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Beauty is the sole legitimate province of the poem.-Edgar Allan Poe

Poetry is when emotion has found its thought and thought has found words--Robert Frost

Poetry is an echo, asking a shadow to dance--Carl Sandburg

I have nothing to say, I am saying it, and that is poetry--John Cage

You will find poetry nowhere unless you bring some of it with you--Joseph Joubert

Poetry is what in a poem makes you laugh, cry, prickle, be silent, makes your toe nails twinkle, makes you want to do this or that or nothing, makes you know that you are alone in the unknown world, that your bliss and suffering is forever shared and forever all your own. ~Dylan Thomas

joybragi84

Cherries, Finches, and Pies: Poem-a-Week


How about we start off with the poem? That seems like a good idea. ENJOY!


A Disagreement with a Finch About the Size of a Pie

 

I have a disagreement with a finch

Who took a mile when I gave her an inch.

I let her forage in my cherry tree.

I thought if I helped her then she’d help me.

 

I gave the little songbird half a chance

To keep my fruit tree free of worms and ants

And watched her hop from limb to limb each day,

Thinking she kept the hungry bugs away.

 

Then came the day green cherries morphed to red

And dreams of steaming pies swirled in my head.

I shooed the goldfinch off and saw her fly

Into the bower of a tree nearby.

 

She landed out of sight, but nonetheless,

She shrieked and scolded me without success,

For now, the treasures of the tree were mine,

And she would have to wait second in line.

 

I stepped into the tree with bowl in hand

(I have no need to climb when I can stand.)

And started picking fruit the darkest red,

 The tempting ones from limbs above my head.

 

A cherry ripens best nearest the sun

And those up at the top are soonest done.

One and two and three, a nice hand full

So eager to be picked, I did not pull.

 

Although the tree was still and wind was calm,

The chubby cherries shook into my palm.

Their juice ran down my thumb, across my wrist.

Then, I looked at the bounty, “What is this?”

 

I called out to the girl finch, “What the heck?”

Each cherry had been tasted, just a peck.

One bite and it was ruined all the same,

And I think we all know who was to blame.

 

I saved a hundred cherries, maybe more,

Not near as much as I had thought before,

And flung each finch-pecked cherry to the ground.

I noticed how she watched without a sound.

 

I didn’t get my bowl full so that I

Was worried that I might not have a pie,

But pie I got although it was quite small.

A little pie still beats no pie at all

 

The finch and I have yet to come to terms.

She claims she only pecked the fruit for worms.

I don’t think that’s the truth, but it could be,

For I’ve not seen an insect in the tree.

 

And while I’m all for peace I must insist

That finches in my fruit tree should resist

The urge to peck each cherry on the tree

And leave at least a large pie’s worth for me.


The good news is that, while I did only have enough cherries for a small pie for my birthday, the cherry tree is producing like it never has before since it was planted. It has large cherries by the thousand. Today, I will pit the cherries that I have picked over the last few days and will probably pick more when I am done. I have a nice huge bowl of cherries now. Therefore, for my after-birthday, I will get a cherry cobbler. Kellie will do the cooking not me.


Last night, we were awakened by a tornado warning at 4:52 AM. We've seen on social media sites that tornado did some serious damage in the Norfork/Salesville area. Nothing major happened here. About 5:15 or so, the power went out, but it seemed that the storm had passed by then. However, shortly after we lay back down, we got another tornado warning. This tornado was supposed to be directly over Salem. Again, we went downstairs. Our house is a berm house. Two-thirds of the first floor is underground. We heard loud noises, and our trees shook a bit, but we never felt compelled to retreat to the bathroom, which is in the center of the underground part. We watched the sky as it lightened and stayed ready to run if need be. Nothing ever happened. The exciting night reminded me of a poem that I posted a couple of weeks ago. Here it is again in case you forgot it.

A Tornado in Arkansas

 

The cloud sucks humid vapors

Into the circling air,

And updrafts shear like ocean waves,

Tossing their foamy hair.

 

Wind currents sweep across the sky,

A dark majestic river,

And gust across the breathing land

And then are gone forever.

 

A column shoots up from a base,

A tumult slowly welling,

Concealed behind a rainy veil

That hides chaotic swelling.

 

From the tempest’s blackened caves,

A burst of sunlight gleams,

But then is doused and overwhelmed

By roiling sky bound streams.

 

A funnel dangles from the cloud,

A shifting wisp of smoke,

That shatters all its tail sweeps by

In one decisive stroke.

 

A growling sound becomes the roar

That all Arkansans dread.

A beast is born whose hunger grows

No matter what it’s fed.


I still have plenty of copies of my book if anyone would like one. You can email me (mbt1966@yahoo.com), and I will send you one, or you can order one at Lulu.com. Here is the cover of the book. See you next week.




Comments


I find that I cannot exist without Poetry--without eternal poetry--half the day will not do--the whole of it--I began with a little, but habit has made me a Leviathan.-John Keats

We do not quite say that the new is more valuable because it fits in; but its fitting in is a test of its value.-T. S. Eliot

A man may praise and praise, but no one recollects but that which pleases.-George Gordon, Lord Byron

The great beauty of poetry is that it makes everything in every place interesting.-John Keats

Our faulty elder poets sacrificed the passion and passionate flow of poetry to the subtleties of intellect and to the stars of wit; the moderns to the glare and glitter of a perpetual, yet broken and heterogeneous imagery, or rather to an amphibious something, made up, half of image, and half of abstract meaning. The one sacrificed the heart to the head; the other both heart and head to point and drapery.-S. T. Coleridge

The purpose of rhythm, it has always seemed to me, is to prolong the moment of contemplation, the moment when we are both asleep and awake, which is the one moment of creation.-W. B. Yeats

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