I called me a worm.
A caterpillar.
I told me to molt.
Become someone different,
And unfamiliar.
Wrapped in a cocoon,
And turned into goo.
In a stage of growth,
And that can hurt the most,
But I’ll pry myself out.
Im something strange,
Something changed,
Less deranged,
But similar.
Still I just feel like goo.
A froglet to frog,
Larva to pupa,
Tadpole to toad.
Even termites show growth.
One day,
I’ll be fully grown.
So I’ll spread my wings,
Not,
Because I told me to.
Not,
Because I said I should.
Not,
Because I said I would.
But,
Because I’m ready to be shown.
For now though,
For now,
I have no issue,
Being goo.
A tadpole's journey, humble and small,
In still waters, it begins to crawl,
With gills that breathe beneath the surface,
It longs for metamorphosis, a destined purpose.
The tadpole morphs, with limbs that sprout,
A froglet now, to the water’s edge about,
The final form, a frog so green and grand,
Hops on lily pads, roams the land.
Blessings from above, a gentle hand,
Transformes lust to love, like grains of sand.
Delusion fades, illumination bright,
Earth and heaven blend, in purest light.
In shadows deep, where doubt once grew,
A spark of grace, and hearts renew.
From earthly chains to wings of light,
We rise, we soar, to celestial height.
Dual realms converge, in sacred dance,
A timeless, boundless, soul romance.
Metamorphosis, a divine decree,
Unveils the truth, sets spirits free.
He is so dapper and dashing! The ugliest dames said.
One of them on board now, as her husband was dead.
One old toad gave her the cold eye and a shove to her head.
These toads in waiting had learned at court, ‘twas how to get ahead.
The pollywogs were listening, and they began to titter.
The tadpoles being born were swimming fast in their bowl litter.
A mature frog had just swallowed a moldy fly that was bitter.
Her counterpart smirked, for she had almost grabbed up that critter.
The frog prince walked down the aisle and looked at the throng.
To select a young froglet would be lecherous and probably long.
There were hard looking women singing a preening fine song.
He stood in front of one who was not hideous and said “come along.”
The prince has chosen! The Royal Court said, with a murmur.
It was Prissy Per Persnickety Frog Puzzle from east of Bermer.
He married her quickly and rapidly whisked her away.
In a sleigh fashioned from cattails; it was his last lovely day.
Priced at 39 politically-incorrect dollars at
the Super Wal-Mart, where I privately confess
I may sometimes be found, there are dozens
in a bin, squashy and round. Designed,
Yes, for Man's Best Friend, but useful for a rest
in an unlikely nest in which to curl infant-style,
until asked to fetch, or someone finds Baby
Moses, parting bulrushes beside the lake.
Among the tall grasses, a conductor tunes up
masses of froglet violins, granddaddy-deep
bassoons, and amphibian percussion
played orchestrated only at dusk. Then, it's
deep uterine bedtime lulled by concerts sublime,
and as darkness drops its mantle, busy minds
unwind, cares decelerating, the cradle song's
abating, and sleep's a fait accompli'.
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