Bird Songs


Sing a song of happiness,
With pocket full of cry.
Four and twenty poems,
Drawn on winter’s sky.

When the spells were broken,
The words began to dance.
Wasn’t that a noble feast
To jump and take a chance.

Men were busy in the parlor,
Debating legislature.
Women at the convocation,
Mourning Mother Nature.

Children basking in the sun,
Only they could hear:
Softly flew the poem birds
And whispered in your ear.





About BeeHappee

Where have all the bees gone? Where have all the flowers gone?
This entry was posted in Photography, Poetry and tagged , , , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

7 Responses to Bird Songs

  1. Like it, Bee. Good one. I hope all is well.

    Here’s help for those who can’t quite place it…..

    Sing a song of sixpence,
    A pocket full of rye.
    Four and twenty blackbirds,
    Baked in a pie.

    When the pie was opened,
    The birds began to sing;
    Wasn’t that a dainty dish,
    To set before the king?

    The king was in his counting house,
    Counting out his money;
    The queen was in the parlour,
    Eating bread and honey.

    The maid was in the garden,
    Hanging out the clothes,
    When down came a blackbird
    And pecked off her nose.

    • BeeHappee says:

      Thank you, sir. All is well as well as could be, the Force comes out today, so life is good. 🙂 We’ve been just messing around with kids with nursery rhymes and such.
      Loved your photos from Patagonia! Back in 2010-2011 we had a dream to move down there, so it is cool for me to remember. I often watch and love Francis Mallmann, the Argentine chef who cooks there in the woods. Looking forward to hearing all bits and pieces of your experiences from that part of the world.

      P.S. the stories and interpretations behind the rhyme are quite interesting:

  2. Walking My Path: Mindful Wanderings in Nature says:

    I love this Bee!

  3. shoreacres says:

    Phooey! I was going to see how much of the original rhyme I could remember, and there it was. That’s all right. I enjoyed it anyway. Of course, there’s always one blackbird that’s out of step. Maybe that’s the poem bird. I’ll follow him.

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