Over in the Meadow

'Over in the Meadow' is a well-known and oft-performed song for children. There have been numerous variants in the lyrics over the past century and some. This is the version I've worked out for my own use and may actually get around to recording someday.

Over in the Meadow

Over in the meadow, in a pond in the sun,
lived a proud mother duck and her little duckling one.
Quack, said the mother. I quack said the one,
and they quacked and were happy in their pond in the sun.

Over in the meadow, in a worn out shoe,
lived a proud mother mouse and her little mousies two.
Squeak, said the mother. We squeak, said the two,
and they squeaked and were happy in their worn out shoe.

Over in the meadow, in a hole in a tree,
lived a proud mother owl and her little owlets three.
Hoot, said the mother. We hoot, said the three,
and they hooted and were happy in their hole in a tree.

Over in the meadow, on a sandy shore,
lived a proud mother snake and her little snakes four.
Hiss, said the mother. We hiss, said the four,
and they hissed and were happy on their sandy shore.

Over in the meadow, in a snug bee hive,
lived a proud mother bee and her little bees five.
Buzz, said the mother. We buzz, said the five,
and they buzzed and were happy in their snug bee hive.

Over in the meadow, in a nest of sticks,
lived a proud mother crow and her little crows six.
Caw, said the mother. We caw, said the six,
and they cawed and were happy in their nest of sticks.

Over in the meadow, in the sight of heaven,
lived a proud mother lark and her little larks seven.
Sing, said the mother. We sing, said the seven,
and they sang and were happy in the sight of heaven.

Over in the meadow, in an old packing crate,
lived a proud mother cat and her little kittens eight.
Mew, said the mother. We mew, said the eight,
and they mewed and were happy in their old packing crate.

Over in the meadow, in a morning glory vine,
lived a proud mother cricket and her little crickets nine.
Chirp, said the mother. We chirp, said the nine,
and they chirped and were happy in their morning glory vine.

Over in the meadow, in a cozy little den,
lived a proud mother fox and her little kits ten.
Bark, said the mother. We bark, said the ten,
and they barked and were happy in their cozy little den.

This arrangement by Stephen Brooke ©2024

Infinity

Our universe, though unimaginably vast, remains finite. Nothing infinite can exist in a finite system.

Does infinity exist at all, other than as a concept? The multiverse theory suggests other universes exist, but that their number also could be finite. Or perhaps not—infinite universes might exist.

We will never be able to know. I will say, however, that God would have to be infinite; anything less, anything finite, could not truly be God. God, then, might be defined as infinite being.

Again, we will never know. We can conceive of infinity and that is in its favor, but it remains impossible to prove.

I can not say I believe in infinite existence, but I operate on the assumption that infinity is real. If nothing else, it gives purpose where a finite universe (or multiverse) would not. That purpose is to be. To exist.

Hiawatha

I read quite a lot of poetry as a little kid. I’m not sure why and I know it’s a bit unusual, but I was going through every anthology in the house by the time I was eight. I might blame it all on Longfellow; I was exposed to ‘Hiawatha’ early on and was entranced by both the rhythms of the poem and its powerful mythic tales. Perhaps my love of fantasy could also find its roots in ‘Hiawatha.’

Helmet Tanka

choosing a helmet
before I ride the bike ~
my fashion statement

I’m partial to the blue fade
but all-black does look classy

Stephen Brooke ©2024

a piece in the form of a tanka

Two More Zappai

a moment that should

have lasted forever

has come and gone

(note: this is not totally original but a line from a T’ang Dynasty poem rephrased as a senryu)

time turned upside down

the hours spilling on the floor

who will sweep them up?

Stephen Brooke ©2024

Blossoms, a poem

Blossoms

If you wish, I’ll say
I loved you, some long-past spring.
My memory is no better
than yours but I can imagine
us hand-in-hand beneath
the flowering trees of then.
I might even have kissed you,
or maybe it was the other
way around. You can decide
and I’ll remember only
the blossoms drifting like snow.

Stephen Brooke ©2024

maybe just a bit of a T'ang feel to this one?

Super-Genres

All fiction can be said to fall into three categories, which I choose to call Super-Genres.* These are Realistic Fiction, Surrealistic Fiction, and Speculative Fiction. This idea is neither new nor original to me, but it makes a great deal of sense (although, as all such ideas, it must by nature be a bit arbitrary).**

Realism—Realistic Fiction—is self-explanatory. It tells of the ‘real world,’ or, more accurately, our experience of the real world. It strives to tell of things as they are. Historical fiction, contemporary realism, crime stories, and so on fit into this category.

The Surrealist then takes that realistic world and twists it. There are no rules involved in what happens. Strange events are intended to jar rather than to make sense. This is not the same as genre Fantasy, with its internal logic and world-building.

This leaves Speculative Fiction, which covers a wide swath from ‘hard’ Science Fiction to ‘high’ Fantasy. This category differs from Surrealism in that it creates an entirely separate world with its own rules. Everything that happens is according to those rules; this is why Magic Realism is not Speculative Fiction (i.e genre Fantasy) but, rather, a subcategory of Surrealism.

‘Mainstream’ novels are, of course, Realistic Fiction. It is what is likely to be taught in most college writing courses. Some even consider it the only valid form of fiction, the only serious form, and feel the need to circle the wagons to protect it from those frivolous popular entertainments that lurk outside academia. But the Surrealist and the Speculative have coexisted with the Realist from the beginning of story-telling. They are every bit as much a part of our legacy.

Bits of surrealism do occasionally slip into the other two categories, bits of absurdity. That has always been true; it might be argued that a dash of the Surreal is a necessary component of humor. We have to look at the overall work to assign it to one of these three categories and even then it is not always completely clear-cut. Still, most will fall into a Super-Genre pretty readily; one can not find a more basic division of fiction. All genres and categories grow from these roots.

Stephen Brooke ©2024

*It seems as good a name as any.

**I’ve written (more than once) of this concept before, but could find my essays neither online nor in my own notes. So this is a complete rewrite ‘from scratch’ on the subject.