"tadpoles" poems
All year the flax-dam festered in the heart
Of the townland; green and heavy headed
Flax had rotted there, weighted down by huge sods.
Daily it sweltered in the punishing sun.
Bubbles gargled delicately, bluebottles
Wove a strong gauze of sound around the smell.
There were dragon-flies, spotted butterflies,
But best of all was the warm thick slobber
Of frogspawn that grew like clotted water
In the shade of the banks. Here, every spring
I would fill jampotfuls of the jellied
Specks to range on window-sills at home,
On shelves at school, and wait and watch until
The fattening dots burst into nimble-
Swimming tadpoles. Miss Walls would tell us how
The daddy frog was called a bullfrog
And how he croaked and how the mammy frog
Laid hundreds of little eggs and this was
Frogspawn. You could tell the weather by frogs too
For they were yellow in the sun and brown
In rain.
Then one hot day when fields were rank
With cowdung in the grass the angry frogs
Invaded the flax-dam; I ducked through hedges
To a coarse croaking that I had not heard
Before. The air was thick with a bass chorus.
Right down the dam gross-bellied frogs were cocked
On sods; their loose necks pulsed like sails. Some hopped:
The slap and plop were obscene threats. Some sat
Poised like mud grenades, their blunt heads farting.
I sickened, turned, and ran. The great slime kings
Were gathered there for vengeance and I knew
That if I dipped my hand the spawn would clutch it.
7.3k
Health department signs litter the grass areas,
"Do not make contact with the water;
Swimming forbidden".
Less than twenty years ago I learnt to swim here
And fish too, once i even drowned!
Sometimes my friends and I would
Catch Eels then sell them
To the local Chinese restaurant.
I treasure those memories of my childhood.
This fresh water lake surrounded
By trees taller than buildings
My beautiful haven from the city, hidden
Between main roads and highways
that only the locals know.
Sitting on sandstone rocks
I see my reflection amongst the lily pads.
Beyond the depths an entanglement of
Roots, seaweed and *******
Natural mandalas made by tadpoles
Ripple across the murky brown surface
Whilst a rather large water dragon
Sun bakes on the riverbank
And ducks glide by reminding me
Of the canoes we used to capsize
And I appreciate how simple life
Used to be.
ELEETE J MUIR
May 11, 2018
May 11, 2018 at 7:56 AM UTC
It made scallops on my shirt, dried like salt
in seashells —
the final appearance of our love.
I
could have mourned it
as if it were more than the possibility of life
disguised by a million tadpoles. A whole
day, it took him to get home
it may be even more
miles than my body fluids travel in a week.
His, still on my shirt. Hits my knees
(always the knees, have built oceans on them)
He thinks he left, but it was I
who cleaned sand castles from all my crevices
he thinks he left, he
the snail
I have
caught up in years of needing to be ******
He thought he left, but white beaches
are still in my dresser —
it is what remains.
I am so tempted to say, "your *** outlived you"
but it would not be the
first time his **** did the work for him.
Aug 20, 2013
Aug 20, 2013 at 6:24 PM UTC
My bed is a mass grave
My toilet is a mass grave
My kitchen sink is a mass grave
Stretched out in lines of chrysalis coke, choking the evanescent life that could have been. Straight into the empty Coca Cola can you go. A litany of atrocity in every bed, futon, desks, truck stop bathroom, camera lens, attempting to capture the genocide on film.
Alas, the lens is Covered with white, bioluminescent death.
Choking the unborn in the ****** drain.
Coffee mug refill, for but a single dime,
sweaty palms connected to strained veins on wrists,
connected to thrusting elbows.
Firing wrist rocket, V2, V1, buzz bomb.
Unsuspecting future citizens, blocks of thousands at a time.
Tadpoles, rotting in murky basement suits the world over.
The war is on.
Auschwitz, Dachau, Sachsenhausen.
Arbeit Macht Frei.
Swim for dear life
Apr 29, 2014
Apr 29, 2014 at 11:54 PM UTC
The earth is her playground beneath her feet.
Everyone around her sees that she’s sweet
And full of an innocence in her play.
She won’t stop until she’s seized the day!
Life is a fun game for her to beat.
She plays with the tadpoles that she finds neat.
For them, playing with her is such a treat.
They dream of being frogs so that someday
She’ll kiss them and make one her prince.
She traps them in a jar once filled with peat
And takes them to her home so they can meet
Her family where maybe they’ll stay.
But their dream isn’t her dream in any way.
Now it’s fools and liars who softly bleat,
“She’ll kiss them and make one her prince.”
Oct 23, 2014
Oct 23, 2014 at 2:05 PM UTC
Spring in Kansas.
It doesn’t come in softly.
It roars in with the wind and rain beating against a steel roof, washing into the old soddies and stone,
Clearing out winter in one giant breath.
The change comes within a week,
From dry dead, brown, to startling green, an emerald landscape of winter wheat.
The emerald isle has nothing on Kansas in the Spring.
Then the color starts, red buds against glorious green fields
and thunderous skies, a painters dream uncaptured.
And forsythia, the first blooms, beautiful and stark.
Crocus, daffodil and dandelion crowning the ground with gold.
The trees, bare of leaves, burst forth with flowers in shades of white and pink and the magnolias burst forth, ready to fly off the tree.
Our mighty cotton wood, drooping with frills that will become light catching tufts in the early summer sun as the leaves murmur their constant song, piling like snow in the heated streets.
Thunder rolls as lightning strike turning day into night with hail filled clouds and twisters striking like Greek gods, angry and awesome.
Creeks flood and clear the way for tadpoles and crawdads in streams and pools.
Spring comes, the earth warms, we all wake and stretch and wait for the sunflowers to do the same, yearning to the summer sun.
May 13, 2010
May 13, 2010 at 11:26 AM UTC
Parsimony Antipathy or Prudent Hostility
Locked-up Cuspid Of the One Celled Organism
As the Augury tends to its Auspices oddities
One Weak Ordeal and your reward will be handsome
Ceteris paribus when Ockham’s blade gets dull
Get a loan from your Karma or come back as amoebae
Hearts won’t be practical until they’re unbreakable.
But if you hear hoofbeats, think horses, not zebras.
Sometime this week I’ll hang from the gallows
Every drip of the tallow brings closer the end
But I’ve got this imp secured in this bottle
And you can have him for a price less than a penny
Yeah, I’ve got a genie who’ll grant all your wishes
Just pay for this bottle and your family gets fed
But act fast, for soon I **** my last twitches
By this time tomorrow I could very well be dead
Salivating tadpoles for Hegemony crickets
All imprisoned here with this repressionist peasant
By a singular stroke into Jove’s black booklet
Lucidly errant, who hasn’t been flippant?
Clever Arachne, my love, oh thou immodest spider
All I ever wanted, she picked a fine time to leave us
My days squandered eavesdropping Apocalypse riders
But if you hear hoofbeats, think horses, not zebras.
Sometime this week I’ll hang from the gallows
Every drip of the tallow brings closer the end
But I’ve got this imp secured in this bottle
And you can have him for a price less than a penny
Yeah, I’ve got a genie who’ll grant all your wishes
Just pay for this bottle and your family gets fed
But act fast, for soon I **** my last twitches
By this time tomorrow I could very well be dead
Jan 2, 2013
Jan 2, 2013 at 11:29 AM UTC
I hear water singing,
the different musical symphonies of the rivers,
lakes and the vast ocean sea;
The sweet sorrowful song of the whale--the same song as when I first heard it,
off the edge of a boat in a yellow rain jacket when I was less than nine years old,
The children laughing as tadpoles swarm gaily around their tiny toes--the cream colored foam swallows their legs up to their knees in the orange midday sun,
The chirping of a dolphin, kissing the deep blue waves each time it leaps,
The seahorses galloping and neighing in the salt sea and the catfish purring and licking their paws in the lakes of Wisconsin and Minnesota,
The seagulls calling to the fish to leap out of the water to become breakfast,
The sobbing of the naked woman in her bathtub at home, the suds up to her pink neck--toes turning to raisins,
The deep bellowing of a cruise ship, filled with all of the people laughing inside its belly,
The ocean whispering against the sand as the moon is gazing into the largest mirror in the universe,
The sun singing loudly in the morning time, peeking above the horizon and pulling back the curtains of the night, greeting all of her lovely friends; bold, sweet, and strange.
Jun 1, 2011
Jun 1, 2011 at 6:45 PM UTC
land of no responsibility
except to give in to that burning urge
that prickles up the back of your neck on waking
to be off out running under sun
barefoot as soon as out of sight
adventures wait and time belongs to you
you fish for sticklebacks in a field of golden corn
where farmers wave in anger at the trail to the pond
and take home tadpoles in glass jars on string
breathless at the sight of legs emerging
pick bluebells in the wood for mother
but then arrange them in old tins
in tumbledown cottage the gangs den
scrumping crab apples in overgrown gardens
never getting that stomach ache all Adults warned of
roaming hedgerows looking for hedgehogs
hoping for signs of any living thing
all long fled at the collective noise you make
catching butterflies to look at their wings
putting crysillis in greaseproof papered jars
to watch them emerge for flight on glistening wings
when you return them to the wild
lifting up old drain pipes to look for slugs to race
not forgetting to put them back at races end so they dont shrivel
basking in hot sun after watching trails of catapillars
whose prickles mother later tweezers out
amidst a small flood of tears because they flame red
having a bath with bubbles then tucking up in bed
drowzy but anticipating tomorrow is waiting
Jul 9, 2012
Jul 9, 2012 at 7:01 PM UTC
a bluejay recently passed away
outside on my front lawn
i tried to help him best I could
but now he is long gone
i have a pool of tadpoles
sitting right out back
the tiny little froglets
making me an insomniac
a new cat showed up last week
with a short shiny black coat
along with his appearance
my mother left a note
"please do not feed him, darling
for he is but a stray
and you've taken in three new cats
already yesterday!"
Aug 2, 2018
Aug 2, 2018 at 1:11 AM UTC
In my garden is a clean little pond
Fructified by tadpoles besides tiny fish
Where water lilies bloom by day
White and violet, a lovely sight
Over it hover pairs of dragonflies
They come in plenty on summer days
When the day is bright, soon after morn
To lay their eggs on lily pads
Like helicopters, they skim up and down
With their tiny propellers coming down
Sometimes like surfers over the aqua blue,
Perform rare feats, with brisk movements
Their filmy gossamer wings glistening in sunlight
And their bulging eyes reflecting iridescent shades
If ever we try to catch one…., sensing danger
They would rocket up, as fleeting flashes of light,
Into the air…. gliding and spiraling
Even in my sixties, whenever I spot a dragonfly
My mind catches up with those memories
When as children we chased them- ‘hush hush’
Trying to trap them while they perched on a fence or pole
How delighted we were holding them between our fingers
As they helplessly shivered thrumming their filmy wings!
Making them lift small stones double their weight
In their quivering thread like hands, a huge task for them,
Had been our greatest thrill then…!
Were we sadists……??
I still wonder!
May 16, 2016
May 16, 2016 at 11:27 PM UTC
Birds came and pecked through the silver top,
popping their beaks in
for a dribble of milk,
it was cold then,
back in the old days
not so anymore.
And the slow light of the glow worm that could turn a bird in mid flight would send sparse light, but enough light as if enough light was a feast.
The snowmen in the garden that stood under the clothes line looked perfect with two buttons sewed into their eyes until the thaw came and they melted like our hearts did when they went away and the days grew even longer after that.
The frogspawn burst into tadpoles became black comma's in the pond and the herons flew like spitfire aircraft,
how daft we laughed and gaily played as if the season would last forever and tomorrow would never come.
Mr's Brown is Bobby coming out to play today?
Then Bobby went away,
taken by leukemia that crept in silently and took him quietly and still we squandered the fading sunlight.
On the dullest of days when the bagpiper plays and a darkness comes into my heart,
I stand there, out on the foreshore, waiting for emptiness
and wanting no more.
Sep 26, 2015
Sep 26, 2015 at 3:27 AM UTC
"Tadpoles and Dragons"
Scared a lil, fear full a lil, I'm telling myself to try a lil
I wouldn't know the difference if I lie a lil
But first I'll curse
Eat dinner quench my thirst
Wash my flesh then cry a lil
Walk it off
Man up and face the mirror
flex the guns then sigh a lil
Strong and steady
Game face on I'm ready
Breath in deep wave goodbye a lil
Tell ya'll I love you in case I die a lil
Hear my theme song as they chant my name time for some hope time for some change.
I'm all hyped up I'm gone though I ask why a lil The next time we meet I'm gonna fly a lil.
Alexis J. Meighan
Oct 22, 2012
Oct 22, 2012 at 8:56 PM UTC
Beaten-in-dirt-roads led us to
a foggy marsh you called the place to be.
Our heads kept still as we watched
eggs hatch beneath the algae.
Our bodies swaying like the limbs
of a willow we almost forgot about.
Preoccupied with catching tadpoles,
we never noticed temptation
creeping up behind tomorrow.
Aggravated, he whispered:
I'm waiting.
Mar 27, 2014
Mar 27, 2014 at 1:39 AM UTC
White crane fishing trackside for
Vestiges of nourishment from
Newark muck and Secaucus slush:
Be aware;
Three-eyed tadpoles live in these waters,
Breeding alongside rotting corpses--
Mob jobs gone wrong and various
Plastic garbage.
Apr 3, 2014
Apr 3, 2014 at 6:28 PM UTC
Treading on toothpicks
thinking about tomorrow
time teases
tired tadpoles
trying to transform
trains transporting
transparent travellers
to tall tin trees
typed at Teatime
ty Tismee T
Tetit?
Time: To-o-to TM
Mar 21, 2014
Mar 21, 2014 at 5:18 PM UTC
Do you know the bird?
Of course not. each
updraft a soaring appreciation for
worldly things, textbook happiness
drowning distraction in a pond plump with water
lilies and tadpoles, sinking down to the
dirt, belly raw on dizzy ground, feet
scrabbling for a safe touchdown, sure this day there
must be a rock or a tree trunk, some natural end to the in-
between where a bitter desperate aftertaste singes the mouth, certain
nothing else will be known, that this sour tang is only to
remain on this tongue forever, no
asking you if you can relate is like expecting the sun to
rain down and openly weep itself out, quite
impossible, come on - remember, you
must see clearly - here
comes the lift again, fondest flying above, fully
forgotten panic until winds falter once more
I know the bird.
Oct 7, 2012
Oct 7, 2012 at 8:14 PM UTC
“The sound that pours from the fingertips awakens clouds of cells far inside the body”
Robert Bly 1926-
You could say that the sound that tips deep cells are waking
heralds with bugles divine revolution
You could say that the sound that echoes from spirals
gossamers emeralds’ scintillant light
You could say that the sound that squishes from mangoes
is luscious and opulent tripping with pearls
You could say that the sound that slumbers in harp strings
howls round the polar bear’s tumaceous couch
You could say that the sound that tremors from tadpoles
triggers eruptions of undersea mountains
You could say that the sound that sits on the windowsill
on Arcturus flickers as icicle fire
You could say that the sound that bounces off drumskins
loosens the shackles of acuate cacti
You could say that the sound that shivers off rainbows
silkens red poppies at sunstrike unpacking
You could say that the sound that rumbles round moonrocks
passes on purple to stillness of shadows
You could say that the sound that echoes cicadas
crackles through canyons of memory rising
You could say that the sound that gallops through nightmares
shrinks in the face of the falcons glissade
You could say that the sound that is diatomaceous
tangles up synapses sparking at random
You could say that the sound of deep cells awakening
&n
Jan 20, 2013
Jan 20, 2013 at 4:57 AM UTC
When swirls of heavy air begin to
Curl up in the
Core of your
Throat and
To speak is a
Feat you
Don’t wish to
Endure
Because you
Fear a
Frog will
Leap out in place of
Thought-out
Words and you
Can’t risk that;
Can’t process the
Unspeakable,
No pun intended
So assume your worst about my
Desert-dry lips and my
Purple-bagged eyes and my
Shuffling trot.
But truth be told,
You know the feeling of
Tadpoles growing into
Bullfrogs
In the pit of your
Voicebox
And you avoid those people
At all costs
So the frog won’t leap
From my throat to yours,
Good luck.
May 5, 2012
May 5, 2012 at 4:26 PM UTC
4/12/2016
"*Rappelez-vous l'objet que nous vîmes, mon âme,
Ce beau matin d'été si doux:
Au détour d'un sentier une charogne infâme
Sur un lit semé de cailloux?"
"My love, do you recall the object which we saw,
That fair, sweet, summer morn!
At a turn in the path, a foul carcass
On a gravel strewn bed?*"
Charles Baudelaire
I sat on the mossy footstool
that lied by the brook-
I had to really open my ears
to hear the soft regurgitation
coming from the clear muddy water, gliding over the slate,
piled up
the road, the one I drove on that one day we snuck out,
was placed gently beside it,
uptop a little cliff,
I felt this a beatific metaphor.
The air felt amorphous,
held a quality I couldn't quite
put my finger on.
and then I saw a tree,
a crooked one
who had seemed to grow
on the bank of the creek
because life, it seems, imitates art.
Its trunk dipped
until it ever so slightly grazed the water
its elm fingers
almost
almost.
I smiled when I saw this,
for it gave me hope.
I likened myself to the horseflies and new
tadpoles that flittered,
seraphic in quality,
borne with the quality of new life- the innocent quality
the one that just made me feel tainted, the more I surrounded myself with it.
The Friday afternoons on the avenue, with its port wine air
and this bubbling black slate brook
are the only places
that innocence lives-
if I had realized how quiet
the soft gargling of the cherub water was
I'd have stopped the car
and baptized ourselves
In it.
Apr 18, 2016
Apr 18, 2016 at 3:31 PM UTC
oh god i would do anything to see leaves or fireworks or forget-me-nots or snow or tadpoles or anything extending beyond the current day
i'm sorry that our plans never made it to blueprints
is there something about me that screams impermanence?
am i the human embodiment of a rest stop?
Jul 8, 2016
Jul 8, 2016 at 2:07 PM UTC
Minuscule cockroaches creak
Conspicuously around the crude crumbs
On the dusty kitchen counter,
And tadpoles squirm in the cremated creek.
The porridge poured itself
For the poor stray kitten,
Who was too spritely
For eureka's euthanization,
Triumphant in trespassing
The proximity of the porch.
Meanwhile, the revolving rover
Imitated the raunchy rocket ships,
Launching like fervent fertility
Interceding September's secret,
Sacred admirers of ethereal pyres.
The sepulchre's soma
Spread from the peach's center
Like the terrific thighs of a virile *****
Jurassic travels ,
Machines running on ancient carcass,
Annulling the terra firma
Of its aloe vera-like virginity,
And courtesans adorned with jewels,
Pretending to be Aphrodite?
Just as Jupiter does,
Joy wears covetous rings..
Originally written 8/12/11
Revised 10/19/14
(c) 2014 Brandon Antonio Smith
Oct 19, 2014
Oct 19, 2014 at 6:12 PM UTC
The first taste of Fall , with a slight nip in the air , reminds me of a five year old in his Astronaut gear ! Football helmet , pliers and hammer from Dads tool case ! Yellow raincoat and cowboy boots , outside the Eagle on Tranquility Base , Neil Armstrong exploring the creek beside the Mothership ...Home ..Crawdad matches , tadpoles , mud puppies , mantids , a few June Bugs with kite string tied to one leg ..Aggies , Immies , shooters and swirls , GI Joes , jack stones and wood gliders ....
Oct 6, 2015
Oct 6, 2015 at 3:00 PM UTC