I saw him crouched on a mossy log
Below, the brook babbled
And a dragonfly flitted ‘cross that flossy bog
Its shimmering shapely body dappled
In the iridescent fog of the morning
Meanwhile on the log he dabbled
Our smokey jokey croaky blokey
The glistening glands of a bloated bull frog.
Rivit he said from a bubble on his head
Before plunging in for his morning swim
And then diving down without a sound
Never to be found.
Like the frog of batrachian notes in the inkwell of swamp,
And the bee waggling hieroglyphs to the papyrus of hive,
Like the flight of birds in the palm of radiating skyline,
And the sad might of the world to the caged dog’s eye.
On main street in Sharpsburg
the man who always sits outside
is in his usual place,
and I wave to him on the drive home.
After eating in the sun, and the books
and the pet store. My sister and I
talk about it and I tell white lies
on the phone. About how I’m still
coming to Utah and how I’ve found
a place to live, but I can’t go there yet –
the truth, but slant. I keep hoping
I’ll know what to do on Monday.
It’s spring, and I mark the time
by the dead deer with necks twisted back
lining the sides of the roads. Since yesterday,
the **** parts stand out more.
Tonight I went to the river
to visit my friends and help them
make a campfire. Something I’ve always
been good at – arranging sticks,
even green ones, so they go up in flames.
We toast marshmallows and I sit close
to the ground, so my face is hot.
They leave for a little while, and I watch
the flames spread alone and listen
to the spring peepers. In the creek beside
the river they are deafening, and I want
to cover my ears on the walk back to my car.
But I leave them be, and let the cries pour in –
I know what it’s like, to be small,
to want to make noise in the world.
I can't find the words to translate this.
Frogs chorus from the hollows, moist earth' scents
'Non wafting on winds' softest kiss, th'exhale
So lightly fragile 'cross my cheek t'avail
As I hark, lips half oped to hear from hence
In sweet surprise their voices, wondring thence
If crickets also fiddle? Robins'd hail
At gloaming, to yield notes of Mavis' scale
Of ancient lullabies I'd list to, whence?
Forsooth. As if my soul's restored in tour,
Likeas a sleeper whose long nightmares to
Effect are broken, nor but dreams and poor,
I feel now I can breathe, yea see anew?
Perhaps...who knows what shall be? Love'd bestir
As in the wings is't? now that Summer'd woo.
Sheesh, if only I could write like this all the danged time.
April is the pouring rain
Frog beats and birthday wishes
Warm nights and short clouds
Wrapped in foggy breaths.
Day by day they glean more knowledge of their fishy world.
While the old philosophish still argue over watery definitions,
geolofish have dug deep down below the rotting leaf mould
and declare the world is made of shingle.
Meanwhile the astrophysifish have theories about
how it all began, Big Splash the main contender,
and speculate on whether there is life beyond the Pond.
But the frogs just laugh at all this. They know the delicate
taste of slugs and snails. On summer nights they sit
on stones to take the air and contemplate the stars.
rising from the underworld
cradling the first seahorse
conceived by the unknown
goddess and god
straight from the abyss
where a flicker of light
ascend out of the darkness
micro creatures frightened
like a sleeping Godzilla
appearing out of nowhere without limbs
magically flying in the currents of the sea
dating back 13 million years
peaceful mission spreading beauty
kind mortal eyes dreaming of your fascinating ways
while others eat you into extinction
with possibly only 20 or 30 years left
aren’t we all floating around?
like frogs in cold water
heat generated in our minds from stupidly and avarice
slowly warming the situation
until we’re all dead
think about the connection we all share
extinction by riding on beautiful creatures coattails
success that should be slapped in the face
When the land is arid
and the ponds are dried up,
Dying frogs find moisture.
They hop from place to place.
Cocooned in comfort,
We wine and dine.
Indifferent to the pains
And the suffering of the poor frogs.
Fun times for human!
One day mother nature strikes,
The opposite happens
and humans are drowning...
Humans begin to struggle and clamore
Dying by the thousands.
Frogs watch us floating bye
Fun times for frogs!
The frog and human anology in my poetry may not corroborate it'll some day make sense.
I wanna just sleep all night out here.
Out where the bullfrogs loudly chorus, dense
Night cut by lightning flashes' silent tale
Above the North, an airplane's voice in frail
Excuse at intervals 'non slicing thence
Through deeper calm as crickets' throbbing sense
Of playing at second fiddle in the pale
Chill keeps time, where ne winds pass through t'avail,
Yet as the moist air smells like summer, whence?
I wonder. It's like camping as it were
Upon the city's edge, where trucks sift through
The intersection, cars now too, but fer
All that none speaks. Clouds are worn fragments blue
E'en watches melt away. And ne soul'd stir.
I hug my knees and wish YOU were here too.
Just a couple years ago I'd sit nestled under our red Maple tree, hugging my knees, howling silently at the moon, listening. Now those are stript I sit on the front stoop and find the effects not significantly altered after all. Laugh at me?