WARP EIGHT IN THE SLOW LANE *** FROG LIFE ***
For years gone by, too many days,
Sun shone weakly on stagnant pool,
Dimly, dimly lighting shapes,
Leaves the water cool, so cool.
Shadows lurk in ponds of mind,
Flitting at the edge of sight,
Furtive shapes in grays and blacks,
Seeking not the dim, dim light.
A frog exists in this murky space,
Hard leather over his soul,
Seeking warmth and food and life,
But living the life of the mole.
The frog is battered, bruised and scarred,
From battles waged both close and far.
Defending right and searching dreams,
Following his lonely star.
Travelers pass the pool by day,
Some few choose to pass the night,
To speak their tales to froggy ears,
Before passing back to light.
Some of these return to darkness,
To feed the mind of frog.
Sitting on the logs and stumps there,
While he labors in his bog.
Some few strangers stay yet longer,
A minuscule number, so, so few,
Come to care for frog in shadow,
Mind and his manner all askew.
Putting up with odd demeanor,
Aberrant views of unseen world,
Miscellaneous chargings, chargings,
On his horse with banner unfurled.
These few deserving real sainthood,
Frog amazed, awed by their grace,
At their dogged strong devotion, caring,
At their tacit approval of place.
These few serve as fire and shelter,
Safe the haven from cold, neglect,
Out of wind and swampy dampness,
A warm place to squat, reflect.
Frogs, as a race, are most unruly,
Contrary, proud, more or less,
Shunning shelter giv’n by others,
At a cost he can but guess.
That he sits alone in darkness,
In the moldy damp of night,
Says not that he fails to treasure
That oasis, warm, warm light.
Rather means the pond he’s seeking,
Chalice sought for long, so long,
Is a place of gentle sunlight,
Where the warmth is strong, so strong.
Where lives can be shared completely,
Where rain comes not through the roof,
Where the stove glows daily, nightly,
Where love bears burden of proof.
When dawn appears without a warning,
Frog drags his life towards the glow,
Tortuous burden of errors and waste,
Made his journey seem slow, so slow.
As he stares into the clearing,
Through a length of barb-ed fence,
Ponders toolbag nearly empty,
Purse containing cents, few cents.
In the meadow light is blinding,
Bringing tears to eyes of frog,
Wildflowers, creatures so compelling,
So different from life in the bog.
Dazzling sights in fields before him,
Beauty just beyond his reach,
From the shadows, sun so haunting,
Drowning man too near the beach.
Warmth he stares at through the wire,
Draws his soul like moth to fire,
Fills his heart with joy at closeness,
Pulls his feet from swamp and mire.
There is joy within the meadow,
Fulfillment of his naked need,
Soil so rich in earthy blackness,
Waiting just the planted seed.
Most eyes see a common meadow,
One among the many, at best,
A place to tarry, maybe frolic,
One more place just like the rest.
One frog sees a new pastoral,
After eons of cold and strife,
To the frog perfection lovely,
To the frog the beauty of life.