There’s nothing bleak about midwinter in Alaska
Nothing bare denuded or exposed
Nothing unsheltered unprotected or unshielded
Every piercing raw stinging second of it
Glimmers and glows glistens and glitters
With a resplendency rival to that of a sun
A sun who would rather sink and simper
just below the line of the horizon,
than harm one hoar frost hair
on an Alaskan winter’s crystalline head.
rattle me bones and shiver me timbers it’s a dead man’s jamboree from dusk till dawn around the graves a dancing they will be a raspy throated woodwind howls as drums are banged with bones and out there in the mist somewhere- another dead man moans with but one night, the whole year thru this gay thread to weave they dance the jig, and tip the jug in gleeful toast to moon above- ‘salute!’ all hallows eve…..
Hiram slipped his elbow then his forearm then his wrist from the swollen vulva of the poor heifer whose calf he’d had to twist to get it to emerge all aglow- first the legs, and then the torso.
“Delivering poorly presented calves can be some tedious work.” Hiram stated as he brought the calf with one final tug n’ jerk, “It’s a stress on the calf- and brother- a right pain in the ars for the mother.”
“T’isn’t exactly painless for a poor farmer either, now don’t ya see I’ll have to sell off this wee little calf if I’m ta cover yer fee.” Farmer Ed countered, and so it began- the necessary haggle-an…
‘Farmer Vincent’s Smoked Meats’ the billboard did proclaim. “Where our smoking process, is our claim to fame!” Little Willie, ever curious, set off one day to see exactly what’s so special about Farmer Vincent’s recipe. Little Willie never did discover Farmer Vincent’s smoking secret. Farmer Vincent smoked him out. Then ground him into a tasty tid-bit!