A Robert Frost Parody on America's Stormy Week in the Offing

Saturday—Jeff

As some of you may know, I’m a big fan of Robert Frost, and often turn to his work for inspiration on setting mood. This time I turned to one of his less known poems, “The Need of Being Versed in Country Things,” to explain what we out in the wilds of Northwest New Jersey and so much more of America are about to endure courtesy of Mother Nature. 

I love it out here, if only for the adventure each new day –and passing storm–can offer in the form of new challenges. At times, though, there are unexpected surprises, and they can be costly. So here’s my tale of what it means to be versed in country things...with examples of what has transpired in past storms and hopefully will not repeat in the new one headed our way this weekend. 

 

To Farm we’d gone to be again

Beneath clear skies far away from woe.

But first came ice then snow heavy on the wood

Like sugar candy glass brightly aglow.

The trees stood poised along the way,

To bear the weight or fall in shame

Should a dancing breeze add wind to the heft

To break their stiff backs and end the game.

Alas some lost and fell to their end

Most deep in woods or close by a road

But one did find to land upon our roofs

Another took down our power load.

Lines still lie that once flew through the air

And our propane supply is quite thin.

But the tree’s off the house we can sigh

Thanks to chainsaw and rope in my bin.

All this week there’s been continuing grief

Searching for fuel to keep up the fire  

Hemmed in by power lines crossing the way;

Plus down trees blocking all beyond each wire.

Yet, more was to come to make me sad.

Rejoiced when down to the farm workmen crept,

Then learned our boiler had died, poor thing.

Now heat’s back…along with great debt.

If a tree falls in the forest and you happen to be sitting....

here, you definitely hear it!

Plumbers to the rescue

The costly culprit

Ah yes, the joys of being versed in country things.

By the way, here’s Robert Frost’s original version.

 

"The Need of Being Versed in Country Things"

The house had gone to bring again

To the midnight sky a sunset glow.

Now the chimney was all of the house that stood,

Like a pistil after the petals go.

The barn opposed across the way,

That would have joined the house in flame

Had it been the will of the wind, was left

To bear forsaken the place’s name.

No more it opened with all one end

For teams that came by the stony road

To drum on the floor with scurrying hoofs

And brush the mow with the summer load.

The birds that came to it through the air

At broken windows flew out and in,

Their murmur more like the sigh we sigh

From too much dwelling on what has been.

Yet for them the lilac renewed its leaf,

And the aged elm, though touched with fire;

And the dry pump flung up an awkward arm;

And the fence post carried a strand of wire.

For them there was really nothing sad.

But though they rejoiced in the nest they kept,

One had to be versed in country things

Not to believe the phoebes wept.

—Jeff

Jeff’s Events (still in formation)

2026

All Live Events

Saturday, February 7, 3:00 p.m. CT
Murder By The Book
Author Speaking and Signing
Houston, TX

Wednesday, February 11, 6:00 p.m. ET
Mysterious Bookshop
Author Speaking and Signing
New York, NY 

Thursday, March 26, 7:00 p.m. MT
The Poisoned Pen Bookstore
Author Speaking and Signing
Scottsdale, AZ

Friday, April 10, 6:30 p.m.
Mystery Lovers Bookshop
Author Speaking and Signing
Pittsburgh, PA

My Poetic Reflection Upon Finishing a Manuscript For a New Series

Jeff—Saturday

Inspiration for this parody of Robert Frost’s great poem, “After Apple-Picking,” came to me a few years back when I'd finished the manuscript of a new book (a standalone that never came to be).

On the premise that if at first you don't succeed be as the wicked and don't rest until you do (or something like that), during Covid I undertook to write a different sort of book. One I'd been meaning to write for years.  But by the time I finished it, I'd moved on to a new publisher for my Chief Inspector Andreas Kaldis series, and put that novel aside to concentrate on writing books #13 and #14 in the Kaldis series. 

Having had such a wonderful experience with the folks at my new publisher, I decided to show them the manuscript for what would be the debut novel in a new series. 

Cue the dancing cats and dogs, they loved it!!

On the occasion of such great news, I thought I'd repost this little ditty in the interest of giving the curious among you a window on how this writer feels at such a moment.

Here goes…

After Prose-Picking

My long, two-sided draft is staring up at me, 

A heavenly thrill. 

Though might be a plot line I didn't fill. 

What of it? And there may be yet to see 

Characters left out hanging on some bough. 

But I am done with story telling now. 

A sense of something missed is not a fright, 

The grip of slumber has me drowsing off. 

Yet, I still see my laptop screen in sight, 

It’s as if I’m caught in an endless class, 

Filled only with words and no time for sloth.

Held captive to words like whorey and crass. 

My laptop crashed, though my draft got a break. 

And I was well 

For I’d backed up before the curse befell. 

Now I could tell 

What form my dreaming was about to take. 

Manuscript pages appear and disappear, 

From front to blessed end, 

And every speck of my thoughts showing clear. 

This author surely wants to see a break, 

But feels the pressure of another round. 

That will soon come from my publisher’s end, 

Of comments based on where my seller’s been.

Plus then a mound 

Of load on load of edits coming in. 

But I have had too much 

Of manuscripting: Now I’m overtired 

From the great harvest I myself desired. 

There were seventy thousand words to touch, 

Cherish in hand, to sound, to let some fall. 

But all 

Those struck with worth, 

No matter if part used or spiked with stubble, 

I sent straight on to my word-mulching heap, 

For in such earth, 

One will find help with trouble. 

Such when thoughts seem asleep, if sleep it is. 

And words are gone. 

I don’t turn to the Bard for words of his.

I search through my mulch, for what lies thereon.

Frost covered and deep. 

—Jeff

It's My Birthday and I'll Sigh If I want to, But I Shan't.

 

 

Jeff––Saturday

 

On the occasion of my birthday, I proudly present “The Road Not Taken––NOT by Robert Frost.”  

 

It’s a greatly abridged description of transcendental moments of decision in my life. For those classicists among you, the original—frosty––version follows upon this parody of my favorite poet’s much revered lyric view on life's choices.

 

 

Two roads diverged in my youth as should,

And thinking I could not travel both

And fearing a wrong choice, long I stood

Searching down each road as far I could

Seeking clues on which led best toward growth;

 

I chose the most financially fair,

Dismissing my passions’ author claim,

I took the label lawyer to wear;

Perceiving fortune by passing there

Instead of a life far from the same,

 

I’d picked my path when I made my play

Yet as years faded by on that track

I longed more to find another way!

But knowing how way leads on to way,

I doubted I could ever come back.

 

But I shan’t let this end with a sigh

For I trotted back along the fence

To where two roads diverge in a ‘should I’—

To follow the one less traveled by,

And that has made all the difference.

 

 

ORIGINAL VERSION

 

The Road Not Taken

 

By Robert Frost

 

Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,

And sorry I could not travel both

And be one traveler, long I stood

And looked down one as far as I could

To where it bent in the undergrowth;

 

Then took the other, as just as fair,

And having perhaps the better claim,

Because it was grassy and wanted wear;

Though as for that the passing there

Had worn them really about the same,

 

And both that morning equally lay

In leaves no step had trodden black.

Oh, I kept the first for another day!

Yet knowing how way leads on to way,

I doubted if I should ever come back.

 

I shall be telling this with a sigh

Somewhere ages and ages hence:

Two roads diverged in a wood, and I—

I took the one less traveled by,

And that has made all the difference.

 

Thanks, Robert––Jeff

A Frosty Reception Upon Finishing a Manuscript

Jeff—Saturday

Yesterday proved to be my lucky day. I've been working for a year to complete the manuscript for Chief Inspector Andreas Kaldis novel #14 by February, and yesterday I did just that!!!! 

 

One of the reasons I've been so desperate to finish #14 is because the release date for #13, AT ANY COST, is February 6th, by when I must be on the road for my first all live book tour since pre-Covid days. 

 

Some might say that falls into the category of no rest for the wicked--or at least none for those who labor to create wicked characters.  But I got lucky in coming across this parody of Robert Frost’s great poem, “After Apple-Picking,” that I'd written a few years back under similar circumstances.

I wrote this little ditty in the throes of having finished a new book after more than a year in the making. My intention was to give the curious among you a window on how at least this writer feels at such a moment.  The feeling hasn't changed, nor has the fact that the writing doesn't become any easier.

Here goes…

After Prose-Picking

My long, two-sided draft is staring up at me, 

A heavenly thrill. 

Though there's a plot line that I didn't fill. 

What of it? And there may be two or three 

Characters left out hanging on some bough. 

But I am done with story telling now. 

A sense of something missed is not a fright, 

The grip of slumber has me drowsing off. 

Yet, I still see my laptop screen in sight, 

It’s as if I’m caught in an endless class, 

Filled only with words and no time for sloth.

Held captive to words like whorey and crass. 

My laptop crashed, though my draft got a break. 

And I was well 

For I’d backed up before the curse befell. 

Now I could tell 

What form my dreaming was about to take. 

Manuscript pages appear and disappear, 

From front to blessed end, 

And every speck of my thoughts showing clear. 

This author surely wants to see a break, 

But feels the pressure of another round. 

That will soon come from my publisher’s end, 

Of comments based on where my seller’s been.

Plus then a mound 

Of load on load of edits coming in. 

But I have had too much 

Of manuscripting: Now I’m overtired 

From the great harvest I myself desired. 

There were one hundred thousand words to touch, 

Cherish in hand, to sound, to let some fall. 

But all 

Those struck with worth, 

No matter if part used or spiked with stubble, 

I sent straight on to my word-mulching heap, 

For in such earth, 

One will find help with trouble. 

Such when thoughts seem asleep, if sleep it is. 

And words are gone. 

I don’t turn to the Bard for words of his.

I search through my mulch, for what lies thereon.

Frost covered and deep. 

—Jeff

Jeff’s Upcoming Events

My thirteenth Chief Inspector Andreas Kaldis novel, AT ANY COST, publishes by SEVERN HOUSE on February 6, 2024 and here is the first stage of my book tour:

 

2024

All Live Events

Thursday, February 8, 7:00 p.m. MT
The Poisoned Pen Bookstore
Author Speaking and Signing
Scottsdale, AZ

Saturday, February 10, 2:00 p.m. PT
Book Carnival
Author Speaking and Signing
Orange, CA

Thursday, February 15, 7:00 p.m. PT
Third Place Books
Author Speaking and Signing
Lake Forest Park, WA

Saturday, February 17, 2:00 p.m. CT
Hellenic American Women’s Council
Lincolnwood Public Library
Author Speaking and Signing
4000 Pratt Avenue
Lincolnwood, IL

Wednesday, February 21, 6:00 p.m. ET
Mysterious Bookshop
Author Speaking and Signing
New York, NY

Friday, February 23, 7:00 p.m. ET
Mystery Lovers Bookshop
Author Speaking and Signing
Pittsburgh, PA

Thursday, February 29, 7:00 p.m. PT
Vroman’s Bookstore
Author Speaking and Signing
Pasadena, CA

 

Turning to Robert Frost on an Oy Vey Eve

Jeff––Saturday   The wreckage depicted in the photo above is the result of a seven-year-old at work on her toys.  It’s innocent child play, but it brought a smile to my face, and a bit of calm to the real anxiety we’re all sharing these days.   It led me to search around for something to write about that appropriately conveyed my thoughts on enduring the double whammy of post-election madness and genocidal Covid-19 behaviors. I fell upon this parody I’d written seven years ago based on Robert Frost’s iconic poem, “Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening.”    It struck me as an on the nose description of how I feel these days.  Now to see how many others share it.     Whose words these are I think I know. My mind is on to pillage though; To find something for blogging clear Some thoughts that matter, not for show.    My blogmates all must think it queer To see a poem this time here With so much news of fraud and fake, And daily tales of more to fear.   But now I think it’s time to wake And trust there might be some mistake. To hope somewhere beyond the sweep There will be peace for all God’s sake.   We know what’s out there’s dark and deep. And if we choose we all could weep, But I prefer to pause to reap, The promises men swore to keep.   ***** Of all the words Frost did compose. The ones that hit it on the nose, For how to live amid the whirl, Are those his tombstone did unfurl:   “I had a lover’s quarrel with the world.”   Not a bad philosophy for all that’s about us these days.   –Jeff