No, No, Frogs

frog

Two little dogs
who thought they were frogs
leaped around the yard.

Up in the air
with nary a care
they leaped and they leaped so hard.

The neighborhood cat
she smirked as she sat
watching such a sight.

Then they spotted her
but she merely purred
“No, no. Frogs do not bite.”

Writing children’s verse for dverse poets.

The Rock

photo by sethsnap. used with permission.

photo by sethsnap. used with permission.

She sits on “their rock.”
The lake and her flowing chestnut hair

– childhood backdrops

and those of the proposal, here,
six months ago.

Elbows rest on knees; right palm
cradles chin. The other, bare,
drapes casually across her lap

– maturity’s model.

Shadows veil delicate features,
rendering eyes unreadable.
The midday sun catches a spark

in the abyss

like the diamond ring slowly sinking
to the lake’s bottom.

New Edition of The River Muse

river muse

Have you seen the new issue of the River Muse? Hot off the press and celebrating our 2nd Anniversary! – Check it out at therivermuse.com and make sure to follow here at “She’s Writing” as I feel some poetry itching in my fingertips. 🙂

A Little Explanation

“To one who has faith, no explanation is necessary.
To one without faith, no explanation is possible.”
~ St. Thomas Aquinas

st. thomas aquinas

No longer dwelling in past or future;
to write of either is to murder Now,
and I am no killer!

I want to live in Eternity –
that timeless presence
where egoic mind has no place;

where there are no places
of spaces and time. You see,

when I write I think,
and when I think I
categorize, and when I categorize
I suffocate in small boxes

like rodents being carried home from
pet stores – transfers from cage to cage.

I wish I could tell you
more, but it is something
you have to experience
for yourself.

Pause.

The flutter inside of your heart –
the one that is cautiously, yet excitedly,
saying “Yes!” –
that is a good start.

Life and Death – a poem

I feel the breath of death
in my chest at night
as I gaze out,
over sleeping fields

where soybean babies
are born. The corn,
its rows now covered

with a white mirror for the stars,
took its turn last year.

A lone tree, gnarly and naked
against the studded sky,
beckons not,
no matter how long I

linger and lament, aching
for winter’s thrusts of gusts;
wanting its swirling,
numbing embrace.

Exhalations fog unlocked panes
where death gathers in corners,
forming crystals – the origin of life.