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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
Sep 222 min read

Revisiting the Three Crow Brothers for Poem-a-Week and a Picture of a Big Spider


Kellie got this great picture of a giant tarantula that crawled out of the woods and into our yard. It was probably about eight inches from the tip of its front leg to the end of its body. I don't believe I have ever seen one quite so big in the wild. I wish that it would have been the kind of thing that inspired me to write a poem, but it isn't. My interest in spiders ebbs and wanes. I didn't get any feeling from this one.


However, the other day while walking at the fairgrounds, I saw the three Crow brothers on the fence at the rodeo. Now, do I know they are brothers? No, if someone can tell me how to tell the gender of a crow by looking at it from afar, I would be pleased to know. I do know that this murder (A group of crows really is a murder.) of crows hangs out around the fairgrounds and the city park year round. I assume that they must be siblings or may be a three-way mates thing, but I have seen these same three crows around for years now. I find it hard not to write about them because they are so serious and goofy, curious and aloof, and silly but scary. I already have another poem in mind besides this one. Here it is. ENJOY!


The Three Crow Brothers Again

 

There’s the three Crow brothers

On the rodeo fence,

A cawin’ and a jawin’

And a lookin’ intense.

 

They’ve got a lots 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 the found a human

And they gobbled down 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.


I have a few copies of Uncle Boog and the Dogfight on the way if anybody is interested. The book is not flying off the shelves like I assumed that it might (JK!). If you would like a copy let me know. I may sign it if you want me to do so. Anyway...I sure would appreciate it if all you blog readers would help me get the word out. I have about 26 regular blog readers. If they got two other people to buy the book, that would be 78. If those 78 each got two other people to buy the book that would be 234 books. Next thing you know, I'd have a bestseller. Wouldn't that be great? :)


Uncle Boog and the Dogfight is available at Lulu.com and Amazon.com. I haven't found it anywhere else yet.



See you all here 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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