Missed a Week, So How About Three Poems?

Google Gemini generated sketch of blue jay and mockingbird in my cherry tree

Yeah, I am sorry. I skipped posting a blog last week. It was Mother's day, and we had children here. We grilled, ate lunch, and played games all afternoon. We used our new pickleball net at the tennis courts for the first time. That was exciting. That is my excuse for not posting a blog last week. I will make up for it today with not two but three new poems.

In Walk with Words news--I got the second proof in the mail a week and a half ago. I found four more typos and punctuation errors, one on the back cover. Kellie found a lot of consistency errors in the Crow Brothers poems because with some -ing ending words, I chopped the "g" like "messin'," but in other places I wrote "seeing" or "spacing." Since I had to do another proof anyway, I went ahead and fixed those issues. Another proof is on the way. Keep holdin' on--or should I write "holding?"

I have also been doing a lot of reviewing and revising on the next Dewey Lynn book. Some of my more avid readers may remember Aunt Charlotte's Crib from the blog a few years ago. Well, I think that in a month or two, I may have another novelette ready to go with that story. It has changed a lot, so even if you read it when I posted it, you will be reading a whole different story.

I don't like writing prose much, and I've finally figured out why. Poems invite revision. Every time I read one of my poems on the computer, I revise in some manner or the other, usually a simply word change, and when I make that revision, I immediately recognize the effect it has. I can see whether it has made the poem better or worse and easily adjust accordingly. Prose is not that way. Every time, I read a chapter I revise words, sentences, and paragraphs. I tend to add passages. Then, I read the whole book again, and I often think, "Why the hell did I add that?" Then, it has to come out. But again, I don't see the effect of it until I read the whole book again, not just that part of the chapter. The only way I could ever write a full length novel would be by sticking a bunch of shorter narratives together. I am a constant reviser and prose does not invite continuous revision.

Anyhow, here are the three brand-spanking new poems in no particular order. ENJOY!

No Pie at All

Last year, my tree was full of fruit.

My pie was not too small,

But this year, it’s plainly clear

I’ll get no pie at all.

The cherry tree was full of blooms,

Its limbs as white as snow.

I swear that on a sunny day

You’d see the cherries grow.

Each limb was sagging with the weight

Of cherries hinting red.

Dreams of steaming cherry pies

Were drifting through my head.

The fruit was swelling, big and fat,

Some cherries nearly burst,

But mockingbirds and jays can fly,

And they got to them first.

Unlike an inoffensive finch

Who takes a tiny nibble,

The mockingbird and blue jay leave

Barely enough to quibble.

So, now, I stand beneath my tree

And look at empty stems

Though it is hale and hearty and

Has leaves on all its limbs.

I guess that I’ll forgive the birds

For stealing my great haul,

But for this year, it’s plainly clear

I’ll get no pie at all.

Before It Hits the Ground

No more roses, no more roses!

The stems bend to the ground.

The mockingbird supposes

Her nest will be knocked down.

Each mocking-nestling waits there

With its clownish old man frown.

Best watch for mom unmoving

And then eat without a sound.

Your nest is in the open

And is easy to be found.

I’d like to see you fly away

‘Cause danger’s all around,

A garter snake, a one-eyed tom,

A loping puppy hound.

I know your mom is worried.

She flits frantically around.

The rose blooms are so heavy

That they’ve pulled the hedging down.

I hope you will be flying soon

Before it hits the ground.

Not One Was a Crow Brother

I saw a batch of crows today,

None of them together.

They were not of a common flock

Though all were black of feather.

One pecked the dew from soggy weeds,

One perched high on a wire,

One quarreled with a mockingbird

Who never seemed to tire.

One landed on Knob Hill and cawed,

His voice a dusty croak,

Beside a pile of burning leaves.

He shimmered in the smoke.

There might have been a dozen crows,

Or it might have been the same.

Any man with good sense knows

He’ll never get its name.

It’s hard to figure out a crow

Or tell one from another,

But here’s one thing I surely know

Not one was a Crow Brother.