I stared at the pond for hours
Dipping my index and letting it drip

A rustle here, a rumour there,
Wouldnt stir my pouted lip.

In the green I didn’t note you.
No bark or howl did you insist.

I had defied your mild chirping,
Untill I saw you wearing mist.

Green frog, looking upwards.
Slight, but surely there.

Please stay here, pondside with me,
In this sigh im glad to share.

I reside in shallow desires,
That have burned to ashes,
A mere swine swindler and a mime,
Are my traits to define,
Exhibiting aimlessness,
I watch the stars align,
And for God to show me a sign,

Like a River sullen in misery,
Knowing it will have to fit In a pond,
I besiege my reach,
And so I preach,
My heart to not have it's way,
Now as a pond,
I reside without a say.

I went to pharmacy today.
Had to get into the que?
Didn't take my vit....a....mins.
But I used a shifting spanner.

The water closet broke down.
Now I'm in deep cagada.
What is one to do?
If you get my Ensenada.

The pond was a quarry first,
a blast furnace to the colonies
where trains ran across its field.
“Iron Ore Bed” map points called it.
It was left to the rain when it dried up.

When his parents bought the land
twenty- five years before he was born,
the field was overgrown and the pond
was weedy and inaccessible.

Over the next few decades,
they cleared the area all around it,
diverted a nearby brook
to flow through it.  
It became the center of their life.

It was sixty feet deep with water
that was clear and warm.
It teamed with small trout, pickerel
and bass, shoals of gentleness that
passed by him and his cousins as they swam.  

Great blue herons, snowy egrets
would feast their briefly before
their Souh American migration,
always mindful of the need
for even quick hellos and goodbyes.

In his presence they would dip their wings
and then rise majestically over the pond
above the beech, birch and ash,
vanishing from his sight, beyond the horizon.

And then, always the rain would come,
the pond shimmering in the downpour
washing the pond mud and silt
from his arms and legs, the last
streaks of it from his hair.  

Afraid he would be struck by lightning,
he retreated to the screened in porch,
with everyone, out of the rain, playing
Monopoly in the coming firefly night.

I am a raindrop, born in the clouds. My existence, a fleeting dance between the ethereal and the tangible. I join my siblings, millions of others, in a journey that seems both endless and predestined. We tumble, we spin, we collide, and yet there is a strange sense of harmony to it all. As if we are part of something greater than ourselves, something that transcends the physical world.

And then, finally, we reach the edge of the world. The vast, endless expanse that stretches out before us. We plummet, feeling the weight of gravity pulling us down, down, down. The wind rushes past us, tearing at our tiny forms, yet somehow it also carries us forward. It whispers secrets of the world below, of the life that awaits us in the depths.

And then, just as suddenly as it began, my journey ends. I strike the surface of the water with a soft splash, disappearing beneath the surface. I am no longer a raindrop, but a part of something else now. I am a leaf in the still waters of a pond.

The world around me is a study in contrasts. Above, the sky stretches out in shades of blue, dotted with clouds that occasionally drift past, casting shadows over the water. Below, a carpet of greenery sways gently in the breeze, hinting at a hidden world teeming with life. I drift lazily, carried by the currents, my only concern being to stay afloat and avoid being swept away.

Drifting gracefully on the serene surface of a tranquil pond, I exist as a leaf with no defined purpose, no specific path to follow, and no inner musings. Contentedly, I meander aimlessly, embracing the tranquility that envelops these undisturbed waters. As a leaf, I find solace in simply being, surrendering to the gentle currents that guide my journey.

As I record my thoughts down, new memories resurface.
The dusty-green leaves of the lemon tree—
swayed gracefully beside the tranquil pond,
where the fish wandered in liberty.
Moss had begun to propagate around the curves of the pond. Intermittently, koi and guppies-
the size of a human pinkie—
would leap into the air briefly
before plunging back into the water,
disrupting its placid surface.

There is a pond in

the forest lake: beautiful --


black ice around it.

Fairytales and picture books
Don't tell the whole truth.
Sometimes,
Toads are just toads.
They don't always become your prince
After you kiss them.

It's a funny idea, really -
The notion of finding love
In a murky pond.
Lonely bogs have lonely frogs,
I suppose.
Did you have any doubts
As you traced the surface of the water
With a fingertip?
When you took him in your palms,
Did you not have second thoughts?

It takes a mental blindfold,
Opaque enough to block out reason,
To hold a toad so dear.
He might be charming at first,
If for nothing else than for the idea
Of what the two of you could be.
But soon enough,
The emptiness will settle in.
He won't call you pretty,
Or hold you close.
He'll leave a little trail of slime
Wherever he goes.


And at the end of the day,
I'm left wondering...
Why the **** did I kiss a toad?