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.

new day

the new day sun enters east window,

looks over the counter,

glances off the shiny floor,

then leaps and sticks bright light to the far wall.

now i either mention that

as i sip coffee here

with my morning head empty

or note nothing, nothing at all.

until then

in a while i will go to close my eyes
until then, now
tell me again .......
so in my room late at night

with the window open .....
trains passing in the distance
when i hear the music of nearby homes
which are alive in summer nights,

the voices of people and their music
come to  me from over fields, 
i'll think of nights that could be magic;
and with music playing i'll fall asleep.

i like june's angle

i like june's
angle of the sun
daily rising more
from the north

how the new morning's
butter yellow sparkles
and swinging shadows
cause reflections worth watching on the wall

the sun has to come through
on light wind
moving the arms
of a river birch

your way

look  where you want,

keep an attentive eye,  

dally where you may.

along your way make important

what you will;

enjoy the colors,

smell the scents,

as wind blows,

as life runs on ahead

don't let it get away,

keep up with it.

caught

caught a frog on the fence

just the first rung

he was looking for a way -

he was on his way.

i approached easily and carried him back to the pond.

though the month is right for him to leave,

it was dry out there, rough brush to cross;

he can go safer when it rains.  that night it did and he did.

he was as limp as a warm, fish filet as i gently held im,

like jello in a thin, pliable, plastic bag.  he knew it was me.

no fight or resistance when i carried him back to the pond.

i've watched for years, but never expected frogs to be so soft.

dawn poem

 

near june dawn
one damp
brown leather foot
after another
crept through the woods
to a lake and canoe
where two
set off as few would do
to pursue the climbing amber sun
 not yet in view
and jumping swimming fish
 deep in the blue
the deer and bear and birds

what they saw
no one knew