Tadpole's Outdoor Blog

December 21, 2011

Grand-daughter Bethany with a winter poem

Winter

Winter, oh winter, why are you so cross?

You kiss the crisp sweet autumn wind away,

And send it on the wings of the north blown crest,

You make the sweet chickadee hide its bill against his breast,

Make it hide its face from the world in shame,

For he does not make the long flight from winter,

He is not scared to stay alone, unlike the rest

Winter, oh winter, why are you so cross?

You force your winds upon the white puffs in the sky,

You make them despair so they frown upon the ridges and timbers,

You breathe your wintry chill and make them cry,

Their tears spill upon the barren earth in frigid droplets,

The winds howl with a creaking sigh

Winter oh winter, why are you so cross?

The wise owl’s round orbs shut,

Not to be disturbed in until the white war is over,

It stays hidden until the forest hush,

The pigeon’s wings form a blur,

Flapping, in a rush

Soothing lullaby is the orchestra,

Shifting willows, a cooing thrush

Winter, oh winter, why are you so cross?

The bluebells shrivels and spoils in despair,

They fade to dust at the sound of your name

The bubbly creek has covered itself,

It is now nothing but a blackness, untamed

The creeping fox hides his swishing tail,

His sly nose tip sleeps until woken,

Until springs yellow rays come again

August 27, 2011

A poem from grand-daughter Spiffy

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The Ailment of A Great Blue Heron

The bird I have in question,
Yes you often see,
He has a strange ailment yes,
It’s that he never moves or sings

He has not the bluebirds tweet,
Nor the ravens ca-caw ca-caw,
No robins melody, sweet
Or boastful crows guffaw

He only moves when needed,
He only eats when hungry,
But even then,
That’s only when,
Mere juices grumble in his tummy

His problem causes interlude,
Of worrisome discussion,
Scientists now conclude,
That he has a slight concussion

Doctors have investigated,
This particular cause for illness,
Some of them have estimated,
It’s because of too much stillness

But the question still remains,
Why the bird is so solemn and still,
Has God imposed on him a shyness?
Or ordered paste put to his bill?

Some say he has delirium,
Others say the flu,
But I know better than all of them,
I think he’s plainly blue           ( Get it, Blue Heron? HA HA HA!!! )

They make it harder than need be,
Just look at him you’ll see,
He is blue, very blue,
But no bluebird . . . indeed!

Love ya,
Bethany / Spiffy

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