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Puddle: four haiku
frog pond
reincarnated
as a puddle
enormous dead oak—
so much more sky
in the puddle
lone firefly
only the puddle
returns his blink
fear not
storms are on the way
little puddle
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Digte om emnet “frog” på Poets.by.
* * *
counting the rings
in the wood frog pond
another year
Rite of spring
In small, murky ponds
that appear each spring
along the ridge crest,
dozens of wood frogs
float through the reflected treetops,
lust blatting from each fat throat.
Get too close and the show stops.
Another step and they vanish
into strings of bubbles.
Gently, into the deep woods
Please! Do not offer
No word of comfort
No solace-
Nothing.
Regret is a silent, deep pool
Still waters, dead calm
Dark and desolate
Black, cold marble where I lie prostrate.
Bubbles break, slowly
Between sighs
Between every heave of the lungs
Slowing down.
Discarded, I lie
Like a frog squashed on a highway.
Dissected, the heart
Still throbs, beating for a life already left.
Blue and Black
Among a cradle of leaves
A frog sits facing away from me.
Green leaves, touched with faint morning dew.
The brook by the side is dry.
A butterfly flitters, faint beats of the wing
Ruffle the leaves.
No flowers, no drip of water drops.
Even the wind is still.
I peer among the bushes
Vainly for a glimpse of a damselfly
Blue and black, who should be here.
I, the man, who beat everything
Blue and black.
What's a New Full Moon?
Through jail windows a new full moon is a round white door rendered useless by stout steel bars
Frogs see a new full moon as a luminous toadstool sprouting from the black floor of a pond
To the thief and the murderer it is a busy stoolpigeon tipping off cops and intended victims
To a young man in love the new full moon is a priceless pearl he would tear from the sky . . . set in a ring woven from sparkling stars . . . place on the finger of his sweetheart's hand
The new full moon is a beautiful woman . . . ageless . . . deathless . . . inaccessible . . . and infinitely mysteriously sad . . . who gazes in my window through a dark veil set with shimmering stars . . . the poet said
Frogs
The storm broke, and it rained,
And water rose in the pool,
And frogs hopped into the gutter,
With their skins of yellow and green,
And just their eyes shining above the surface
Of the warm solution of slime.
At night, when fireflies trace
Light-lines between the trees and flowers
Exhaling perfume,
The frogs speak to each other
In rhythm. The sound is monstrous,
But their voices are filled with satisfaction.
In the city I pine for the country;
In the country I long for conversation —
Our happy croaking.
Hokku 20
"Let day pass,
"Let night break," —
So the frogs sing morning and eve.
Return
I have gone back in boyish wonderment
To things that I had foolishly put by....
Have found an alien and unknown content
In seeing how some bits of cloud-filled sky
Are framed in bracken pools; through chuckling hours
Have watched the antic frogs, or curiously
Have numbered all the unnamed, vagrant flowers,
That fleck the unkempt meadows, lavishly.
Or where a headlong toppling stream has stayed
Its racing, lulled to quiet by the song
Bursting from out the thickleaved oaken shade,
There I have lain while hours sauntered past--
I have found peacefulness somewhere at last,
Have found a quiet needed for so long.
Assault
I had forgotten how the frogs must sound
After a year of silence, else I think
I should not so have ventured forth alone
At dusk upon this unfrequented road.
I am waylaid by Beauty. Who will walk
Between me and the crying of the frogs?
Oh, savage Beauty, suffer me to pass,
That am a timid woman, on her way
From one house to another!
Just Before April Came
The snow piles in dark places are gone.
Pools by the railroad tracks shine clear.
The gravel of all shallow places shines.
A white pigeon reels and somersaults.
Frogs plutter and squdge — and frogs beat
the air with a recurring thin
steel sliver of melody.
Crows go in fives and tens ; they march their
black feathers past a blue pool ; they
celebrate an old festival.
A spider is trying his webs, a pink bug sits
on my hand washing his forelegs.
I might ask: Who are these people?
Flat Lands
Flat lands on the end of town where real estate men
are crying new subdivisions,
The sunsets pour blood and fire over you hundreds and
hundreds of nights, flat lands — blood and fire of
sunsets thousands of years have been pouring over
you.
And the stars follow the sunsets. One gold star. A
shower of blue stars. Blurs of white and gray stars.
Vast marching processions of stars arching over you
flat lands where frogs sob this April night.
" Lots for Sale — Easy Terms " run letters painted on a
board — and the stars wheel onward, the frogs sob
this April night.