The Carrion Crow
Crows abound in the neighborhood and around the yard. Often in early morning a great, noisy caw-fest occurs.
A carrion crow
sat on an oak, fol de rid-
dle, lol de riddle…
Only tiny oaks sprout here and there, as planted by industrious blue jays. Crows sit in the neighbors’ incense cedar, redwoods and other miscellaneous, unlooked-after bushes.
Watching a taylor
Shape his cloak; Sing heigh-ho the
carrion crow, fol…
Crows are very smart, it’s known. They can pick latches, love to collect small shiny objects and are good thieves.
Wife bring me my old,
bent bow, fol de riddle, lol
De riddle, hi ding…
Crows in this neighborhood are urban crows. It may be this makes them smarter than their country cousins. Nevertheless they are well nourished and sleek for living on the city streets.
That I may shoot
Yon carrion crow; sing heigh-
Ho, the carrion…
Crows often crack a walnut by dropping it repeatedly from a street light standard. There’s an instance in town where a house down-spout was clogged with too many shells. A crow or crows opened nuts while on the roof.
The Taylor he shot
And missed his mark, fol de rid-
dle, lol de riddle…
A crow across town enjoyed a left-over, smashed-flat-in-a-parking lot, bag of French-fry and hamburger leavings; held the paper down with a foot and picked it clean.
And shot his old sow
Quite through the heart; sing heigh-ho
The carrion crow,
Fol-de-riddle, lol de riddle, hi ding do.
Wife bring brandy—in
A spoon for our old sow is
In a swoon! Heigh-ho…
Be yourself he said. Dag Hammarskjöld advised us. Who’s he? Time long past.
How to be oneself ? Does any living person have a clue? Do they?
Like; love? bacon. Why? My uncle Bob once told me. It’s hog, sonny, hog.
—— CELL STORY
Cell phone to ear she Doesn’t hear the sirens so clear. Accidents happen.
Geometrical, Math’matical poetry. Hmm…Lobachevsky?
Geometrics & Math’matics & Poetics Think Lobachevsky.
Well. How ‘bout Riemann? Zeta function says it all. How’s that, professor?
—— IT IS FINISHED:
Well, He’s done it now. Same story—two thousand years. Yep. Risen again.
Well, He’s done it now. Ev’ry year headlines proclaim. Yep. Risen again.
iPhone poetry: I squint at the tiny screen Composing Haiku.
iPhone poetry: I squint at a tiny screen. Words compressed—Haiku!
iPhone poetry: I squint at the tiny screen. Compress-Squeeze the thought.
Many years married. One upstairs the other down- He comes up for meals.
Burning weeds smell good. Roundup smells bad; withered, dry bodies left. Poisoned.
Burning weeds smell good. Roundup: small, dead, brown forms left. Eco-friendly? Which?
Burning weeds smell good. Burning: instant nutrients. Soil wants, needs these back.
Cherry picking facts. Political analysts Suit their prejudice.
You just spilled the wine! Tablecloth doesn’t care. Drink responsibly!