The Thinking Poet


Behold The Crouching Frog

A wet May-stay we had.

"Plenty of grass but not much hay if it rains on Easter Day";

And it did!

We should be wary of mega-machines

And daily reports spread on weather-maps.

The flutter of a butterfly can spring surprise tornadoes.

Old folk felt the weather in their blood.

Their wise eyes read the signs.

They rhymed old saws.

No abstractions for them, just intuitive sleight-of-hand.

The same that sends swallows south,

That makes the stoatís coat change.

We clog lifeís arteries with abstractions,

Analyze "love" to extinction, leaving only reprobate remains

Of molecules, functions, drives.

"Light" as bits of "donít know what", or waves, is not light.

Seeing its ceaseless play in clouds,

Its shimmering water-dance, is food for sight.

And "life" is not a regime of dictator-genes.

It dwells in unsought moments;

The moment wrestling with weeds, fork in hand;

In the cry: "Itís alive!", half shock, half joy,

As, body held, breath checked,

We behold a crouching frog.

The glint of bulging eyes like set jewels,

The miracle of stillness in expectancy,

A congruence with self that breeds an empathy.

Between the wordless moment and embryo thought,

Something is lost.

Yet always this inexorable verbal urge.


From a backwards extrapolation: "birth",

To forward extrapolation : "death",

Between two unknowns, we live.

The day of death, says Ecclesiastes, is better than the day of birth.

For death is every manís destiny.

The living should take this to heart.

But when desiccated fragments are all thatís left of us

The heart has lost its heat,

Our march has lost its beat.