From Frog

A True Bedtime Story From the Eve of Winter Solstice

Evening comes, and I arise from my usual daily underground hiding place, a small hole I brush out with my webbed feet every morning before sunup at the foot of Big Rock Mountain.  It's going to be a cold night, I can tell, but my shallow hole has kept off the day's chill pretty well, so I'm all set to go.  I pause to take stock of any unusual scent carried on the wind, before my first hop of the night, and sure enough all seems well and safe.

I hop in a straight line a short while among the bushes and trees of Giant Rock Garden like I do every evening, except for those times I venture down to Wet Creek when The Snake has gone away for a spell.  Then one more hop and I'll be over Hoppable Stone Hill, and onto a particularly nice garden spot, where I first like to try my luck at hunting and gathering, something I'm not particularly fond of, but I must say I don't know what I'd do without it.  Besides, there's a rosemary tree there I'm especially fond of, and also a dense and overwhelming oregano forest which took some getting used to.

I leap again like always, and, suddenly, I'm falling.  Still falling, I wonder, where's my usual solid ground?  How much longer will I fall?  Then I get my answer.  Landing hard on my back feet, on a wide white limestone plain, it seems ten stories down and half a mile across.  Was I lost?  I don't understand.  Why am I down here instead of up on familiar ground, keeping my eyes and nostrils open for tiny insects and limbering up my tongue? What is happening to me?

It occurs to me that the world has greatly changed, and I have been completely unaware of it.  But why?  And how?  How can something be so different from one night to the next?  What kind of world is this?  And who could dig such a giant canyon like the one I am now in?  Hmm, I ponder.  A giant frog?   It is these kinds of questions that surface in my mind, as I sit here nursing sore joints and foot pads.  Not that I expect any answers, but the questions arise just the same.

The night begins slowly passing by.  It's quiet and even colder down here than up there.  I didn't know bare rock could be this cold.  Good thing I'm cold-blooded, though if only I could find something to eat, I'd feel a bit better.   But nothing else comes down here.  A few buzzing flies circle a short distance overhead but vanish quickly upward.  I am glad The Snake hasn't shown up at least.  Yet here I sit.  Just darn!  And Ribbit!

Well, I'll just have to wait it out alone, and hungry.  I'll just do what I usually do, when not sitting at the bottom of a giant white rock hole.  Except instead of hopping around and looking for food, I'll move around a little to stay loose and ready, and, I guess, count on something suddenly changing for the better, like something had suddenly changed for the not-better.

Yes, that's it!  Whatever worldly mystery got me here is bound to help me get out!  Anyway, what else can I do?  Hmm, the air does smell sweet down here.  It's the rosemary tree's perfume.  Not bad at all really.  I hadn't realized how much I quite enjoy that smell.  I guess a deep hole gathers scents, like a deep well of fragrances.   It's not a bad place to think clearly either.  Well, what do you know?  I'd never have learned all this, if I hadn't fallen into this hole.  I wonder what other secrets there are for me to learn while I'm here, before the world mysteriously brings me back to Giant Rock Garden and my normal hopping rounds.

Then, as suddenly as I had unknowingly leaped into Giant Hole, a Giant Shadow is cast over the hole, a thunderous voice bellows something that sounds like an excited gibberish, though it seems not unfriendly, and another voice answers from afar in similar nonsensical sounds.

             Suddenly, a Giant Thud lands almost on top of me, and the Earth shakes beneath me, bouncing me off the rock floor an inch, and now the Giant Shadow is a Giant Being here beside me, towering far above even the upper edge of the hole.  This is frightening but not as much as I would've thought, I suppose just because of how unreal it all feels.  Giant hole. Giants from out of nowhere.  Giant bellowing gibberish.  Giant Earthquake. What next?

Now I can't move!  A Giant Light is blinding me and has frozen me where I sit!  Now I feel a Giant Whoosh, and a big fleshy scoop gently cups me into itself and whisks me upward toward the moon (Oh, but I don't want to go there tonight!), and sets me down somewhere, a different part of Giant Rock Garden than where I had been hopping, but safely onto familiar ground, dirt I can sink my webbed feet into, and gladly do, well beyond the oregano forest and rosemary tree, to a safe place amidst the cactus spires.  At least I can shelter here here till I can catch my breath.

Ahhh.  What an interesting night it has been so far.

Later that night, though I do miss the smooth cold giant rock hole a little bit, I have no complaints.  And though I did have to alter my path through Giant Rock Garden tonight, I am having a good night after all, and fully intend to go to bed satisfied that my luck has indeed been good luck, and that my adventure has been a very good adventure indeed.

Frogs such as myself know a goodly amount about such things as luck and change and adventure, having been lucky to have been born a frog in the first place, having also been an eager rambunctious tadpole, before changing into my current beautiful frog self, and, though it may not necessarily take an amphibian such as myself to understand what it's like to live in two worlds at the same time - both normal and giant - it does help to relish an especially good adventure now and again.

            With dawn now about to, well, dawn, and my hiding hole freshly brushed out just before the sun slides up, and me suddenly feeling more exhausted than I've ever felt, I'll just say good day to you all, whether you be normal size or giants, including The Snake, my good friend whom though I try to keep at a healthy distance.

            And may all your days and your nights be filled with interesting things and that you always come home again safely and as happy as a frog.

Today's Miracle During Which

The Hero Bravely Holds On

Long Enough To Be Saved

Mourning has its joys

by the side of a garden grave

in a moment's freedom

when the veil disappears

and longing allows reunion

with the longed-for

in spirit and in memory

a miracle sweeter than life

because it embraces also death.

That moment today goes a'wandering

expanding into tender quest

for a new garden rock

that leads the mourner

freely off the woods path

to a still creek sidewater

where a struggle to survive

is well underway.

Underneath a sinewy juniper

a big green caterpillar

its fuzzy back still dry

floats in a small patch of water

on its long thick belly

its myriad legs mightily

paddling in place

within a green algae mat

a foot or so from shore

heaving its back upward

over and over again

attempting to free itself

from its daunting predicament.

its lunges a prayer for escape

up and down

front to back

its desperation sending

tiny waves breaking

through the green mat

providing glimpses

of the dark water below

as its great strength sags

its back's urgent arch

creates attention for its plight

sending ripples into the unknown.

Underneath a low juniper bough

(Had it been caterpillar's perch?)

lodged at the cusp of bank and water

a flat limestone rock
whitened by the sun

and smoothed by creek flow

is gripped by the mourner

and dipped through the algae

to become raft

on which valiant caterpillar

rises from one destiny to another

borne from the creekside

its metamorphosing form

spent relaxed and flying

through the Spring air

to higher and dryer landing

under a cousin juniper.

Once caterpillar has recovered

and inched elsewhere

the limestone raft

will again be transposed

and placed carefully nearby

the garden of the grave

of the longed-for

where perhaps one day

when narcissus is blooming

a certain strong-winged beauty

will pay a visit.

The Fork in the Road to the Stork or the Toad

Old stork’s a good friend

bringing me my next of kin

girl boy scale of ten

joy hope win win

Where goeth cousin toad

hopping round its damp abode

disappearing by the load

croaking as its sky erodes

Every mile that we go

takes us with it in its flow

to the fork in the road

to the stork or the toad

Old stork’s soaring high

with driven gleam in its eye

slinging gifts across the sky

like Santa on a contact high

Hear toad croaking loud

a mating call to do it proud

used to be it drew a crowd

quiet now its head is bowed

Every night and every day

we are pulled along the way

to the fork in the road

to the stork or the toad

As stork takes the well-loved path

we all add up, we are the math

floating in placenta bath

borne by flying psychopath

Toad takes a different road

passing lawns too green and mowed

passing fields of poisons sowed

with its cracked genetic code

Every mile we begin
takes us only further in
toward the fork in the road
to the stork or the toad

Stork stork who art thou

come on out and take a bow

come on out and tell us how

you become a sacred cow

Listen toad and you will hear

how all of life is held so dear

just procreate and have no fear

ignore the chance your time is near

As we sit and breathe in traffic

could it really be more graphic

at the fork in the road

to the stork or the toad

Life is strong it will survive

says the stork in overdrive

never mind the empty hive

mutations will keep us alive

Ribbit ribbit gasp and choke

is that some kind of killing joke

laugh it up you can have my toke

I’ll be in my toxic soak

As our world tumbles around

can you almost hear the sound

from the fork in the road

to the stork or the toad

Old stork’s not to blame

works hard for its good name

just bringing life though all the same

a vacation wouldn’t be a shame

Old toad’s breathing hard

drying up in your back yard

frying in the sun like lard

flattened like a playing card

Every day, every night

brings us nearer to the sight

of the fork in the road

to the stork or the toad

Can’t we all just get along

honked the storks in surround song

life goes on, it can’t be wrong

and you know we all belong

Tell that to toad I’d say

as it whiles its time away

as the time becomes the day

when toad becomes a memoray

As we come to the fork

to the toad or the stork

do we pause at our choice

do we ever give it voice

do we use our mental torque

or stand there like a dork

have we wondered at our plight

can we flee is there flight

do we plea do we fight

at the fork in the road

for the stork and for the toad

Our choice is more than either or

if a window shuts bust out the door

go around and break some glass

break through the roof

break through the floor

get off your ass

get off your ass

Larry Piltz, 2007

In the Year of Our Toad

Spurred by Love

On his last mount

the cowboy cries

a lonesome roller

and practitioner

of the riding

roping arts

also known

as its poet

laureate supreme

one late night

saying goodbye

please stay

won't you

please

sobbing alone

one more time

to bay at the soul

of the lifeless moon

alone by the range

in the kitchen

of his exile

from the life

he'd loved

for an accident

thrown by life

from his horse

into the irony

of being the iconic

sad troubadour

of all the cowboys

lonesome yet

for a while

with no end

in sight

and poetry

to write

Larry Piltz

Indian Cove

July 17, 2013

Coming Together At The Seams

Everything's a gamble

even the surest thing a risk

all that's soft can conceal a bramble

even the warmest heart can be cool and brisk.

What brings us together can keep us apart

we won't always know what's in our own heart

so we dream what we dream on our own balance beams

and do our best to come together at the seams.

Coming together at the seams

as individuals or team

is life ever what it seems

coming together at the seams

Things can seem like this and seem like that

sometimes it's bliss sometimes old hat

sometimes a kiss and then a spat

sometimes you miss the old doormat

Yet we meet in midstream

hearts joined at the seam

two lives at full steam

it can feel like a dream

Coming together at the seams

Is life one long dream

or each moment exactly as it seems

in our eyes the kind familiar gleams

as we come together at the seams

Larry Piltz

Autumn 2012 C.E.

Indian Cove

Austin, Texas

Who Will Raise The Flag (The Flag Of Democracy).

A song for a mutual rallying for modernity and free thought, while embracing timeless tolerance and building sustainable, livable and lovable cities and towns.

http://soundcloud.com/larry-piltz/the-flag-of-democracy-who-will

Larry Piltz
U.S. Copyright November 11, 2011

Hasan's Beard

Not one to turn the other cheek
Hasan's Beard bristled at the charges.
Not guilty by reason of inanity!
Not even accessory after the fact.
Yet military justice had Hasan's Beard by the short ones
and Hasan's Beard would ultimately take it on the chin
in this enigmatic full-grown brush with the law
with the verdict-to-be not even a close shave
nor by a whisker but a shadow of a pretext.

This is a rash prosecution of ingrown justice
wrong in so many ways even on a follicular level
the trial more of a clip joint than a court of law.

They have not seen the last of Hasan's Beard
a growing problem
even after death.

Larry Piltz
August 21, 2012
Indian Cove

 http://www.statesman.com/news/local/judge-orders-hasans-beard-shaved-before-court-martial-2422326.html