret cabinet)
and then to the basement!
Down and back, down and back
. Christmas boxes pile up at the top of the stair -
and thump and crack and shine their red and
green plastic under the yellow 40 watts of
in kitchen.


Finally, the tree comes slowly up with me.
It's brown cardboard coffin sighing like
Marley's ghost as it drags across the stairs.


The rest of the family is up now. Rising and rushing in
like puppies on their first morning away from mother.
Pulling ornaments and garland from boxes. Mouths gleaming
with more teeth than at a carny ride.


There's a parade to the living room with-box after box and
me solemnly pulling Marley. I pull that artificial spruce out
and he rises bit by bushy bit to fill the living room sky.
His 600 perfect multicolored lights blink to life.
Limbs uncurl, and fluff and fill with a hundred years of memories.


"This was from my house when I was a boy."

"This needle-point one was from my sister"

"...No. That's from my friend when I was single."
"Wait, here's another one. Maybe that is from your sister?"

The hours turn quickly as the pages in the Christmas books, and catalogs,
and there's nog, and cookies, and naps. Until finally,
the postman rattles the mailbox and plunks in a handful of
junk mail mixed with cards.


And it is night.


The windows frost. Carols crank out from somewhere. We're
itchy and warm in our robes. And happy and in awe of the tree.


We'll sleep here tonight.

Michael T. Bee (c) 2012

Hamlet 1.1

"It faded on the crowing of the cock.
Some say that ever 'gainst that season comes
Wherein our Saviour's birth is celebrated,
The bird of dawning singeth all night long:
And then, they say, no spirit dare stir abroad;
The nights are wholesome; then no planets strike,
No fairy takes, nor witch hath power to charm,