tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11723837.post9197889805189530226..comments2024-01-25T02:05:41.090-08:00Comments on Writing Way North Writing Way North Writing: menaceRob Buddehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14194044084965758225noreply@blogger.comBlogger3125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11723837.post-77917514991252291382009-01-15T10:09:00.000-08:002009-01-15T10:09:00.000-08:00Thanks Naima!!Thanks Naima!!Rob Buddehttps://www.blogger.com/profile/14194044084965758225noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11723837.post-1413935648934261992009-01-08T23:26:00.000-08:002009-01-08T23:26:00.000-08:00Your poem depicts of juvenile violence as far as m...Your poem depicts of juvenile violence as far as my understanding is concern.<BR/><BR/><A HREF="http://www.essayontime.com/services/essay.html" REL="nofollow">custom essay</A>Anonymousnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11723837.post-81802879268534919142009-01-01T08:43:00.000-08:002009-01-01T08:43:00.000-08:00BIRDSI used to kill birds in my boyhood,Bluebirds ...BIRDS<BR/><BR/>I used to kill birds in my boyhood,<BR/>Bluebirds and robins and wrens;<BR/>I hunted them up in the mountains,<BR/>I hunted them down in the glens;<BR/><BR/><BR/>I never thought it was sinful,<BR/>I did it only for fun<BR/>And I had rare sport in the forest<BR/>With the poor little birds and my gun.<BR/><BR/><BR/>But one clear day in the spring-time<BR/>I spied a brown bird in a tree,<BR/>Merrily a winging and singing,<BR/>As happy as birds can be<BR/><BR/><BR/>And, raising my gun in a twinkling,<BR/>I fired - my aim was too true,<BR/>For a moment the little thing fluttered<BR/>Then off to the bushes it flew.<BR/><BR/><BR/>I followed it ,quickly and softly<BR/>And there to my sorrow I found<BR/>Right close to its nest full of young ones<BR/>The mother bird dead on the ground.<BR/><BR/><BR/>Poor birdies, for food they were calling,<BR/>But now they could never be fed,<BR/>For the kind mother bird who had loved them<BR/>Was lying there bleeding and dead.<BR/><BR/><BR/>I picked up the bird in my anguish,<BR/>I stroked the wee motherly thing<BR/>Who could never more feed its dear young ones,<BR/>Nor dart through the air on swift wing.<BR/><BR/><BR/>I made a firm vow in that moment<BR/>When my heart with such sorrow was stirred<BR/>That never again in my lifetime<BR/>Would I shoot a poor innocent bird<BR/><BR/><BR/>A ISFELD 1944 <BR/><BR/><BR/>(I loved this poem when I was little, but I also hated it, because it made me cry. My grandfather would recite it in a solemn, elegaic tone. Oh, btw: Isfeld's grandson Mark died in 1994 clearing landmines).Jeremy Stewarthttps://www.blogger.com/profile/17641626302140786755noreply@blogger.com