If I Were a Frog

If I were a frog

Sitting calm on my log

with its great collapsed moss

like conglomerate broth

And flat-fleecing the flies

riding up in my skies

and licking the air

of its angel sun-hair.

I would stare

at my lair

And say God of the bog!

Aren't they dizzy

those exceptionous humans

so busy?

so whizzy?

so fizzy?

so giddy?

Draining the streams

with pecunious dreams

they are liars

those triers

those fake anti-diers.

doing everything quick

what a trick, what a trick!
what a stab in the back

what a great brutus hack!

what a felo de se

what a plain bizarre way

to live

in the sieve

while their lives

flow quite plain

down the drain

and the faster they go

then the slower they move

kicking time off its groove

then those dead things, they lose.

what a ruse

what a schmooze

what a quick way to lose

when they crusise

on their shoes

of fiscal remove.

and they stamp out the lives

of the blossoms and hives.

with their shodding of gold

that they think will

keep them

all out of the cold.

Don't they know don't they know

there's a cold in their bones

and it beckons them back

to the blossoms and stone?

Don't they know don't they know

that the end is so slow

that it feels like winning

and soft green beginning?

Damn, God with your green face

who started that mad race

with conceivable end

clearly quite round the bend.

If I were a frog

I would swim in my bog

and stretch out my feet

brown and green and elite

- what a treat

to beat

at the fronds so sweet -

I am cold and heat

but my voice isn't mete.

And if I were a frog

Squat and tall on my log

I think I would weep

for the slaughter of sheep

in the field beyond

I'd dream I were tall

I were more, I were all

than a frog with a song

then I'd sing for more long

And I'd sing for more ears

and I'd say, you who hear

Please don't fear

to disappear

for your fractures of fear

make clots in my weir

and how will I know

the path to appear

if the moth and the mosh and the squash and

the marshes and pots

in the valleys are lost

in spoil.

and in oil.

and ridiculous toil.

Don't boil my soul.

Don't rubble my scrubble.

Don't plunder my mess

Don't take me for less

than the one at the end

who re-makes the beginning

I unmake the stopping

I release the dropping

of bodies and bones

I'm the grandeur of tombs

in my moss in my blossom

beginning is sudden

and quick like the sun

and however you run

you are frog, worm and the soil.

Head upper to tail

Wing upper to scale

Come, look to the sky

and learn how to die,

Come, stare at the sun

with its fury of light

equilibrious height

and up there where you run

in its endless of gold

is the pond -

black and old -

you come from.

But I'm just a frog

sitting calm on my log

and all that I do

and all that I knew

is the dive and the run

and the swim and the sun

and the pond – black and old

- you come from.

Bees

What is this wonder-taker
whisper-shaker
ground-life strummer
spirit-maker
dusk-dark dancer
of the sword
in crumble dust
in sunray cord?

This magic mage
this holy sage
this golden god
this darksome cloud
this humming one
this wonder song
this glisten priest
this forest loud?

Life of ochre
life of bronze
potion singer
living song.
Under black leaves
in daylight towers
your daylight soot
ignites the hours.

Carry the crust
of life to life
the flower-crux
the starting might
the yellow fleet
the quickening heat
that brings becoming
from the deep.

Black enactment
sun bright word
never-ending
world interred.
Hive and honey
wax and god
you are the clouds
that stir the sod.
Enchanters of the pillared pine
we trace your trail
we drink your wine.

And other things
are done by us
not nearly clean
not nearly earthed.
Webs upon the living field
that smell like what
the dying yield.
Changes to the pillared pine
that shrink the swollen
time of wine.

And so the silence
of the hives
after the humming summer.
And so the bodies
small and black
entomb the carcass winter.

And grieving seems
a smaller thing
than sight of a dead hive.
For after all
the sages say
this dying will
enact the tide.

Once we did a rite that seemed
to fill a swarming story.
Perhaps to satisfy ourselves
perhaps to hear the apiary.
There we dreamed
and there we danced
within the dance
there was a glance.
Knots were close within blue sky
knots of past
and knots of hive.
Memories came
and so did swarms
the sky alive
the wood was warm.
The sky alive
and hummed with wings
the story lived
the winged sing.

The story lived through golden words.
The golden goddess combed her hair.
And palaces of cell-souled wax
repeated, multiplied her sight,
repeated, multiplied her swarm
the story lived
the Queen was known.