Rockin’ Robin and all that jazz

Two of my favourite books of poetry to read from were Shel Silverstein’s Where the Sidewalk Ends and A Light in the Attic.


“Early Bird”

Shel Silverstein (

Oh, if you’re a bird, be an early bird
And catch the worm for your breakfast plate.
If you’re a bird, be an early early bird—
But if you’re a worm, sleep late.

from: Where the Sidewalk Ends

And if you go here you can read another wonderful poem with a bird in it by Shel Silverstein.


For many more poems with birds as a theme, including this one,

Last Night I Dreamed of Chickens

Jack Prelutsky, 1940

Last night I dreamed of chickens,

there were chickens everywhere,

they were standing on my stomach,

they were nesting in my hair,

they were pecking at my pillow,

they were hopping on my head,

they were ruffling up their feathers

as they raced about my bed.


They were on the chairs and tables,

they were on the chandeliers,

they were roosting in the corners,

they were clucking in my ears,

there were chickens, chickens, chickens

for as far as I could see…

when I woke today, I noticed

there were eggs on top of me.


From Something BIG Has Been Here, published by Greenwillow, 1990.

look here:

Here’s a wonderful ditty about the dawn chorus…

Symphony At Dawn

By Joseph Kozlowski

Slowly waking to cacophony,
The pre-concert
Tuning of a symphony.


Then silent pause, pre-syncopation,
To build what’s now
Our anticipation.

Sir Cardinal takes the opening bar.
Calling his wife,
Who responds from afar.


Repeating notes like a fine-tuned string,
He corresponds
To a fine violin.
Robin’s come, she’s trilling Ola,
Adding much,
With her viola.


Mourning Doves are more like cellos,
A supporting cast
Of charming fellows.


Blue Jays’ more a musical riddle,
Do they play brass,
Or more bass fiddle?


The shiny section starts en masse,
As Grackles screech
Like a hinge of brass.
Starlings add discordant notes,
As a little flock
Above us floats.


Hermit Thrush acts the hobo,
With perfect pitch,
On his solo oboe.


It’s often nice to add a singer,
And Wood Thrush alto,
Is a real humdinger.


Nothing like a finale drummer,
And “Woody” throbs
Like a frenzied plumber.




And finally a new poem from me…

The Meadowlark

Who whistles in the thistles on this sunny day?

Yellow vested lawyer; watch her whoosh away.


See you tomorrow!