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Following are several translations
of the 'Old Pond' poem, which may be
the most famous of all haiku:

Furuike ya
kawazu tobikomu
mizu no oto

        -- Basho



Literal Translation

Fu-ru (old) i-ke (pond) ya,
ka-wa-zu (frog) to-bi-ko-mu (jumping into)
mi-zu (water) no o-to (sound)






    The old pond--
a frog jumps in,
    sound of water.


Translated by Robert Hass



Old pond...
a frog jumps in
water's sound.


Translated by William J. Higginson



An old silent pond...
A frog jumps into the pond,
splash! Silence again.


Translated by Harry Behn



There is the old pond!
Lo, into it jumps a frog:
hark, water's music!


Translated by John Bryan



The silent old pond
a mirror of ancient calm,
a frog-leaps-in splash.


Translated by Dion O'Donnol



old pond
frog leaping
splash


Translated by Cid Corman



Antic pond--
frantic frog jumps in--
gigantic sound.


Translated by Bernard Lionel Einbond



MAFIA HIT MAN POET: NOTE FOUND PINNED TO LAPEL
OF DROWNED VICTIM'S DOUBLE-BREASTED SUIT!!!

'Dere wasa dis frogg
Gone jumpa offa da logg
Now he inna bogg.'

        -- Anonymous
        

Translated by George M. Young, Jr.



Old pond
leap -- splash
a frog.


Translated by Lucien Stryck



The old pond,
A frog jumps in:.
Plop!


Translated by Allan Watts



The old pond, yes, and
A frog is jumping into
The water, and splash.

Translated by G.S. Fraser
Raj Arumugam Oct 2010
Quack! Quack! Quack!
Ok, where’s everybody?
I’ve been gliding round in this pond the last half
hour singing my Duck-thoven tunes:
Quack! Quack! Quack
Quack!Quack! Quack!
And so why’s everyone avoiding me
like I don’t know how to make conversation?
Quack? Quack?
The other day the duckling glided near
and asked if I’d share bits of the bread
thrown to me by
these pesky humans who can’t
read the Don’t-feed-the-ducks signs
and I swallowed the bread bits whole and said:
Quack! Quack! Quack!
And the silly duckling ran away crying! –
Hey how can I answer with food in my mouth?
Quack! Quack! Quack!
Your mum taught you to speak with food in your mouth?
Quack! Quack! Quack!
Have you got any brains in that quacking head of yours, duckling?

Really, no reason to avoid me…
I mean the other day they asked me what
I think about the environment and I said:
Quack! Quack! Quack!
and they all looked astonished
at the wisdom of my words.
So why avoid me now?
This cute **** duck glided quite close to me
and asked me what I thought about pre-marital ***
and I said: Quack! Quack! Quack!
and I flapped my wings and walked on water
and held my head high with the sweetest:
Quack! Quack! Quack!
and that silly female duck jumped to the overhanging branches
and refused to come down for all my quacking:
Quack! Quack! Quack!
Seriously, what’s this all about? –
You excite a ****** duck and then hide in the branches?
What’s this pond coming to!

The other day a silly fish swam close to me and asked
for directions round the pond and I said:
Quack! Quack! Quack!
And the fish said: Hey! I don’t understand Duck language.
Don’t you speak Finglish?

What the Duck! I said. Why don’t you learn Quacklish!
Quack!Quack!Quack!


So where’s everybody?
And really I don’t understand why
everyone’s avoiding me.
I mean really I can qua-ttle off the Entire History of the Pond
and the Holy Texts Revealed by Duck God to the Duck Prophets
and I can quack about anything and I can quack
about all the wines and grog
and I can teach the creatures how to change pond water into wine;
and I can quack about all the delicacies in the pond
and I can sing too, listen:
Quack! Quack! Quack!
And such a delightful voice and such original tunes too!
A graduate of Duck-kovsky Underwater Academy.
And so – hey! – where’s everybody?
Why do they avoid me like I’ve got the Swine Flu or something?
Hey, I’m just a pond duck who likes to Quack! Quack! Quack!
You got a problem with that, you quacks!
She stood up from the bed straight faced, turned towards the door and made her way hastily through it. She neared the door ever quickly tears swelling in her eyes before ripping it open and leaving him sitting in the bedroom motionless and still.
He meanwhile stared at the ground in awe. Trying to piece together the past hour or so and especially what just happened. He remained frozen for a period before snapping too searching round the house for her, calling her name but received no reply. Upon making a round down the hallway, he could hear the door banging against the wall, open and empty...
He rushed outside in a mad panic and bolted to the end of the driveway frantically looking in either direction for her, but by now she was already approaching the entrance to a park she was familiar with, they’d been here before. She was already making her way across the frozen grass, it numbing her feet instantly. They stung as she made each step dressed solely in a jacket and boxers. The cold night air sent her into a shivering frenzy but her eyes were fixed on the pond.
Unaware of the girl whereabouts the boy overwhelmed with guilt and worry sprinted off down the street fueled by determination and adrenaline. Sprinting several hundred metres until he tripped and tumbled grazing his sides and knees, unfathomed and eyes swollen he stood and set off running harder determined not to give up. Through blurred eyes he failed to see a couple taking an evening stroll in front of him. With a loud grunt on the part of both parties he ploughed through shaking his head and continuing as he had.

The girl stood at the foot of the pond walking to the edge of the pond. “This is it...I'm finally leaving this hell I made...” she mumbled to herself as she closed her eyes and taking deep breathes she finished with “there's no going back now...” Taking a single step forward her frame plunged into pond, sinking, body freezing and trembling as it sank deeper into the dark abyss.

The park loomed ahead, with all that was left he pushed forward, hip and side bleeding from the fall. Wincing in pain he burst into the clearing. His eyes darted to and fro’ using the minimal light from the street lights to hopefully make out something, or someone.
His gaze turned to the dark forest suspecting she may have taken off inside, it was his only lead and so the boy made his way towards it only ceasing the adrenaline fueled sprint as the disruption of ripples in water caught his eye. He turned on his heel and headed for the pond, feet numb from the dew ridden grass. Meanwhile just below the surface and falling, the girl’s throat and lungs burned. With that she let out her final breath and begun to sink faster, eyes slowly closing She thought to herself "this is my final goodbye huh....sorry I couldn't make it spark...." The bubbles began to form on the surface of the pond which the boy quickly picked up on.
"Oh my ******* god no....no no no no and no" he began yelling as he sprinted for the pond with a new sense of urgency, ripping his shirt off taking a deep breath before diving head first into the water not caring for the fact he couldn’t swim. The icy water almost knocked the wind out of him as he made contact, eyes burning, swimming faster and deeper. He could make out her pale hand above her head as she sunk. In horror the boy almost screamed underwater but knew better than to. With all he had left he grabbed hold of her hand heaving your body up and grabbing her limp body tightly. He couldn't really cry under water but his eyes started to close and he begun to run out of breath, pushing to the surface he took a breath just before the surface taking in water. He burst through the shimmering wall of black and crawled onto the bank coughing and spluttering, coughing up copious amounts of water dragging a lifeless body, and his own limp one up the steep muddy incline. Spark staggered to his knees resting on his palms, breathing hard and heavy. Gasping hungrily for air he turned to his companion. Her body was cold and pale blue. Frozen. Lifeless.
A story I wrote months ago, thought I'd finish it up and tweak the errors... this is a story that was derived from a roleplay I engaged in... Hope you enjoy
There -- is some fog above the pond.
There is some fog above the "pond."
Here is some fog above the pond.
There is some haze above the pond.
There is some fog... above the pond.
There is some fog over the pond.  
...There is, some fog above the pond.
There... is some fog above the pond.
There (some fog is above the pond.)
There is this fog above this pond.
....and so they swam together
the Bluegill and the Sunfish
respectful of one another
surviving each other
sharing the moths and flies and grasshoppers
that i provided them
taking turns snatching each from the surface
in their 10 gallon pond
that sits on a table in the corner,
serene
one day I mistakenly added a 3rd
and together the Bluegill and the Sunfish attacked,
plucking one eye of the stunned little Perch
'If you wish to view us swimming together
whilst you contemplate another pathetic poem,
do not add a 3rd to our happy little pond
unless you plan on getting a larger pond!'
it was difficult to understand them through the bubbles,
but I got the message
I had no room for a bigger pond
so I let them be
I took One-Eye Perch back to the big Pond and released him
I hope he's still not swimming in circles
for many months they gave me much pleasure
I'd watch them chase each other through the sunken tugboats
and fake sea plants
seeing their surprised, then angry looks
when they'd bite down on a rubber worm I'd toss in their pond
only to eventually laugh about it
very often they'd come to the corner closest to the tv
and watch 'The Simpsons' with me
One day I realized that they had grown too big for their little home
and I sadly faced the fact that they must be returned to their birthplace;
the Hill High Pond
the next morning I gathered up Bluegill and Sunfish in a small bowl while they slept
I paddled a canoe to the middle of the Pond at daybreak and awoke my friends
at first they seemed confused, but it quickly dawned on them where they were and what my plan was
I gently lay them one by one into the clear, calm water
as they swam away slowly
turning to wave their little fins in both goodbye and thanks
a Carp the size of Moby **** appeared from below and made a quick snack of them both
a tear welled in my eye as I stare dumbfounded at the unsettled water
a Catfish that looked remarkably like Fred Sanford
stuck his head and whiskers out of the pond just long enough to say;
" Ain't that a *****!?"
I paddled reluctantly back to shore
where I spotted an old man fishing from the edge
apparently he had witnessed the entire episode
"Years ago I got friendly with a tuna I'd caught in the Black Sea
came home one day just in time to see his tail hangin' outta my cat Charlie's mouth
first rule of the Sea, son
Never get attached
they'll just break your heart"
...and so goes my tale of Bluegill and Sunfish
a tail of two fishes
A fourth-rate Mind
wants to be the big fish in a little pond
without realizing there's a bigger pond.

A third-rate Mind
is the big fish in a little pond
keeping other fish from leaving the little pond.

A second-rate Mind
wants to be in the big pond
but has too much self-doubt to try.

A first-rate Mind
realizes it doesn't really matter which pond it's in
and tries to grow regardless.
Following a whim~

A variation on a theme.
Terry Collett Jan 2014
Milka sat on her bicycle
looking at you
the Saturday morning sun
was warm

you'd just finished work
and had met her
by the bridge
where we going?

she asked
we could leave the bikes
at my place
and go into town

to the cinema
you said
what just sit there
in the dark

and not be able
to see each other
or such?
she said

we could ride
to where I used to live
and see the pond there
where I used to fish?

you said
is it far?
she said
not too far

she pulled a face
can't go to my place
she said
my mother's home

as she usually is
no chance
of being alone
with you there

she said grumpily
mine is no good
at weekends
you said

she looked at you
her eyes gazing
the old pond then
it is

she said
and you began to cycle
with her beside you
back up the hill

and by the farmhouse
where she lived
and along narrow lanes
between hedgerows

and birds flying out
and the occasional
car rushing by
she beside you

talking all the way
about how her mother
moans about her
not doing this or that

or not doing
the chores properly
and how her two brothers
tease her

about going out with you
and how you needed
to see a shrink
and you smile

knowing her brothers well
then you're on the main road
and a mile or so
and you are there

and go in
by the back way
along a narrow lane
and into the woods

behind the cottage
where you used to live
and along the narrow ride
through the woods

to the field
and then the pond
which is peaceful
and the water is still

and a few ducks
swim there
and birds sing
from tall trees

you rest the bikes
against trees
and sit on the grass
by the pond

quiet here
you said
we used to call this
the lake

who's we?
Milka said
my old girlfriend and I
you replied

where is she now?
we don't see
each other any more
you said

Milka said nothing
but gazed at the water
of the pond
at the ducks there

and looked
at the fish
just beneath
the surface

did you make out here?
she asked
now and then
you said

why bring me here?
she said moodily
it's quiet
and we can be alone

you said
is that all?
not wanting relive
old memories with me?

she said
you gazed at her
no of course not
that was a different thing

different love
so you say
she said
should we leave then?

you said
she stared at the pond
at the ducks drifting
and the sunlight

through the branches
of tall trees
no
she said

I like it here
she lay down
on the grass
sunlight on her face

her hands resting
on her abdomen
you lay beside her
did you really

make out here?
now and then
did no one see you?
not that we ever knew

you said
she smiled
risky
what if someone had?

we didn't think of that
at the time
bet you didn't
she said

what was it like
the first time?
it's history
you said

we're what matters now
she nodded
yes I guess we are
she said

and the sun shone bright
through the tall trees
and a bird flew by
over head.
A BOY AND GIRL IN LOVE IN 1964.
Chad A Dolezal Apr 2012
A feeling, an ocean and a dream to describe:
It’s another mid afternoon morning and the sunlight billows through the windows and pierces my eyes; they fight for consciousness and after some struggle with my two-ton eyelids, I managed to pick myself up and stagger off to the shower. Twenty minutes later, cleaned and clothed, I make my way downstairs to see what faces still linger in the house from the night before. With each step from under my feet comes a cold shrill scream; the nails, with a century of twisting and turning wiggled themselves free. With the slightest exchange of pressure, the nails give way and plunge back into the body of the stair from which they had escaped.  
It’s quiet downstairs. There’s not a sound; no voices of laughter echoing from the floors and off of the ceilings, not a sound of friends or strangers’ feet as they scramble to rustle up their clothes and belongings from the night prior. I had grown accustomed to hearing this in the morning and in all honestly, I’ve grown quite fond of the array of faces that had made camp here for the night. Usually this means front row seats to a race track where they all spin and run into one another to get started on their endless lists of routines and obligations. For the lucky few who get to vacation rather than push papers on the weekend, this meant a new companion and hopefully a day of company. Unfortunately, today the house is hallow, so empty it could make someone dream.
After pacing the house for a bit, the stillness starts to settle in; the leaking faucet growing unbearably ever more predominate with a slow crescendo of slurred reminders, drip no one’s home, drip you’re alone, drip what are you going to do? Drip, drip and the deafening silence like a parasite is crawling its way up and under my skin. My feet and hands get restless so I grab my acoustic guitar and head for the door.
On the porch, I take refuge on the cool concrete and light a cigarette; as the cherry churns the paper burns slowly, mimicking the melody of minors strummed ever so softly. My mind starts to wander, slipping into its self, lofting away like the ribbon of smoke from the cigarette. How funny it is that the greatest of men and minds have achieved the unbelievable; they unraveled the wheel, the moon met man from a tin can, empires leveled by the push of a button and as a tired heart’s tick softens, a surgeon’s scalpel cuts open and easily replaces it. With all the trophies brightly polished placed on the mantle of man there is not a space for the trophy that is truly worth parading; a cure for emotions. Irony, like a well aged whiskey, drunken my humor and ferments my appreciation. As a disease loneliness infests like a tumor, endlessly growing. The thoughts that once retreated so easily at the first hint of war are now back, glowing with vengeance tailored with armies; and they’ve got me cornered, it begins.
I start sinking, farther and farther down, unable to swim in this brackish abyss; any attempt to kick my legs, swing my arms has become a day dream, perhaps its only momentary paralysis caused from my leap of faith from my raft of hope that in my mind I had been previously enjoying the warm weather and smooth sailing; until the vessel caught a flame and was swallowed by the ocean of despair.
The light that once danced all alone up on the surface has retreated from fear. My lungs now burning as they cling to my last breath, they swell with anger, splitting at the seams from the pressure of the ocean’s hand gasping my poor lungs, tension alone compressing my entire chest I can feel the sharp pains as they are growing nearer and nearer to exploding, I clench my already squinted eyes from the burn of ocean’s salt. In some last attempt for survival with my eyes firmly tightened, just as the water starts to creep its way down my throat into my lungs I can feel the water begin to thicken.
No longer sinking into the great void of salted rift tides but resting gently on a mattress of sand. With my back exposed, the sun quickly heats my sopping wet T-shirt, my bones fill once again with life. Have I, by some lottery of luck, washed up on the beach? Scrapping the sand from my eyes in pursuit to unravel this mystery, the sand has magnetized itself to pruned skin and drenched clothing. I clear my eyes to the best of my ability, I can still feel the sand gritting in the folds of my eye lids and after a few fresh breaths of air which fill my sore lungs with relief, I roll over to sit up and dig my feet deep into the sand. I look out shielding my eyes from the blinding sun with my hand. I look to the left and then the right and quickly darting back and forth from each position, there is no ocean in view. What was my inevitable aquatic ending has now vanished; no longer sinking but standing. I am alone in what has become an ocean of sand; a desert of wandering and mystery.
With the blistering sun and vultures circling over head as constant reminder that this is in fact real; I began to stumble about for shelter. After what seemed like hours of hurdles the moon flies high while the sun sleeps in the southern sky, I find myself under a cliff of overhanging rocks; sitting down the rocks are warm and almost caressing. This bit of refuge reminds me of my mother; as a child I remember straying from her in a department store. Unknowing then that she had not been tailing me like a blood hound, until I turned around and as far as I knew she had vanished from the earth. After sprinting and retracing my steps like map I see her, the site of her from across the store fills me with joy, still sprinting I run to her, eyes like a fountain they poured into her arms as she held me there in her arms; they were warm and safe.
A faint smile crawls its way onto my face and the same tears of relief rain from my eyes and floods the ground; the sand now flooded starts to move vigorously from side to another. Out of the mist of their rumbling out gets pushed a blade of grass, and then another and another one by one pull their way out of the sand  to the surface; as the flowers start to blossom the slumbered sun awakes to a lush field of flowers filled with life. Within the field I move freely about, running in circles of familiar joy; the large sunflowers sway in the breeze of my arms as I run past them. The garden is beautiful with explosions of color all around held by peddles of flowers, and a small pond in the very center; a garden this perfect had to have been birthed by a gardener with the most beautiful of hands; Hands much like my grandfather.
Kneeling down beside the pond I splash some water with my hands on to my face to clear the filth from my pores. A gleam catches my eye from the mirror of the water, and I’m staring myself in the eyes. The pond isn’t reflecting what’s circled around me, but it’s reflecting me as a child, a bit older than the child crying for his mother; my face in the reflection, so precious and young just beaming full of life.
As if the pond were a movie screen the memory that had started to fade with age in my memory is playing crystal clear. I can see that little boy surrounded by familiar trees and flowers with the fields running farther than my eyes can see. That little boy is laying on the equally little wooden bridge that stretches over the little pond, my father laying beside him on the bridge with their heads and hands poking playfully over the edge of the bridge. Through the eyes of that little boy I can see a stick in hand trying to catch the nonexistent fish just as his father had showed him. My father looks down at me with a smile flooding his face as he says to me, “you know, Chad; I’m very lucky to have you, you’re all I could have ever asked for in this world. You’re a beautiful boy, a perfect son and I love you very much”. I remember watching a tear roll down the side of his face and watching it fall and disrupt the surface of the pond. Back on the other side of the glass; as his tear hits the pond the ripple breaks up the memory and just like the garden, the pond with the little bridge, my father and his sweet child; they all disappeared just as they had throughout my life. This time things felt different, not the cold touch of my bitter friend loneliness, but seeing that memory polished, shining new brings peace to my heavy heart.
A sharp sting burns my lips, the cigarette now burnt to the filter rips me back into body leaving the army, that ocean, the desert and the garden all behind. From footsteps behind me “I hoped I’d find you here”; I turn around and there she is, standing silhouetted by the sun, my angel. Charcoaled hair and island sky eyes, she had come to rescue me. “Hey you, I was hoping we could spend the day together; are you alright? You look like you’ve seen a ghost!” I smile and nod my head. “Aright then come on.” and with that no longer in the vantage point window watching, but through a door and living.
Shashi Dec 2010
The temple bell
Silently calls my soul
Echoes, all over the deep forest
In prayers of silent lotus song
Temple
Waits
Buddha too
As the pond whispers
From the surface calm

Alone in the deep forest,
I am prostrate in devotion
And search
Before your shore's
Of love, life and living
Laboriously moving, in every steps of sigh,
Pregnant with leaves, roots and
Residual karmic earth
-Lotus pond in deep in thought-

Wondering why
The flowers have to wither and fall
Before fruits can burst forth; in living
Why love and loss results, only in the end,
An acceptance,
Cowering in depths of empty soul?
Why
Life regains calm,
Only, after
It has flowered through pain
And bonds?

Why
Lotus can only flower
After breaking through
-The sludge of senses,
In the depths of love
From the depths of pond
The laughing Buddha
Smiles
With laughter in His heart

Pond, all alone, in the darkness of night
Softly sighs
Goes back to living
On the temple’s Shore

Yet!
The silent Buddha
Is not so silent, you see
Just listen with laughter in your heart
The lotuses do sing
The beautiful life's love song
@Shashi Nov 2010
http://shadowdancingwithmind.blogspot.com/2010/11/whispers-lotus-pond-and-depths-of-heart.html
Terry Collett Jan 2013
You met Judith
in the woods
at the back
of the cottage
you had the mutt with you

taking it for a walk
on the lead
in case it ran off
she was by
the small pond

in her summer dress
her hair tied back
by a dark blue ribbon
why did you bring your dog?
she asked

the parents said
she needed
to stretch her legs
you replied
looking beyond her

at the small pond
where you used to sit
trying to fish
but caught nothing
where shall we go?

she asked
let’s go sit
by the small lake
(as you called
the large pond)

and we can sit and talk
what about your dog?
oh she’ll be ok
I can tie her lead
to the nearest tree

she’ll have room
to move around
and sniff and root out
insects if she likes
you said

I bet you say that
to all the girls
Judith said
and laughed
and you smiled

and took in
her laughter
and the way
she laughed
her eyes

brightening up
her lips parting
like a breaking dawn
and taking
your spare hand

she walked you through
the woods stepping over
brambles and fallen branches
to get to the outer fence
which she climbed over

but you climbed through
and the mutt walked under
and as you walked
across the field
to the lake

she said
I hope no one saw us
the other day
when we did those things
why

what makes you think they did?
you asked
holding the mutt in check
as it tried to run off
just something

my mother said
before I came out
this morning
when I said
I was meeting you

oh
you said
was she on the war path?
no
but it was the way she said it

as if she knew something
about us or me and you
and that day
and where we were
a rook flew overhead

a black flap of wings
a loud call
shouldn’t think
so you said

watching the rook
fly off
the mutt barking
maybe
she was just trying

to dig out something
or maybe she just thinks
the worst of me
you said
maybe

Judith said
and became silent
as you both moved
towards the large pond
( the lake as you called it)

and sat down
after tying the mutt
to the nearest tree
where it sat staring
at you both

with its dark eyes
as Judith laid her head
on your shoulder
staring out
at the skin of water

on the pond
and the slight shimmer
where dragonflies
came and went
on the surface

and whispered
I love you
which vibrated
along your shoulder
and into your heart

and you couldn’t see a time
you’d not be together
or ever
this side of death
be apart.
Scarlet McCall Dec 2016
By the pond, where the egret sleeps,
where the hawk flies overhead,
and the weeping willow weeps,
I will find my lullaby, to lull me to sleep.

By the pond, where the ducklings go,
back and forth, to and fro,
following mother, grey fuzz, all in a row,
I will walk unhurried, slow.

By the pond, on the grassy banks,
I will hum a tune under a cloudless sky.
Pass by the blue heron, and silently give thanks,
and while away the hours, and watch the seabirds fly.

By the pond, where the white swans glide,
I will shade my eyes from the sun’s bright rays,
as otters frolic, swim and hide,
unmindful of time in these last days.
Eric De Sousa May 2013
You the are ripple in a pond that once lay still.
And I wonder if the wind could speak would it ever reveal
why the sky sheds such a solemn tear?
Mountains will roar Loud and Fierce;
But the pond, it always lay still.
Through thunderous storms and endless downpours
it remained serene.
A peaceful pond,
until you intervened.
That single clouds tear sparked a ripple that would never disappear-
a ripple that refuses to adhere to the known laws of this sphere.
As if the roots of the tree grew above the tallest leaves
so high it could see beyond the seven seas;
my world, upside down.
As if the beating of a bold heart broke through the skin to show all its scars;
My pond, unsound.
Grasped by your ripple.
Unable to breathe.
Unable to drown
Grace Nottingham Feb 2014
This pond  is where I will die,
Squandering in owl hours to ****.
Still, the Ducks swim by.

The blue moon is a Julia Dragonfly
Haunted by a lethal, green dream thrill.
This pond is where I will die.

Threadbare Marauder Rooks squawk a cry,
The stickleback flakes its dithering gill.
Still, the Ducks swim by.

Importunate possums chase ducks to comply,
How could my moon mother be so ill?
This pond is where I will die.

Bluebirds deflate their keels with a sigh,
I gravitate towards their beauty, I am still.
Still, the Ducks swim by.

Aureole Sirius tip toes the sky,
Nimbus withers, Kamikaze men shrill.
This pond is where I will die.
Still, the Ducks swim by.
Allen Wilbert Nov 2013
Frozen Pond

Buried deep under a frozen pond,
lies a brunette, red head and a blonde.
The brunette lived a simple life,
her name was Mary and my first wife.
Got married young, at age nineteen,
I was a king, she was my queen.
Caught her sleeping with my brother,
so naturally, I slept with her mother.
In the winter we went ice skating,
drilled out a hole, while I was awaiting.
As she got close, I pushed her in,
if only the ***** had a fin.
Two years later met a red headed beauty,
she was a little nuts and a lot fruity.
Ginger was this psychos name,
once again my brother was to blame.
Caught them in his back seat,
he played tricks, she gave him treats.
On the frozen pond we took a walk,
smashed a hole with a giant rock.
Pushed her in till she was under,
she screamed louder than Florida thunder.
My brother the blonde, his name Jake,
loved to go to that frozen lake.
Playing hockey with his friends,
him and his fancy Mercedes Benz.
One day we were passing the puck,
a hole in the ice and he got stuck.
I said, sorry brother but you deserve,
to fall in while I stand and observe.
Now my life is complete,
girls now know better than to cheat.
Hopi Butler Nov 2011
Large, billowing willow trees surround a small meadow, leaving no way to get out. Their branches hang to the ground, the wind whipping them lazily. The green sprouts and leaves on the tips of the branches drag on the ground softly. The trees are so packed together that no sight can be seen through the trees, no escape at all. No one can enter, and no one can leave. The bark is brown, deep crevices made in its skin. The limbs skim over the ground, swaying ever so slightly. On the limbs hang nearly invisible webs spun by clever weaving spiders. The bright green grass wraps around the bark, swaying in the lazy meadow. In the middle of the meadow floats a high overhanging cliff, no part of it truly connected to the ground. Vines cover a structure, obstructing what the structure truly is. Bright pink and blue flowers decorate the vines, adding a serene feeling to the floating island and a floating smell of nectar is carried by the wind. A waterfall flows through the middle of the gates, the cool pure water falling into the pond directly below the waterfall. The pond is covered with ripples, although nothing seems to be obstructing the surface of the pond for the moment. Below the surface flows gentle weaves of seaweed, rainbow colored fish swimming between the strands. They would jump up, spreading small rainbows on dew drops into the sweet tasting air. The cloudless sky seems to sparkle in the setting sunlight, spreading pink and red strips across the sky. No birds fly in the small expanse of visible sky, yet a small nameless tune is heard, the wind carrying it all around the trees. The tune is light, and filled with what can only be known as joy.

The tune begins to change, losing the quality of light and joy and changing into a tune of sereneness and calm. The wind carries it through the meadow, pushing it against the dark trees. The leaves begin to fall, staining the ground at their feet different shades of red, gold and orange. The lost foliage does nothing to deter the packed trees from blocking any view outside of the circular meadow, leaving it in seclusion. The grass is turning into bright gold strands, folding unto itself as it sways in the gentle wind. The wind tastes like apples, although there is no fruit on the trees. The wind continues to flow, picking up the leaves and scattering them away from the base of the trees. The pond is covered with a few stray leaves, the ripples from said leaves turning and spinning as if they were dihedrals spun by small children. A harvest moon sends out a bright light, casting a rainbow onto the waterfall. The forever flowing waterfall continues to cascade down from the floating island as the rainbow continues to color the water. The rainbow fish’s scales have turned deep colors of red and gold, and they continue to break the surface of the pond, jumping to and fro. The vines still cover the cold, metal gate, blood red flowers covering the island in stunning beauty. The meadow seems to secrete a pleasant smell, sending waves of comfort and  tranquility to every blade of grass and falling leaf.

The grass disappears from view as the ground is covered in white, cold powder. The branches on the trees dip from the weight of snow and ice, their limbs brushing the ground in small sweeps. The crisp, biting wind does nothing to help the swaying, and instead blows across the ground, sending small flurries of the snow upwards bound. It circles around the frozen waterfall, every drop of purified water hanging in place, frozen in time. The island itself is covered in snow and white flowers, their color unadulterated. The vines seem to be dead, no longer living as they were before. The secret of the gates seem to be revealed, although barely. The gate remains locked, but the vines are cleared enough that the fenced in area can be seen. The area in the middle of the island is glowing, brightly colored with the beginning of the waterfall, the rainbow fish swimming in the small pool of water. The trees that are in the fenced in area are bright with life and colors, shining as if they were in the midst of spring and not winter. Petals from the flowers that decorate the vines and trees gently fall, landing on the icy surface of the pond. Silence invades the wintry meadow, crushing upon the meadow with great strength as the wind howls silently. The sky is pure black, the only light seen is the glistening stars, all shining as brightly as the northern star. Bright strips of rainbow appear in the sky, the aurora waving like the waves of the ocean themselves. Softly, stealthily a small tune is heard to only those truly lost in the meadow’s power. The tune is filled with what words can only describe as confusion as joy and peace meld with depression and war, hatred and love weaving in and out of the tune like a needle and thread. The tune is suddenly broken, and the meadow disappears, leaving nothing behind but darkness and emptiness until the cycle repeats another day.
Christian Bixler Sep 2015
Once I saw a girl, standing
by the shore of a deepwater
pond, smooth and black as
polished glass, and she seemed
sad. Her hair matched the water,
in sheen and in color, and her skin
was the pale of alabaster, and there
were freckles on her cheeks and around
her blue eyes, and her lips were red.


I walked over to her, slowly, and I doffed
my hat, because she looked so delicate and
frail, and I deemed she would appreciate
all courtesy and propriety, and I composed
myself for the speech of gentles.


I said, "Lady, forgive my intrusion, but I
saw you standing here, watching your
reflection, and you seemed sad. Are you
alright? She looked up at me, and her face
was solemn, and her eyes were sorrowful.


"Sir," she said, and her voice was steady, though
it was laced with grief. "Sir, I am grateful for your
kindness, and you seem a gentleman, and not used
to the hardness of the world, and so are innocent of
true pain and true sorrow. This is a comfort to me, a
great comfort, and so I thank you for your bearing, but
now leave me, for I am weary and full of sorrow, and
desire to be alone with my thoughts"


I was struck then, with the beauty of her speech, and
beheld that she was indeed weary of both heart and
body, for her eyes were red rimmed, and her hands
shook with the smallest of tremors as she stood, there
before me.


"Lady," I said, " Lady, be not frightened to share your
troubles with me. It is true that I am a gentleman, and
therefore unused to the harsher rigors of the living
experience, but, believe me, Lady, when I say that
none of this matters to me, nor should it to you. I know
we are still new met, but already I feel as if you were a
close friend of many years, who has been absent for
sometime, and that we are only now reunited. Share
with me your troubles, and I will listen with a kind eye
and attentive bearing, for to me, your troubles are now
mine, and your sorrows my own."


She stood, frozen, her blue eyes wide with shock, and her
bearing was as that of a startled fawn in the moment before
flight. I made no move, and I held my breath, and I held her
eyes in mine, for I feared that if my attention faltered for but
an instant, she would vanish, like a doe into the shadows of the
trees. "Sir," she said, and faltered. "Sir," she said again, "you do
not know what you ask. And why should my troubles concern
you? This world does not allow for weakness to go unpunished."


"Lady," I spoke, and my voice was gentle. "tell me your sorrows."
She shivered. "Be it so then. I will tell you." She shook her head
and stared into the dark waters of the pond, reflective like the sheen of
polished ebony, stared at her reflection, gazing up at her from the
depths, and sighed. "My troubles began a mere three days prior to
this, and if they seem to you frivolous or unworthy, pray do not laugh,
but leave forthwith, and I will know your mind.


"Lady," I said, and though my voice was gentle still, it was now deep
also and steady, as a mountain before the storm. "tell me your sorrows.
I will listen. I will not laugh. This you know. Tell me your sorrows."
She shivered, again, and her lips parted, and her eyes were more full
of pain and of sorrow than I had yet seen them, and my heart ached
in my breast. "Be it so." she whispered, and her voice was as a
splintered shard of purest crystal.


"I was looking into a mirror, and admiring myself,
and was full of joy at the fullness of my figure, and
of the sheen of my hair. So fixed was I on my reflection
that I failed to notice the approach of a beautiful woman,
with flaxen hair and pale blue eyes and with skin the soft
color of the lilies of the valley. She looked at me and asked
why I should stare so avidly at a simple mirror. I replied
that I was merely gazing into the mirror at myself.


Then the beautiful womans eyes flashed, and in them appeared
such cruelty as I had never thought to imagine or to conceive. "Such vanity." She said to me, and my spirit faltered within me. She
beckoned me to step closer. I did, cautiously, and she bent down
to my ear and whispered, harshly, "You are an ugly *****, and are
so outshone by my beauty that you are as a flickering candle compared to the glory of the Sun." With this she turned and left me, and since
then I have been here gazing at my reflection, and wondering why
God should choose to curse me with so terrible a form as mine." She was crying, the young lady, standing by the depths of the
deepwater pond, darker now, with the fading of the light. She would
not look at me, ashamed of the outpouring of her heart, and I felt
the ache within my breast grow, until grief found me, and tears sprung
unbidden to fall, unheeded, in the waters of the pond.


"Lady," I said, and my voice was heavy and laden now with sorrow for the grief of the maiden there before me, and for her crystal tears, shed in sadness. "Lady," I said, "will you tell me your name?" She shivered once more, and bowed her head as she answered, "Johanna." and a single tear escaped her closed lids to trace its way down her cheek, and fall into the blackness of the dark waters of the pond. "Johanna." she said to me, and her voice then near shattered my aching heart. "Johanna." I said. And again, "Johanna." A third time I spoke, "Johanna." I fell silent for
a moment, and saw that she was trembling, and her cheeks were wet.


"Johanna," I said again, and now my voice was loud and strong, so that
she looked up in shock,and her eyes were fearful. "Johanna, you are more beautiful than the sun in all its glory, more beautiful than the stars, more beautiful even than the infinite heavens in their celestial wonder, arching above us. You are more beautiful, Johanna, because you are you.
Johanna. You of the hair of raven hue, you of the skin like alabaster, you
of the eyes of the oceans hue, you of the ruby lips, you, your voice the voice of angels." And now my voice was soft, a whisper to match her own, as I spoke, close to her ear. "Let none wound you, let none dissuade you, let none harm you in word or deed, Johanna, for you are more beautiful than all of Gods creation, because you are you." She looked at me, and her eyes were full once more with crystal tears.
She sobbed, once, and fell into my arms, and wept. And I held her, there beside the deep waters of the pond, and under the vastness of
the velvet blackness of the night, and the moon, and the turnings of
the stars.
the most moving poem I have written in recent memory.
Like or comment.
Melody Nov 2012
Knotted in odd places
like the spines of ancients;
wisdom accumulated
yet unequally distributed

No beauty lies in uniformity

So they continue to grow,
feeding from oblivion
pulsing with life -
rooted in still waters, while
aspiring for heights unseen.
The slow growth
of these skeletal soldiers
echoing the most minuscule
of movements

Awakens fluidity from her sleep

Yawning off silent energy
that reverberates throughout
this cold pond and entices
brilliantly colored koi
congregating at the surface
mouths agape with eagerness
delighted at the prospect
of nourishment -
while all around, the night awaits
trembling with anticipation
releasing delicate aromas of jasmine

Easily overlooked, yet lingering in one's subconscious

And the last drops
of fragrant tea will evaporate,
revealing the pale, moon-like center
of porcelain teacup -
a glaring reminder
that when fluidity changes its course
and disappears from sight,
one is forced to gaze down
at one's own reflection

And become reacquainted with mortality

.
©MW
Tom Spencer Jul 2015
Cellophane wings beating
against the heavy summer air,
back and forth, all day long,
the blue dragonflies
chase one another across the pond-
their tails turned up
like neon scimitars
poised for a ******
that never seems to come.
Occasionally, a truce is called,
and they settle into place
on opposite sides of the reeds,
momentarily oblivious to their war.
Twice their size,
the red dragonfly idles in the sun.
From time to time it leaves its perch
to challenge the silhouette
hanging from the iris blade,
its spent skin,
as if it were a bad memory
rising from the green depths of the pond.
Below the surface,
the fish school together- a current of gold
slipping between the lily pads,
each aware of its place in the stream.
My reflection circles them all.
Drawn to the water
that both mirrors and obscures
I lose my place for a moment-
hovering between obligations and idleness
on cellophane wings.


Tom Spencer © 2015
Josh Sep 2014
A coy fish in a pond with nowhere to swim nor splash. The clear water allowed him to see in all four directions, though there was nothing to catch the eye but four concrete walls and bunches of lily pads.

A tiny spectator circled the grass surrounding the pond. She looked as though she were only 5 years old. A second later she was hastily ripping a lily pad from its roots. Upon discovering no magic beneath its belly, she dropped it and began on her way.

The lifeless plant rested at the ponds edge for weeks before the wind carried it back to its place. It was somehow different now, wrinkled and stretched at the stem, though it floated uniform among the rest. The coy hid in the shadows created by the walls, and watched.
Chris Dionisio Dec 2013
I look at your face and picture
Us
My arms wrapped around you by a fire
I think to myself
"This is nice."
But then I remember,
You're across the pond

I see your smile and picture
Us
We are at the cinema and you laugh at the film
I turn to you and smile
But then I remember,
You're across the pond

I listen to your laugh and picture
Us
We are sitting at a café having lunch
When I whisper something snarky about the woman behind you
You laugh and we are happy
But then I remember,
You're across the pond

I watch you blush and picture
Us
We are walking in the park, hand-in-hand
I stop, turn to you, tell you how beautiful you are, and kiss you
You blush and all is well
But then I remember,
You're across the pond

****
Robin Carretti Apr 2019
Your the one son being rebellious little darlings here comes
the sun drenching delicious but wait those cloudy days
watch out the hunters run ducking our heads like babies
wetting and water squirting beds getting too saucy
  ten O clock playpen the daring duck gourmet sauce
Orange you glad all her rich creme spread across
her penpals
Do you trust those gals too country slick on Newsweek

Getting paid he is the longest laid egg all grilled we are
not thrilled here is the "Chuckie Duckie" doll those *****
barbie collectors they are sitting duck Graphic Artist
Not one quack doll plastic surgeon duck lips she thinks
shes the hot stuff romantic "French" lips up the
"Eiffel Tower" splash splash she is out of cash
Those hot items presidential poll what a lost soul

Too much blue yes attention swan dancers Springtime
Not  the red attention yellow instead ****** please
I need a  journey not the "Attorney" such a ****** case
When you need them they always duck
When they have a new quack case they are ruining
my image
Duck tapesty Carol Kings youve got a friend

I'm feeling yellow homesick on your feather duck pillow
The same yellow tie a different atmosphere Go- Spa
She's flirting do you know where your going how is
life treating you he's giggling way too wild on her
goose chase
  Losing our grip down to her chicken bone hip
Duck season not much time for love being hunted

The Spa  la la ha have Merci' oh la la 'Disco Duck"
The wild ones the only ones quack- quack the
lonely ones
At the waterfront trip to "Chinatown" they let
them hang to dry but why Dad? They are better
like the delicacy shark finn soup we need a Spa
lucky green group Irish eyes are smiling stories
of ducks

I am  not buying do you see duck climb the
          "Eiffel Tower" yellow as a canary
All talk-talk is cheap lets talk French Mom walks
With her pretty duck handle umbrella we waddle
The penquin what a beauty swan feather pen
  But she's the"Prima Donna" look out!

The slingshot Marilyn Monroe wiggles out
                  The "Spa- Ma"
                 Don't  Scramble me darlings
                    Breakfast eggs cagefree
                     *          *          
My little chickadees organic brown on my gown
Spa duckies traveled the whole Atlantic town
The longest pond sleeping like "Rip Van Winkle"
twinkle twinkle
doublecrossed the street you get one dermerit
Sesame street Big bird how many words in duck
vocabulary quack- quack who get's the duck star

Mars from Men women go to the Spa like the bad
omen and they don't leave tap tap chop chop
I want it now!! Its now or never why does she always
get ugly duckling book delivered
Lazy goose she is the spoiled rotten egg how
do we love those  I apples
Carrots are for the eyes Mom always gets bird eyes

My little chickadees the Alaskan cute puppies
Big salute to the cutest duck feet "God Bless America"
  Visa  American Express Daffy Duck in Disney mess
the real picture "Mona Lisa" getting the duck
         Prime  chop minister
"Parliament Spa" prices so sinister
"Eat Duck and Pray" the  southern biscuits
more recruits

My cute rookies those duckier cookies another Spa day
So prim and proper teatime with "Queen deck"
  Alice in rabbit hole-Santa candycane poles cute chick
is homesick you better sent her money quick
The ducky bib the Chinese duck soup won ton
The feather fan she loves her Sushi roll Hollywood
Style California all duck drama
The best treatment duck made carpet

On the "Disney Hollywood" deck "Epcot"
On the futon what diction for a duck "My Fair lady"
Got the whole fortunes bed
The duck on the hill what a fool but the monk
Is the whole spiritual existence
The peacock's longest wait for lobster tails
centerpieces red bird Robin fly Robin Fly

Disco ball fancy tails she ended up up up to the sky
Her duck sunglasses a dozen ***** spin's the disco
The Duck Pop singer wants him back
High price or a short mack duck shooter attack
Food for thought homesick all saucy duck tie waiter
Cinderella rags to ducklings I went to "Woodstock"
Imagine me the teenager chick the duck split

Fill wing concert sky made a hit
The blues love is strange chick-lets are yellow
Like clock work what a duck work out orange          
        Duck handle umbrella               
 Duckies I pledge to you College Preppies
The chick feeder Ain't nothing but a hound dog
      Elvis heart breaker bird-brain feeder

  Moms duck sugar cookies
******* Jack one prize quack quack
 Huckleberry Finn paper boat old billy goat
  In the drowned mans eye holy ducks he delivered
I will blow you down duck horn the day you
were born
Having a third eye one duck Wendy 4 for a 4

Notre Dame church tragic but saved
   The  Easter yellow chicks

To Rome lend me your feathers no secret ears
Sticky Fingers she lost her writing finger in the
pond  OH! look whats beyond so kind
With her duckling apron dress he ducked
The chatty cat "City Dr Seuss"

Wearing duck boots those duck lips played her
like the fancy feast
The teachers pet the ducklings cute darlings
Spa cream she quite the flabber belly dancer
The ballet swan achiever "Spa One Day tripper"
The ugly duckling changed to beauty witch
Holy-land or duck pond Mickey's ears
                   Disneyland

Stand up daffy duck comedian Las Vegas
Godiva Peking duck soup flapping swishing
mess
The Big Ben red whose been sleeping in my
duck wing bed
The car stops he hiccups cute bebops
The guardian angel quack quack any luck
Yummy raspberry pie someone delivered

Christmas Scrooge all tears
New York lights camera I love my
        Serendipity chandeliers
Those duck tear drops last stop
Or you die__your still quacking
       Just in time said I
           Fly Robin Fly

     Saved my baby chick lovely
     Cradled her to love her
          Dr Seuss read
Its about all speculation dreaming need of a nature cool environment ;our eyes up get your cafe favorite cup my baby chicks  words will give flight and I hope you will feel just perfectly right with her duck lips  Quack Quack
Marian Jun 2013
The sun was setting
While I was watching the pond
The cattails danced in the breeze
The call of crickets sounded through the air
Mingling with that of tree toads
Oh the joy of these Summer evenings
I was staring at the mossy floor
Of the pond
Tiny little fishes swam back and forth
Birds twittered
And swallows were flying home
To their nests
Tranquility is all around
Mingling in the coolness
Of the flowing pond
Beauty abounds in the silence
Of the pristine evening

*~Marian~
Terry Collett Jan 2015
I want to show you the pond
John says
ducks and swans
are there
and now and then
herons come

Elaine wonders
where the pond is
is it far?
she asks

no not far
just down through
the wood
here
down these rides
mind the brambles
he walks ahead of her

she follows

can you hear that?
he says

what is it?

blackbird
you can tell
by the song

she looks at him
ahead of her
she wishes
he would stay with her
she's not been
in these woods before

how big is it?
she asks

not that big
but big enough
you'll see
he says
back to her
walking on
that's a song thrush
he says
love the song thrush

she treads carefully
along the ride
she doesn't want
to catch her legs
on brambles

they reach a fence
and he climbs over
and waits for her

careful how you get over
he says
don't want to get
a splinter
in your leg

she climbs carefully
trying to keep
her skirt
tight to her legs
doesn't want him
to see up her skirt
but he looks away
out at the field

see pheasants
out there sometimes
he says

she climbs down
the other side
brushes her skirt down
and stands next to him

where's the pond?

over there
he says pointing
over the way
not far now

he walks on
and she follows him
he is just ahead of her
then he climbs over
another fence

it's here

she comes to the fence
and looks over

you'll have to climb over
to see it properly
he says

she climbs the fence
carefully

but he has gone down
towards the pond
staring at the water's skin

she walks down
beside him
standing there
a gentle smell
of flowers
hanging in the air.
A BOY SHOWS A GIRL HIS SECRET POND IN 1962.
Emily Sep 2014
Big fish, little pond
Swimming round and round
Eating up their words of praise, I do not make a sound

Big fish, little pond
Growing large and fat
Wishing for a bigger pool but don't know where it's at

Big fish, little pond
Too big now to fit
Suffocating in this space that makes me want to spit

Little fish, big pond
Little fish is scared
Swimming in this land of sharks I do not feel prepared

Little fish, big pond
I can barely move
I thought I would be big by now, I thought I would improve

Little fish, big pond
Trying to survive
Wish that I was large, but here, I'm not even alive
Thoughts on my transition into college
I like rhyming
Shofi Ahmed Mar 2017
Before long the summer sun will rise in London
Like the half of the Ge meets the other half.
Like a magic by the Lamp of Aladdin
The love flame hidden in the chest lits out!

Like a blooming rose in a glowing beam of light,
Like a smiling face speaks a gentle word,
Like a beautiful sunrise colour in the first light!

The summer in London will pop and sizzle
We will see a threshold in our land.
The rose for a while is tucked away
Off the winter and is given to the sun
Winter is not forever spring is on the corner
Come back in the sun with the early bird
Before Cinderella takes on the primrose path.

Keeping an eye on a thriller is in the winter’s field
Oozy ozone misty land gets a gingerly seasoning
What on earth will it strike, will it dish out?
Ah, the sun will pop out like a river breeze.

Like a southern song singing on a dream scene.
a smooth fairy dance facing the Moon
a thrill of exposing Stonehenge once and for all
a melodious raindrop in the serene pond
a butterfly dance on the rose
a turned on tall tale of the blue peacock
Like a pure belief in heaven without a pinch of salt!
This is a poem from my book Zero and One available on Amazon.
Ksjpari Aug 2017
Thor is a place with birds in a pond.
Many birds; some small, some blonde
Few birds come as the seasons demand.
Come and visit Thor with Sanket to remand
All the known and unknown birds beyond.

Thor is a place with birds in a pond.
Let it be cashew or nut or almond,
Bring any thing for birds with monde
And see many types of birds beyond
The island, colours that birds donned.

Thor is a place with birds in a pond.
Few birds are black, and few blonde;
Canteen ready with food on demand,
Garden with plants having leaves frond,
Pond with birds different on demand.

Thor is a place with birds in a pond.
Security guards allow us, on demand,
To take cameras to view and shoot monde
Of varied birds here and beyond.
So, visit Thor with Pari Style in a pond.
I am developing a new style of writing poetry where ending words of a line rhyme with one another, at least in last sound. I named it Pari Style. Hope readers will like it. Thanks to those invisible hands and fingers which supported and inspired me to continue my efforts in my new, creative, artistic and innovative “Pari” style. Thanks for your inspiring, kind, soft fingers.
What is death, I ask.
What is life, you ask.
I give them both my buttocks,
my two wheels rolling off toward Nirvana.
They are neat as a wallet,
opening and closing on their coins,
the quarters, the nickels,
straight into the crapper.
Why shouldn't I pull down my pants
and moon the executioner
as well as paste raisins on my *******?
Why shouldn't I pull down my pants
and show my little ***** to Tom
and Albert? They wee-wee funny.
I wee-wee like a squaw.
I have ink but no pen, still
I dream that I can **** in God's eye.
I dream I'm a boy with a zipper.
It's so practical, la de dah.
The trouble with being a woman, Skeezix,
is being a little girl in the first place.
Not all the books of the world will change that.
I have swallowed an orange, being woman.
You have swallowed a ruler, being man.
Yet waiting to die we are the same thing.
Jehovah pleasures himself with his axe
before we are both overthrown.
Skeezix, you are me. La de dah.
You grow a beard but our drool is identical.

Forgive us, Father, for we know not.

Today is November 14th, 1972.
I live in Weston, Mass., Middlesex County,
U.S.A., and it rains steadily
in the pond like white puppy eyes.
The pond is waiting for its skin.
the pond is waiting for its leather.
The pond is waiting for December and its Novocain.

It begins:

Interrogator:
What can you say of your last seven days?

Anne:
They were tired.

Interrogator:
One day is enough to perfect a man.

Anne:
I watered and fed the plant.

*

My undertaker waits for me.
he is probably twenty-three now,
learning his trade.
He'll stitch up the gren,
he'll fasten the bones down
lest they fly away.
I am flying today.
I am not tired today.
I am a motor.
I am cramming in the sugar.
I am running up the hallways.
I am squeezing out the milk.
I am dissecting the dictionary.
I am God, la de dah.
Peanut butter is the American food.
We all eat it, being patriotic.

Ms. Dog is out fighting the dollars,
rolling in a field of bucks.
You've got it made if you take the wafer,
take some wine,
take some bucks,
the green papery song of the office.
What a jello she could make with it,
the fives, the tens, the twenties,
all in a goo to feed the baby.
Andrew Jackson as an hors d'oeuvre,
la de dah.
I wish I were the U.S. Mint,
turning it all out,
turtle green
and monk black.
Who's that at the podium
in black and white,
blurting into the mike?
Ms. Dog.
Is she spilling her guts?
You bet.
Otherwise they cough...
The day is slipping away, why am I
out here, what do they want?
I am sorrowful in November...
(no they don't want that,
they want bee stings).
Toot, toot, tootsy don't cry.
Toot, toot, tootsy good-bye.
If you don't get a letter then
you'll know I'm in jail...
Remember that, Skeezix,
our first song?

Who's thinking those things?
Ms. Dog! She's out fighting the dollars.
Milk is the American drink.
Oh queens of sorrows,
oh water lady,
place me in your cup
and pull over the clouds
so no one can see.
She don't want no dollars.
She done want a mama.
The white of the white.

Anne says:
This is the rainy season.
I am sorrowful in November.
The kettle is whistling.
I must butter the toast.
And give it jam too.
My kitchen is a heart.
I must feed it oxygen once in a while
and mother the mother.

*

Say the woman is forty-four.
Say she is five seven-and-a-half.
Say her hair is stick color.
Say her eyes are chameleon.
Would you put her in a sack and bury her,
**** her down into the dumb dirt?
Some would.
If not, time will.
Ms. Dog, how much time you got left?
Ms. Dog, when you gonna feel that cold nose?
You better get straight with the Maker
cuz it's coming, it's a coming!
The cup of coffee is growing and growing
and they're gonna stick your little doll's head
into it and your lungs a gonna get paid
and your clothes a gonna melt.
Hear that, Ms. Dog!
You of the songs,
you of the classroom,
you of the pocketa-pocketa,
you hungry mother,
you spleen baby!
Them angels gonna be cut down like wheat.
Them songs gonna be sliced with a razor.
Them kitchens gonna get a boulder in the belly.
Them phones gonna be torn out at the root.
There's power in the Lord, baby,
and he's gonna turn off the moon.
He's gonna nail you up in a closet
and there'll be no more Atlantic,
no more dreams, no more seeds.
One noon as you walk out to the mailbox
He'll ****** you up --
a wopman beside the road like a red mitten.

There's a sack over my head.
I can't see. I'm blind.
The sea collapses.
The sun is a bone.
Hi-** the derry-o,
we all fall down.
If I were a fisherman I could comprehend.
They fish right through the door
and pull eyes from the fire.
They rock upon the daybreak
and amputate the waters.
They are beating the sea,
they are hurting it,
delving down into the inscrutable salt.

*

When mother left the room
and left me in the *******
and sent away my kitty
to be fried in the camps
and took away my blanket
to wash the me out of it
I lay in the soiled cold and prayed.
It was a little jail in which
I was never slapped with kisses.
I was the engine that couldn't.
Cold wigs blew on the trees outside
and car lights flew like roosters
on the ceiling.
Cradle, you are a grave place.

Interrogator:
What color is the devil?

Anne:
Black and blue.

Interrogator:
What goes up the chimney?

Anne:
Fat Lazarus in his red suit.

Forgive us, Father, for we know not.

Ms. Dog prefers to sunbathe ****.
Let the indifferent sky look on.
So what!
Let Mrs. Sewal pull the curtain back,
from her second story.
So what!
Let United Parcel Service see my parcel.
La de dah.
Sun, you hammer of yellow,
you hat on fire,
you honeysuckle mama,
pour your blonde on me!
Let me laugh for an entire hour
at your supreme being, your Cadillac stuff,
because I've come a long way
from Brussels sprouts.
I've come a long way to peel off my clothes
and lay me down in the grass.
Once only my palms showed.
Once I hung around in my woolly tank suit,
drying my hair in those little meatball curls.
Now I am clothed in gold air with
one dozen halos glistening on my skin.
I am a fortunate lady.
I've gotten out of my pouch
and my teeth are glad
and my heart, that witness,
beats well at the thought.

Oh body, be glad.
You are good goods.

*

Middle-class lady,
you make me smile.
You dig a hole
and come out with a sunburn.
If someone hands you a glass of water
you start constructing a sailboat.
If someone hands you a candy wrapper,
you take it to the book binder.
Pocketa-pocketa.

Once upon a time Ms. Dog was sixty-six.
She had white hair and wrinkles deep as splinters.
her portrait was nailed up like Christ
and she said of it:
That's when I was forty-two,
down in Rockport with a hat on for the sun,
and Barbara drew a line drawing.
We were, at that moment, drinking *****
and ginger beer and there was a chill in the air,
although it was July, and she gave me her sweater
to bundle up in. The next summer Skeezix tied
strings in that hat when we were fishing in Maine.
(It had gone into the lake twice.)
Of such moments is happiness made.

Forgive us, Father, for we know not.

Once upon a time we were all born,
popped out like jelly rolls
forgetting our fishdom,
the pleasuring seas,
the country of comfort,
spanked into the oxygens of death,
Good morning life, we say when we wake,
hail mary coffee toast
and we Americans take juice,
a liquid sun going down.
Good morning life.
To wake up is to be born.
To brush your teeth is to be alive.
To make a bowel movement is also desireable.
La de dah,
it's all routine.
Often there are wars
yet the shops keep open
and sausages are still fried.
People rub someone.
People copulate
entering each other's blood,
tying each other's tendons in knots,
transplanting their lives into the bed.
It doesn't matter if there are wars,
the business of life continues
unless you're the one that gets it.
Mama, they say, as their intestines
leak out. Even without wars
life is dangerous.
Boats spring leaks.
Cigarettes explode.
The snow could be radioactive.
Cancer could ooze out of the radio.
Who knows?
Ms. Dog stands on the shore
and the sea keeps rocking in
and she wants to talk to God.

Interrogator:
Why talk to God?

Anne:
It's better than playing bridge.

*

Learning to talk is a complex business.
My daughter's first word was utta,
meaning button.
Before there are words
do you dream?
In utero
do you dream?
Who taught you to ****?
And how come?
You don't need to be taught to cry.
The soul presses a button.
Is the cry saying something?
Does it mean help?
Or hello?
The cry of a gull is beautiful
and the cry of a crow is ugly
but what I want to know
is whether they mean the same thing.
Somewhere a man sits with indigestion
and he doesn't care.
A woman is buying bracelets
and earrings and she doesn't care.
La de dah.

Forgive us, Father, for we know not.

There are stars and faces.
There is ketchup and guitars.
There is the hand of a small child
when you're crossing the street.
There is the old man's last words:
More light! More light!
Ms. Dog wouldn't give them her buttocks.
She wouldn't moon at them.
Just at the killers of the dream.
The bus boys of the soul.
Or at death
who wants to make her a mummy.
And you too!
Wants to stuf her in a cold shoe
and then amputate the foot.
And you too!
La de dah.
What's the point of fighting the dollars
when all you need is a warm bed?
When the dog barks you let him in.
All we need is someone to let us in.
And one other thing:
to consider the lilies in the field.
Of course earth is a stranger, we pull at its
arms and still it won't speak.
The sea is worse.
It comes in, falling to its knees
but we can't translate the language.
It is only known that they are here to worship,
to worship the terror of the rain,
the mud and all its people,
the body itself,
working like a city,
the night and its slow blood
the autumn sky, mary blue.
but more than that,
to worship the question itself,
though the buildings burn
and the big people topple over in a faint.
Bring a flashlight, Ms. Dog,
and look in every corner of the brain
and ask and ask and ask
until the kingdom,
however queer,
will come.
Raghu Menon Jul 2015
Large and wide
Deep and Cool
Filled with the purest water inside
It was our village's hallmark pool..

Stone lined walls on all sides
WIth steps going down to the water
And stones for washing clothes
Which also doubled for scrubbing our feet..


Live with fish and water snakes
Who were friends with us kids,
Frogs who would sing chorus during the rains
and ferns green and bright on the walls.

With overhanging trees on the banks
We came running and dived into the water
somersaulted and torpedoed
and swam in all fashions and styles...


Swimming and diving from the banks
We played "catch me if you can"
from the time we are back from schools
Till it is dark and when calls come from our homes.

With swollen finger tips
and red eyes, but
After the long swim and bath
Having dinner right away and
slipping into a good night's sleep...

Days where there were no TVs to watch
Days where there no homeworks to be done
Days where what mattered most were friends
Days which take us to the sweet childhood..

Gone is the pride of our village
there are no kids who play in the water
For there is no water in the pond
except for a few months during the rains

Kids are no longer kids
They have TV to watch
Phone and computers to play
Virtual friends to play with

Lucky we were
to have such beautiful childhoods
Such memorable friendships
Such adventurous rainy seasons
....
Helen Aug 2014
for Sally A Bayan

Once upon a time, a lovely young woman met a young man beside a pond. They both stood feeding the ducks absently, not really looking at each other. The young woman, in her eagerness to feel what she was feeding, stretched out her fingers to stroke the feathers of the nearest duck but it was further away than what she anticipated, and she fell into the pond. The young man reacted by casually removing his shoes and socks, rolling his pants legs and gingerly stepping his way into the pond to hold out his fingertips to grasp flaying hands and bring the young woman back to the grassy edge. Embarrassingly, she sputtered her thanks and asked if there was anything she could do for him, *anything
she said....
He asked if she could clean his pond stained clothes, she replied...
No, but if you don't mind the stains, they now match mine.
He looked away and muttered a goodbye.
The man on the other side of the pond watching her but couldn't get to her in time, whispered...
I would have thrown myself head first under you just so you remained without a stain, alas, I was too far away.
As he rounded the pond, and stood next to her, she repeated the same mistake and fell head first into the water, wanting to feel the softness of the duck but, this time, she added no new stains to her dress because two strong arms grabbed her as she fell a breath whispered in her ear...
*
Don't stain your pretty dress again trying to find softness, it's holding you, right here...
I wrote this for you right now Sally... what I'm trying to say is what I have, you can have, there is someone watching, waiting for you
Seán Mac Falls Apr 2013
And dreaming of Inisfáil, I was raised on Bolivar Pond.
Sheltered in my wake, I’d coo as the dewy’d morning dove
   And fern in my bed, I rose to greet
       The song-splayed sounds of light
   And work, I made it dropping slow
Bright in the summers swoon, I was adorned in forest eves
By rings that rang from tree to rook, and flung the wingèd down,
       Brambled in bay, garland in violet
   When blades could ***** and not make bleed,

And I was brindled by the moon’d many shades, that liken
To a brook, and mottled in my main, noted among moss
   In that glow, once knighted we must serve
       Wood, let me comb in peace!
Colored in the mantled cloth of leaves
And bonny and red, I was the brave and the boon, the deer-
Ants learned me, and herons stood muck, on stands spearing all mite
       And the vernal song sang lowly
   Swaddled in azure’s unfolding dream.

At each turn was a season, nascent life charming in marsh
Forays that brimmed the hollow rood, in clover yards, I saw
   The lilt of bees, sallied in clearings
       Brown as the yellowed beech
   Colored in sounds that beat the heart.
And forth into the field I sprang unto that shedded loam
And high was the sail that bellowed the raft that raked my pond,
       Bullied by the har-umph of frogs
   I rippled, rowing cat o’nine tailed tunes.

Windy and free in the hollowed bark round the ****** bay
I trailed the bear sniffing ****, heard the hoo of a swooping vowel
   And wild in hare, dug the fox-hole up!
       Damp fires hailed the rising
   Moon, as fire-flies dinted the troutling pools
And nothing I saw in my drowning sun could nettle or thorn
My piney ways, nothing could rot my wood-craving ears
       For the kestrel’s qweet-a-quee rang holy
   In the skunk-flowered fields of Bolivar Pond.
Inisfáil (Inish-fall) ] Gaelic word meaning: Isle of destiny, island of the fall, Ireland.
Seán Mac Falls Sep 2012
And dreaming of Inisfáil, I was raised on Bolivar Pond.
Sheltered in my wake, I’d coo as the dewy’d morning dove
   And fern in my bed, I rose to greet
       The song-splayed sounds of light
   And work, I made it dropping slow
Bright in the summers swoon, I was adorned in forest eves
By rings that rang from tree to rook, and flung the wingèd down,
       Brambled in bay, garland in violet
   When blades could ***** and not make bleed,

And I was brindled by the moon’d many shades, that liken
To a brook, and mottled in my main, noted among moss
   In that glow, once knighted we must serve
       Wood, let me comb in peace!
Colored in the mantled cloth of leaves
And bonny and red, I was the brave and the boon, the deer-
Ants learned me, and herons stood muck, on stands spearing all mite
       And the vernal song sang lowly
   Swaddled in azure’s unfolding dream.

At each turn was a season, nascent life charming in marsh
Forays that brimmed the hollow rood, in clover yards, I saw
   The lilt of bees, sallied in clearings
       Brown as the yellowed beech
   Colored in sounds that beat the heart.
And forth into the field I sprang unto that shedded loam
And high was the sail that bellowed the raft that raked my pond,
       Bullied by the har-umph of frogs
   I rippled, rowing cat o’nine tailed tunes.

Windy and free in the hollowed bark round the ****** bay
I trailed the bear sniffing ****, heard the hoo of a swooping vowel
   And wild in hare, dug the fox-hole up!
       Damp fires hailed the rising
   Moon, as fire-flies dinted the troutling pools
And nothing I saw in my drowning sun could nettle or thorn
My piney ways, nothing could rot my wood-craving ears
       For the kestrel’s qweet-a-quee rang holy
   In the skunk-flowered fields of Bolivar Pond.
Inisfáil (Inish-fall) ] Gaelic word meaning: Isle of destiny, island of the fall, Ireland.
Seán Mac Falls Jun 2012
And dreaming of Inisfáil, I was raised on Bolivar Pond.
Sheltered in my wake, I’d coo as the dewy’d morning dove
   And fern in my bed, I rose to greet
       The song-splayed sounds of light
   And work, I made it dropping slow
Bright in the summers swoon, I was adorned in forest eves
By rings that rang from tree to rook, and flung the wingèd down,
       Brambled in bay, garland in violet
   When blades could ***** and not make bleed,

And I was brindled by the moon’d many shades, that liken
To a brook, and mottled in my main, noted among moss
   In that glow, once knighted we must serve
       Wood, let me comb in peace!
Colored in the mantled cloth of leaves
And bonny and red, I was the brave and the boon, the deer-
Ants learned me, and herons stood muck, on stands spearing all mite
       And the vernal song sang lowly
   Swaddled in azure’s unfolding dream.

At each turn was a season, nascent life charming in marsh
Forays that brimmed the hollow rood, in clover yards, I saw
   The lilt of bees, sallied in clearings
       Brown as the yellowed beech
   Colored in sounds that beat the heart.
And forth into the field I sprang unto that shedded loam
And high was the sail that bellowed the raft that raked my pond,
       Bullied by the har-umph of frogs
   I rippled, rowing cat o’nine tailed tunes.

Windy and free in the hollowed bark round the ****** bay
I trailed the bear sniffing ****, heard the hoo of a swooping vowel
   And wild in hare, dug the fox-hole up!
       Damp fires hailed the rising
   Moon, as fire-flies dinted the troutling pools
And nothing I saw in my drowning sun could nettle or thorn
My piney ways, nothing could rot my wood-craving ears
       For the kestrel’s qweet-a-quee rang holy
   In the skunk-flowered fields of Bolivar Pond.
Inisfáil (Inish-fall) ] Gaelic word meaning: Isle of destiny, island of the fall, Ireland.
Seán Mac Falls Jan 2013
And dreaming of Inisfáil, I was raised on Bolivar Pond.
Sheltered in my wake, I’d coo as the dewy’d morning dove
   And fern in my bed, I rose to greet
       The song-splayed sounds of light
   And work, I made it dropping slow
Bright in the summers swoon, I was adorned in forest eves
By rings that rang from tree to rook, and flung the wingèd down,
       Brambled in bay, garland in violet
   When blades could ***** and not make bleed,

And I was brindled by the moon’d many shades, that liken
To a brook, and mottled in my main, noted among moss
   In that glow, once knighted we must serve
       Wood, let me comb in peace!
Colored in the mantled cloth of leaves
And bonny and red, I was the brave and the boon, the deer-
Ants learned me, and herons stood muck, on stands spearing all mite
       And the vernal song sang lowly
   Swaddled in azure’s unfolding dream.

At each turn was a season, nascent life charming in marsh
Forays that brimmed the hollow rood, in clover yards, I saw
   The lilt of bees, sallied in clearings
       Brown as the yellowed beech
   Colored in sounds that beat the heart.
And forth into the field I sprang unto that shedded loam
And high was the sail that bellowed the raft that raked my pond,
       Bullied by the har-umph of frogs
   I rippled, rowing cat o’nine tailed tunes.

Windy and free in the hollowed bark round the ****** bay
I trailed the bear sniffing ****, heard the hoo of a swooping vowel
   And wild in hare, dug the fox-hole up!
       Damp fires hailed the rising
   Moon, as fire-flies dinted the troutling pools
And nothing I saw in my drowning sun could nettle or thorn
My piney ways, nothing could rot my wood-craving ears
       For the kestrel’s qweet-a-quee rang holy
   In the skunk-flowered fields of Bolivar Pond.
Inisfáil (Inish-fall) ] Gaelic word meaning: Isle of destiny, island of the fall, Ireland.

— The End —