A Big Ol' Murder of Crow Brothers Poems with an Introduction

One of the Crow Brothers

Boy, howdy! If you haven't read any of the three crow brothers poems, you are about to do so. I have nine left to review and revise. Then, the book A Walk with Words will be complete, and I can start working on its publication. Without further ado, you have a few minutes of reading to do in this here blog. ENJOY!

How the Three Crow Brothers Became My Muses of Song

The widely held rumors and superstitions involving their connections with the supernatural, alternate worlds and otherworldly dream states seem appropriate given that I was aware that the three crow brothers were around for a long time before they caught my interest. They fluttered and cawed on the edges of my consciousness and often interrupted my sleep with their soulless black eyes before I finally started paying attention to them and their antics as I walked in the woods and fields around the fairgrounds and the city park. When they became a part of my daily consideration and devotion, a partnership of verse was formed that is likely to remain productive for quite some time.

I have never called the ditties that I arrange around the exploits of three crow brothers “poems” because each of them is made up on the spot as I walk. I do not reflect upon the spontaneous emotions that I feel. I merely start putting words in motion. Thus, they are not like any other poems that I write. In fact, I probably would never have started with the verses if my wife, Kellie, hadn’t thrown her back out somehow so that she couldn’t go on our daily hikes for a month or so. While she was convalescing, I started singing about what the three crow brothers were doing as I walked with our dog Luna.

It was a simple formula. I would see the crows doing something—or sometimes I would not see them at all. The first verse of the song always tells what the three crow brothers are doing; then I comment on their actions either philosophically or by carrying on the explanation of their proceedings. Finally, I try to make some silly, morbid, or absent-minded comment about the crow brothers connections to the rest of the world. All of this, I do while mumbling aloud or talking out the words in a sing-song manner so that I can remember them when I get home and write them down. Luna looks at me like I am crazy as I sing to myself. Maybe I am.

In the first crow brothers ditty, I attempted to mimic the speech patterns of some old-timey hill women that I knew such as Bertha Strayer, Araloise Wilson, and Mrs. Retha Hastings. One of the most prominent traits of their “hill” speech was that they did not pronounce “always.” The said something akin to “allus” or “allis.” I didn’t know how to spell it, but I put it in the verse. Later, several of my blog readers asked me, “Is it appropriate for you to try and appropriate black dialect?” Um… No! That was not the target I was aiming for, but if that is what my readers thought I was attempting to do, it seemed best to quit with “hillfolk” dialectical speech pattern. I didn’t totally abandon it. I sometimes keep the “a” in front of an “--ing” form of the verb, for instance “a hoppin’ through the grass.” I don’t do this myself, but I know a lot of folks who do. Also, I do chop the “g’s” on the end of words. No southern person puts a hard “g” on the end of words. If they do, they are not truly southern.

Now, I am obsessive in my looking for the three crow brothers every day even though Kellie is back to walking with me. I always observe what they are doing, but I won’t mouth or mumble my songs in front of Kellie. That would be embarrassing. Yeah, I am not a singer at all. I couldn’t carry a tune in a bucket. However, I keep the songs going in my mind. I doubt that I will ever get tired of the three crow brothers. They have become a part of my life.

Please remember that these are songs meant to be sung aloud. You must make up your own beat because my rhythm is the tempo of my steps, and you do not walk with me literally. However, you are more than welcome to walk along with Kellie, Luna, and I metaphorically. Anyway, the crow brothers verses are not metrically sound because their cadence is that of my walking beat, and sometime I drag a heel or a toe in the dirt, on the gravel, or in the grass. Think of the ditties as songs whose words can be sung snappily like the quick chirps of a sparrow or drawn out like the reeling warbles of a robin. Don’t think of the sounds the crows make though. They are, like ducks, birds that make plenty of noise but who will never be accused of singing.

Most of all, I ask readers to enjoy these verses for what they are. If you must, think of them as something akin to a Dr. Seuss poem with a bit more of an adult edge. Give each one its proper space and due diligence. Every kind of art deserves that individual attention even if it does not quite the rather high standard of poetry.

Three Crow Brothers

They’s allus three crow brothers

A messin’ on Knob Hill

They’re a flittin’ and a dippin’

But they’re never standin’ still.

Two’s a scratchin’, one’s a watchin’

With a piercin’ evil eye,

Till a hackin’ and a cawin’,

They explode into the sky.

A hecklin’ and a jawin,’

They cut shines all through the blue.

I allus wondered who they’s funnin’ at.

I think it must be you.

The Three Crow Brothers Again

There’s the three Crow brothers

A sittin’ on a fence,

A cawin’ and a jawin’

And a lookin’ all intense.

They’ve got a bunch of ideas

In their tiny little head

Of a checkin’ and a peckin’

On some things that turn up dead.

They’re a flittin’ and a skittin’

And a telling big ol’ lies

‘Bout the time they found a human

And they gobbled up his eyes.

I know just what they’re saying

‘Cause I know just what they do

There a layin’ and a prayin’

That tonight’s dinner is you.

The Three Crow Brothers and a Blue Jay

There’s them three crow brothers

A quarrelin’ in the road,

A fightin’ and a bitin’

At a roadkill toad.

Along comes a blue streak,

A quirky, perky jay,

Gives the brothers what for

And steals their meal away.

The three crow brothers

Are lookin’ at each other.

Each of them is thinkin’

He could do without a brother.

They could do without each other,

I have no doubt it’s true,

But they sure as heck can’t stand

A nosy outsider like you.

The Three Crow Brothers Find a ‘Possum Skull

There’s them three Crow brothers

A scratchin’ in the clay

A searchin’ for some shiny thing

To brighten up their day.

One has found a bottle cap,

That’s sparkly red and round.

The other two are puzzlin’ at

A bleached white thing they’ve found.

It used to have two coal black eyes

And soft, fur-covered skin,

And a pink and raspy tongue

Inside its ‘possum grin.

But now it has a toothy smile

Like all dead mammals do.

The three crows think it looks like them.

I think it looks like you.

The Three Crow Brothers and Satan

Up there’s them three crow brothers

Confabbin’ in the pines.

Seems Satan needs some messengers

To serve some heedful lines.

He’s got words for politicians,

And posts for crooked cops,

And notes for he whose dark desires

Aren’t sated till he stops.

There’s texts for pulpit preachers

Who speak not as they do.

I’ll ask the brothers, but I think

He’s got ideas for you.

The Three Crow Brothers at the Gun Range

There’s them three Crow brothers

Beneath the gun range chair

A takin’ empty shotgun shells

And lobbin’ em in the air.

“Look, I am a human,”

I think I hear one say,

“I throw these empty plastic hulls

At disc-shaped birds of clay.”

“I am a human too,”

I hear another caw

While he holds down a fast-food cup

And wrassles with the straw.

One says, “I’ll not be human,”

A half-chewed burger at his feet,

“I don’t know but I quite sure

They shit on what they eat.”

Crow brothers can’t be human,

No matter what they do.

I’m sure they cannot copy me

But they might mimic you.

The Three Crow Brothers: A Death in the Family

There’s only two crow brothers

A sittin’ head-to-head.

They’re looking down onto the ground

Where brother three lies dead.

They seem to be all puzzled,

A thinkin’ what he’s done

And wondering how their brother found

The wrong end of a gun.

Where did he go? What did he do?

What brought some human there

To seek their darling brother out

And pluck him from the air?

And I myself grew troubled

To see the crows so sad,

But then the murder all arrived,

Six sisters, mom, and dad.

The oak tree held a dozen crows

A squawkin’ like they do.

They reckoned I had killed their boy.

I told’em it was you.