A message from Brigid ....

I have been a blogger since 2005. At the height of my blogging busy-ness, I had "a small stable" of blogs on different topics: social and political commentary; desert spirituality; food; waste and ....

A few years ago I called time and ceased blogging altogether - although there was an occasional post. I had called it quits. I am an aged woman these days with a couple of serious illnesses. I am not allowed to drive. I am no longer active in organisations. I think it fair to say that I am housebound. I am active on Facebook, although I am not there as often as once I was. I have decided to embark on a re-entry into the blogging world ... beginning with The Trad Pad and, possibly, a return to my food blog, Oz Tucker. I have always used a lot of photographs on my blogs ... and I miss not being out and about with my camera.

The Trad Pad has been my blog for the lovely things of life. The controversial or political has seldom intruded. Occasionally, the spiritual has found its way in, but I kept spirituality for the blog, Desert. I don't yet know if I will revive that. I will stick pretty much to food and the lovely things of life. If I have some regularity with those two categories, I feel that I will be doing well. I hope that, with this blog new friendships can be formed and old friendships renewed; new lovelies discovered; new reflections can enter into the meaning of modern life. I would love to hear from you - particularly if you have suggestions for new topics to enter into the conversation. So, it is a new year. Let's see what it has in store, what it can bring to us. And I hope that those who share the spirit of The Trad Pad can spread the message of a world of beauty, the creativity of humanity, and the joys of simplicity and tradition. ~~~ February, 2017

Thursday, April 12, 2007

Sing a song of freedom,er.. sixpence

The following poem comes from The Peaceable Table.
In these times, many of us are considering the matter of cruelty free eating so it is apt.
It is a little long - but worth it.

Sing a song of sixpence
A pocketful of rye
Four and twenty blackbirds
Baked into 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 got just the piecrust
And really could not say
The dish was very dainty--
For the birds all flew away.
The cooks and maids all chased them
‘Round the royal halls;
The birds just flew much higher
Within the castle walls.
One maid was in the garden
Performing daily chores,
She heard the noise and ran in –
But did not close the doors!
The four and twenty blackbirds
Flew out to open skies.
“The King”, they sang in merry glee
Will not eat blackbird pies!”
The King was very wrathful,
So foolish he had looked;
He vowed that every Blackbird
Would soon be caught and cooked!
The Queen was in the parlor
Eating bread and honey
She heard all this commotion
And thought is wasn’t funny.
She said, “Oh, sire, forgive me,
But I must have my say.
Blackbirds were not meant for pies –
I’m glad they flew away!”
“A bird was meant to soar high
And sing up in a tree.
A man is not the only one
Who wants to live all free!”
The King looked at his loving Queen
Standing brave and tall--
“Her Majesty speaks truly,"
He said to one and all.
It hurt my pride to think that
A bird defied a King:
But Kings and knaves and blackbirds
All share one needful thing.
He called for pen and parchment
And wrote a public order:
"Let none make blackbird pies
Within my kingdom's border!"
He called his palace workers-–
They gathered in the hall--
And then a very handsome plan
He told to one and all.
Now when the Blackbirds heard it
They all began to sing.
Everyone went right to work –
Yes, even the Queen and King.
They sawed and nailed and painted,
They worked the whole day through.
They made each bird a birdhouse
All bright and clean and new.
Each house was snug and cozy
'Gainst winter’s rain and snow.
The four and twenty houses
Were hung up in a row.
The birds were fed the finest grain-
And sometimes blackberry pie;
(This was just on holidays)
And it was made with rye.
Sing a song of sixpence
A pocketful of rye.
Four and twenty blackbirds
Fly free up in the sky.
--Betse Streng
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