Rainy day people and frogs
Packed New York streets, mossy bogs
Umbrella or bumbershoot
In quagmire and crowded route
Splashing masses, polliwogs

Precipitation, cascade
The alley or everglade
Plebeians and ***** toads
Wetlands, winding back roads
Holding brolly or sunshade

Mobs, croaker in the wallow
Soggy marsh, bypass below
A sprinkle, pitter-patter
Parasol, doesn't matter
Your bullfrog and average Joe

My heart is a squishy stone
I toss out
across this green-gray gloss
mosquitoes skim
but the odds were always slim
it would skip with any vim given
its mix of bulges
and irregular beats
Let’s not mention that
surprising lack of heft
currently keeping it afloat
There it lies not quite flat
a maroon lily pad
I’ll lay piddling wagers
some nomadic creature
can make a home
Maybe the crawdad whose squeak
nothing like a fog-horn warns,
“Frog dress is on the marsh”
I swear I can hear
her bull groaning,
“The slippery *****
can’t stay clothed”
Newly hitched
this bogged-down daddy’s got
a passel of polliwogs to feed
and he needs
the lean of her tender
slimy legs for support
The crickets and I
might inwardly snigger
but from such
small giggles bred
is the manly laugh of strife
and that’s when
my heart slinks slowly back

n leas of dying daisy's
he lies upon the backs
of those he lays
the lies like upturned bricks
thick with spittle
and coming mud
he muddles through each splotchy patch
as if it is his idem
everlasting
last
coiled he reels
reeking in wait
for his  unappealing
stiffened snake
insipid wretch
with rusted wrench
his shrivelled tools
a cake with stench
each loose lewd *****
is one more lent
to the putrid pool
of polliwogs and salamanders
spent drenched in his capsized
boats of ill demise
he criticises truth and lies
again the pain is gnarled around his pen

Vashti Ayla Miria

The Evolution of Sophomores

Poor sophomores like polliwogs within
Their small Samsaric Sea do swim about
And seemingly without purpose or point
Startled by shifting shadows or loud noises

But polliwogs in time absorb their tails
Then grow their legs, and hop ashore to eat
Mosquitoes, moths, and flies and dragonflies;
Sophomores acquire their driving licenses

And seemingly without purpose or point
Do drive about their small Samsaric Sea

Hank enjoyed a continental lunch upon the rocks & pine needles whenst I says: “Pass the lima beans, ***-wipe” {similarly said to Ray gun}, but Hank was too drunk to budge & like a brownish cloud of farted gas bent ½-wise, he swayed & fell into the nerve-work of perpetuity, running north from a southerly direction. Corn flakes, pellets, kibbles & shredd'd wheat, on top of ceramic tile, cracked grout, tongue & groove flooring, wearing my black under-shirt w/pride, forming new, & I pray, & lasting friendships @ Pervert Park. I'm waiting for a truck so where is it? I'm alive & well w/nothing more important to do. Here comes one now: a stroke.

I thought the trail was over
just beyond the yellow gate.
But no.
The daisies drew me in and I soon found
that with a little ducking
and bending around,
I could continue on.

I thought I'd turn around for sure
in that first clearing at the top of the hill--
It seemed like such
a perfect stopping point--
so high!
but something in me still was hungry,
so I crossed the grass and found
a path that led me deeper in.

The conifer-lined walking trail
bade me sigh with aches and joys,
rewarding me
with simple pleasures, now and then--
a bunch of purple flowers
or a little pool of polliwogs.
It's rolling ridges continued on, the end always hidden behind
one more turn.

The forest, very kind to me,
has never truly let me see
anything to satisfy without a whispered mystery.
A promise, or a hope, at least,
a path so many wonders deep
coaxes, smiles, unfolds to me
and keeps me coming ever back.

Someday, when I'm transformed
I'll know
it's twists and turns are infinite
and wonders over and below I haven't half considered yet.
But now, where all seems closing in, I'll ever be surprised
each time it isn't over yet--each time I learn to rise.