Sunday, July 22, 2012

frogs are

in a manner of speaking - frogs are green
but are not rookies.
two, three, four, five, six  out there,
count ‘em.

they aren’t watching TV
don’t read the paper
or catch info on the Internet.
so  how do they  know what month it is?

do they note the stars as the Mayans did?
they do react to the seasons;
and so how do i know what they’ll do soon?
cause i know.  they’re predictable.

oh, no!  i have to watch it . . .
cause poetry shouldn’t be  full of questions,
should it?   but full of frogs is okay.
isn’t it?

a little night mystery

middle of the night
the window was open
two lots north the little white dog barked
nothing  unusual about that
i know the voice

the clock said three
when seconds later, - to the south
and one house west
it was the old dog with the muffled voice
who sounds like he barks into an oatmeal box.

it didn’t end there.
as then, in our backyard pond, the main frog
who had been quiet for several hours
suddenly took up the call.
i never knew what got them going.

i don't care

i don’t care how tough it is
and no,  i don’t like it rough
i’m not that way;
i like it easy.

ok, so i make mistakes,
everyone does and i’m included,
but  taking what life gives me
i’ll work it around until it feels good.

you don’t have to tell me hard roads happen
but i won’t give up,  never have, i’m not that type,
not when i can see the light,
not when with work i can make it right.