I SHALL MISS the songs of the blackbirds when I move out of here. The ones that cluster around the Oxford Violins shop don’t sing like your average blackbird. Some of them, instead, open their beaks to deliver a bar or two of classical music – it could be Mozart, it could be Beethoven, and they finish off their songs with a peculiar trill that I haven’t heard any blackbird anywhere else deliver. No threnody here – they are all delightful tunes and as there are plenty of magpies round here, they must ever be on their guard against rapacious egg thieves. Here’s some shots I took on this beautiful spring morning. ♥
blackbirds in a pie
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,
Oh 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!
If you’re down in Acuna and
you ain’t up to being alone
Don’t spend
all your money
on just any honey
that’s grown.
Go find
the Mexican blackbird and
send all your
troubles back home.
They all call her her “puta”
’cause no one
really knows her name.
She works the cantina,
dancin’ and a-lovin’s
her trade.
Her mama was Mez’can and
her daddy was
the ace of spades.
Oh, let’s drive
that old Chrysler
down to Mexico, boy.
Said, keep your hands
on the wheel there.
Oh, it sure is fine,
ain’t it, mate?
Now, ya got it!
Hand me another
one of them brews
from back there.
Oh, this is
gonna be so good.
Mm, she’s hot as a pepper
but smooth as
a Mexican brew.
So head for the border and
put in an order or two.
The wings of
the Blackbird will
spread like
an eagle for you.
No dirges her, either.
Where have ALL Bees Gone?
no answer to what is causing the losses. Disease, bad weather and poor nutrition due to habitat loss are the prime suspects.
“British beekeepers are having to work even harder at this time of year to replace their missing colonies to keep the stream of honey flowing and more vitally to maintain the ‘pollination army’ on which we depend for so much of our food, and the beauty of our countryside.”
Honeybee numbers worldwide have seriously declined in recent years. Some attribute this to “Colony Collapse Disorder” – possibly caused by the single-celled fungus Nosema ceranae, or mobile phone radiation Heres The Raven
[First published in 1845] Black As Lenoir & Quite, too.Golden Honey Rays Long Gone.
Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered weak and weary,
Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore,
While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,
As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door.
`’Tis some visitor,’ I muttered, `tapping at my chamber door –
Only this, and nothing more.’
Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the bleak December,
And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor.
Eagerly I wished the morrow; – vainly I had sought to borrow
From my books surcease of sorrow – sorrow for the lost Lenore –
For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels named Lenore –
Nameless here for evermore.
And the silken sad uncertain rustling of each purple curtain
Thrilled me – filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before;
So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating
`’Tis some visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door –
Some late visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door; –
This it is, and nothing more,’
Presently my soul grew stronger; hesitating then no longer,
`Sir,’ said I, `or Madam, truly your forgiveness I implore;
But the fact is I was napping, and so gently you came rapping,
And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my chamber door,
That I scarce was sure I heard you’ – here I opened wide the door; –
Darkness there, and nothing more.
Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there wondering, fearing,
Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to dream before;
But the silence was unbroken, and the darkness gave no token,
And the only word there spoken was the whispered word, `Lenore!’
This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the word, `Lenore!’
Merely this and nothing more.
Back into the chamber turning, all my soul within me burning,
Soon again I heard a tapping somewhat louder than before.
`Surely,’ said I, `surely that is something at my window lattice;
Let me see then, what thereat is, and this mystery explore –
Let my heart be still a moment and this mystery explore; –
‘Tis the wind and nothing more!’
Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt and flutter,
In there stepped a stately raven of the saintly days of yore.
Not the least obeisance made he; not a minute stopped or stayed he;
But, with mien of lord or lady, perched above my chamber door –
Perched upon a bust of Pallas just above my chamber door –
Perched, and sat, and nothing more.
Then this ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling,
By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore,
`Though thy crest be shorn and shaven, thou,’ I said, `art sure no craven.
Ghastly grim and ancient raven wandering from the nightly shore –
Tell me what thy lordly name is on the Night’s Plutonian shore!’
Quoth the raven, `Nevermore
Black Poem:About Blackness, In HomiHive Poetry Session.
Remember Those Huge Black & Yellow Bumble Bees. My Favorite.
drashek
That’s so raven
Yep that’s me!!!!!