Mist moved over the river flats,
beading cobwebs along the fence.
By dusk, raindrops gathered
and danced in the dust,
each small impact
summoning a hundred more.
By dawn, their bright insistence
drummed on every roof,
swelling down into the river
until it forgot its banks.
Freed from its borders,
the flood rushed to the lowest point—
the open cut.
It crossed the service road,
slipped past rusted gates,
and filled the excavation.
It lifted the warning signs,
worried black silt from the seams,
carried the company’s name away.
As the rain slowed,
a wetland took shape,
mirroring the sky—
a chorus of warbling and croaking fills the air.
No one scrubbed the hammock.
Or brushed the cabinet.
Distant like lukewarm cinnamon.
Being an astronaut is a chore.
To look at space gunk?
And you think it’s chilly up there.
Oof.
Nope it’s teetering and croaking.
Gah!
Gaslighting you like a fossilized fudge sundae.
Nothing is messy in outer space.
So they didn’t take the bleach along.
i was a frog who wanted to be king
until i realized i couldn't even sing
a songbird shrilled
"you're only a croaker out of tune"
still i stood on my stump with a tortured smile
croaking my heart out all the while
i dreamed of being a stand-up crooner
a swamp-side sinatra maybe a little sooner
the crickets laughed
the herons one-legged stared
every fragile dream i swallowed
sat inside me
broken and unprepared
the wart-filled toad spat from his lily pad
"you’re stretching your skin boy
settle into the scum"
i carried an empty pond inside
where a thousand thorny dreams went to die
the audience left
the moon went home
a cold blue screen spit its light onto the scum
unthinking
no one returned my croak
i died a little every time i tried
my face looked back from the pond
mud-covered
wart-covered
ugly
my reflection looked away
all it could do was cry
today the water settled
the mud claimed the surface
when i looked down
there wasn’t even a frog
left to die
Crows were croaking in the sky
Rain was going to pour
And the wind was blowing high
Through the bedroom door
So what now? I asked the wind
Nothing, he replied
Nothing what? I faintly grinned
And the clouds cried
Thunder shook my window pane
I turned up my head
Splashes of torrential rain
Flew onto my bed
I kept lying on my back
Watching the skylight
As it changed from grey to black
With the hints of white..
Life breath growing.
Doves dawning song,
Zephyrs blowing.
Daisies blooming
Waiting yearlong.
Showers looming.
Turtles swimming.
Frogs croaking throng.
Creeks near brimming.
Lushness supplying.
Blessings belong.
Rich life implying.
Cat three-tooth, cat stone-deaf, cat sidewinder walk,
Old Bealman stalked the croaking, the croaking,
with forepaws meek stroking
airs of a summer cool night.
Bealman, Bealman, Meow & Sealman,
Pacing, still racing, one two three man.
Bealman—frog fisher & free.
Delphinium, the roses, lupine interposes
a shadow of fortressed green leaf
disguises the notion my Bealman supposes—
to seize, dismember it through,
make self-concocted, dishering frog stew.
Bealman, Bealman, Meow & Sealman,
Pacing, still racing, one two three man.
Bealman—frog fisher & free.
Night hours accounting, morning’s surmounting,
a bird warning Bealman, his patience to thin.
Croaking still blending, a flower stalk was bending,
two legs, peaking out, sent Bealman straight in.
Bealman, Oh my Bealman, Meow & Sealman,
Pacing, still racing, one two three man.
Frog fisher & free.
I saw Bealman beaming; I saw Bealman beaming.
How cats manage beaming I’ll wonder again.
Since Bealman was twenty, any beaming is plenty.
I loved my old Bealman, my frog fisher friend.
Bealman, Bealman, my meow dear Sealman,
Frog fisher & free.
Guess this made us job ready,
Gazing at Kermit's philosophy,
"It's so not easy being green..."
Frog was croaking on our screen,
No, it's not easy, dude and gal,
Might say we're all neurotypical,
It's woke to be holier than thou,
Only thoughts we have somehow,
Is it indeed, thought control?
Jelly green giant police on patrol,
Do agree now, life coaching screen,
"It's so not easy being green......"
(Envy).
Write myself in this poem?
Like my own magazine with pictures of me.
Everlasting.
Weird poetry.
If I wrote down my own name?
It might turn me into a lily pad to hop onto.
Let my hair down into the words.
Let the door burst open with me and my notepad.
Extrapolate.
Expand what I know about being in a poem.
Plaid patterns and I like them.
Twitching and don’t feel anything.
Except pages.
Pen and ink of mine.
Write myself in this poem?
I’d have to be myself in a river or swamp.
Write myself in this poem?
I’d have to be…
A croaking toad.
Just for now.
A croaking echo, dark and deep,
A princess shivers in her sleep.
She lost her golden ball of light,
To a monstrous, endless night.
The moon hangs, a violet stain,
As the bog begins to rain.
A frog, with skin of slimy green,
Leaps from a shadow, rarely seen.
"I'll find your ball," it rasps and sighs,
with golden flecks within its eyes.
But as it speaks, the sound turns dread,
A monstrous voice, not what it said.
Its body swells, a horrid sight,
Engulfing all the fading light.
The frog is gone, the monster's here,
And the princess screams in primal fear.
The violet sky starts to decay,
As the monster grins and starts to play.
The golden ball, a final gleam,
Sinks with the girl into the stream.
autumn crickets fall;
the noise they make they so call;
field crickets widespread;
~
fall cricket songs heard;
across North Americas;
ambience alone--
~
cracklings fire mist;
the waters flow and amiss
the grass still's grows loud;
~
cracks the crickets cricks;
the noise they make they so call;
field crickets widespread;
~
like a leap frog knee-
-deep embedded in a spring
log croaking ribbit
~
field crickets widespread;
the noise they make they so call;
cracks the crickets cricks;
8/30/2025
Written words by James Edward Lee Sr. 2025©
Cats and dogs
Croaking bull frogs
Peas and beans
Dandelion greens
Oaks and pine
Maple trees fine
Lilac and rose
Azalea’s grow
Birds and bees
Two apple trees
Pond and lawn
A spotted fawn
Fence and stonewall
Framing it all
A Pond’s Melody
dragonflies buzzing
spring peepers chirping for mates
splashing fish jumping for meals
blue herons squawking
bilious bullfrogs croaking
quacking mallards leading young
River makes its final clunk
Between
Hills
Rolling boulders like turtle shells
Empty of their mouths and hearts
River bent
Flailing legs and neck
No longer reflects
The sun and moon
From water’s absence down its back.
Turns her terrible brittle head
From me
Teeth gnashing on the spools of willow
To her memory
When mud was forest
Footsteps
Croaking with frogs and dazzled with dragonflies
Ringed in a halo of cold fog.
We are dying
Together
Not angels nor even demons
But conquering visitors from a desert
Who brought nothing but the leech of desert
With us
Covering the entire Earth with insatiable thirst
And hunger
Kings and Queens for a day
Destroyers
Of those ceremony drums
Of gods and plants animals and language
When we lived as One
Gift
Strummed through the harp of gratitude.
Now, I seek a forgiving signal
From perhaps a divine wave
Coming from the dying Mother
This way
You poor skinless fool
The fire shall burn behind you
The entire Earth and its people
Which is all the things that flutter
Crawl walk and sing
"An empty bowl
With a spoon beside you."
Another drag... inhale, exhale, inhale, lungs fill with toxic smoke
another sip... fire glides down her aching throat
another croaking whisper to the one beside, although aloof and remote.
She laughs in the face of sorrow, trying in vain to hide behind her eyes
the sound is an open coffin, a high hysterical
plea filled cry
I imagine she has children, and the sweetness of love since nothing less can cause such hurt
For what we care for most, are the very things
we just can't desert
As much as we yearn to dislocate, hide and finally
push self~destruct
We are bound with soul ties that true love feverishly constructs
Unable to throw off these chains
connecting soul to soul
We walk about as Marley's ghost,
each link taking a toll.
For the ties are conducive to nightmares or dreams of lost loves
Imprinted on our hearts and minds, never fully leaving us.
Whether your Love is unrequited, or Love that stays true
You create the spirits that will forever haunt you.
The sky is blue, the blossoms pink,
A world of colors made to think
Of girls with bows and boys with toys—
Of butterflies and croaking frogs.
A little girl in lace and light
Will chase the wings of morning bright,
While laughter spills like summer rain
From fields that never know of pain.
A little boy with muddy feet
Will follow frogs through grasses sweet,
With daring eyes and tousled hair,
A heart that beats without a care.
But let them stray, let colors blend,
Let frogs and butterflies be friends—
For joy is neither blue nor rose,
But something deeper no one knows.
A child is more than what we see.
Let love decide who they shall be.
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