Wednesday, May 7, 2014

Frog Pond Ballade


I knew my heart galled in a bitter state,
   hardened by years of whiskey and gin,
softened only by remorse for my fate,
   I no longer felt for kith and kin.
   Outside myself the world seemed within,
I’d walk in my yard around a frog pond
   watching lily pads afloat so thin,
ringed by green and gold mountains beyond.

What next? I asked, for time was getting late.
   My life would end before I’d begin.
 Leaves would turn fire to coldness of slate
   buried under a plate of chagrin.
 Is the bud a threat to discipline?
   Or harbinger to a magic wand?
Meanwhile, this boy’s gone through thick-and-thin
   ringed by green and gold mountains beyond.

My pond’s aura where croaking bullfrogs grate
   to silence peepers’ relentless din,
bursting night air in cacophonous fête
   only reminds me of where I’ve been.
   As young and old are forever twin,  
the night is the song of an ancient bond
   healing man and nature in a timeless spin,
ringed by silhouettes of hills beyond.

With joy, I have decided to pin
   my hopes to a pond, of which I’m so fond,
to bring me back to the world therein,
   ringed by green and gold mountains beyond.


George S. Chappell
  Rockland, Maine

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