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.