#ponds
Out in the forest, deep still water’s sleep
As through the bushes soft flowers peep
A reflection shines of bushes nearby
On top of the water like a quiet Angels sigh
Light brown Acer’s stand proud and tall
Forming a guard of honor over the small waterfall
As the water trickles making small ripples of light
As the Sun shines on the water, a reflection so bright
High trees are standing overlooking the scene
Remembering how many people, nearby have been
Fish swimming endlessly, no cares at all
Only disturbed by the leaves that may fall
Still waters run deep. Or so they say
As the Sun goes to rest at the end of the day
Soon darkness falls, all in the woods falls asleep
And the night animals come out and silently creep
All round the area, hope they do not fall in
Because at night that would be such a mortal sin
So on wards and upwards, this situation exists
For tomorrow is a another day, in this woodland, Pond tryst
Apr 24
Apr 24, 2026 at 2:41 AM UTC
They called it harvesting,
though nothing was planted,
just winter thick enough
to trust your weight.
Steel teeth bit the pond,
slow and patient,
a six-foot saw teaching ice
where to let go.
Each block rose clear as glass,
light trapped inside cold,
a season lifted whole.
There was a time
when every pond mattered,
when winter was inventory,
when cold could be counted,
stacked, shipped, insured.
Men learned the math of danger:
two inches for a body,
four for a horse,
five for the faith
that a wagon would hold.
Grids scored the surface
like farmland reversed,
furrows cut into silence.
They farmed the frozen skin of water,
sleds sliding where reeds slept,
blocks hauled like livestock
toward barns packed with sawdust,
insulated hope against the thaw.
Ice moved by rail,
north to south,
Valley ponds cooling cities
that never knew their names.
Doctors lowered fevers,
tables held meat another day,
summer bent slightly toward mercy.
Then machines learned how to make winter
any month they pleased.
Rivers grew *****
ponds were spared,
and cold lost its price.
Now the saw returns
for memory, not survival.
A crowd gathers,
hands numb with curiosity.
Someone lifts a block
as if it might still be useful,
as if the past could chill the present.
The pond holds,
winter listens,
and for a moment we remember
that even ice had a season
when it meant work,
and work meant staying.
Feb 6
Feb 6, 2026 at 12:58 PM UTC
pebbles and ponds
still waters and ripples
this is the pebble
I freely throw.
Jan 15
Jan 15, 2026 at 10:12 AM UTC
It sits still
Stagnant
The surface a mirror of misery
Life long gone
Waiting for the rain
But it never comes
It sits still
Still with pain
Still with melancholy
Paralyzing despair
It recedes into itself
Fading away
Cracking and crumbling
Waiting for the rain
Waiting for the tears long gone dry
A settled numb stillness
Waiting for a ripple
Waiting for a change
Waiting
For salvation
Dec 31, 2019
Dec 31, 2019 at 11:31 AM UTC
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?
Sep 25, 2019
Sep 25, 2019 at 4:45 PM UTC
Change of my yonder
Spring's kiss embraces me so
Swans glide on still ponds
Jun 25, 2018
Jun 25, 2018 at 8:52 AM UTC
Sun lit green trees highlighted
By a background of black
Clouds tearing apart
Drops crash earth bound
Explode on leaves
Turning dust to mud
Trickles into streams
Rivers into torrents
Pealing the skies
With cracked bells
Gutters overflow
Appearing puddles
Become ponds
Ponds burst banks
Forlorn plants droop
Jul 21, 2015
Jul 21, 2015 at 3:37 PM UTC