Sweet, loud frog, harsh voice rising
like a climbing vine in a green world
of ponds and leaves thin as filaments.
The sad frog has never acquired
grace or flight, yet multiplies
geography of night.

You may want to be a fish
or a bird, yet there is a steady
wholeness about you, a settled
resignation of lowness –
no particular ambition.

You are a being both firm
and subtle ; with your webbed
feet you cling solidly to the
wet earth. With your perfect
camouflage, you enhance
the beauty of your verdant
surroundings.

Emperor of the archipelago
of lily pads, you astound
observers with your acrobatic
leaps. Nocturnal creature, you
are a visual enigma.

So, hold your head high
and with your rough harmony,
sing me a star-lit serenade.

Once upon a time
Things were funny as Hell,
Life was worth living
And everyone had a place in this magical story
Of witches and Princes, princesess and ghosts,
Kings and queens and everybody else.

Soul users
Served some frog legs,
Delicacy today,
The witch is feeding her owls,
Keeping safe a few.
She's watching from her broom-flight
For souls she needs to use?
If they're Alright or not
She cares not.not _ not caring for it a lot
More than you thought.

Oh, well, a lie or two
Won't harm anyone!
Truth:... She speaks with a heart of true!

The witch selects her targets,
What she needs is what she seeks,
What she wants is what she cares for.

I want only my peace,
Even if louder than you May think!
But what to do? What to do?
May God help you too!

The tadpole begins to frog
She surrenders
expanding bones

"Am I the water
Or is it the other way around?"

Suddenly ****** into the one with everything

"Am I dead
Or is it the other way around?"

Try to become itself
or allow it to be revealed

The trees suddenly make sense to her
they've been watching her
calling her home
she longs to be held by them again
If only she could reach

Hop Hop
above the leaves
ahhhh
at ease

The other side of wave
while always in the middle of one

And. Then. She’s born again.

jumping jacks
slimy smiles
fantastic froggy

Yellow coats and squeaky shoes
Butterfly nets and umbrellas blue
These are best for hunting frogs

Quiet giggles and smiling friends
Tall water reeds and river bends
These are best for finding frogs

Slippery mud and misty rain
Grassy tumbles and many stains
These are best for catching frogs

Slimey fingers and careful grips
Awed, sweet glances and grinning lips
These are best for holding frogs

Happy tears and soft goodbyes
Brand new name and darkened sky
These are best for freeing frogs

I dream that the frogs in my backyard have wings
and they fly up to the trees
in the dewy light of dawn
to meet their maker
and kiss under the canopied shade of listless leaves
grazing their backs
and reminding them of simpler times
down from the watery swamp they came from
their webbed feet leave prints on the bark
muddy and cumbersome
but innocent in their doings
a flash flood of lightning  awakens me
i'm laying in damp earth again
time to go back inside

Long ago, in a youth now gone,
I spent hours at a pond,
A clay base , sun adorning,
Tadpoles swimming, half forming,
I spied with magnifying glass,
Frogs finally hopped at last,
Now, no frogs, cause no rain,
Is is all because of climate change?
So I ponder on such ponds,
Where have all the tadpoles gone?
That was our ecological health,
How can we restore our planet's wealth?