A poem in three parts, each different in rhythm, meter, and (most importantly) tempo, from the other.
*** I ***
Drop. Drop. Drop.
. . .
Crrrroooaaack.
. . .
Drop. Drop. Drop.
And thus begins first light.
The frog is waking slowly
And listening to music:
The waking of the forest,
As black fog turns to white.
It's now early morning.
The animals are talking:
The rabbits to the squirrels,
The mice inside the log...
The owls to the foxes,
The pidgeons to the sparrows,
The trout to the salmon;
But no one to the frog.
They talk about weather
And all the pain it brought them.
They talk about how
The bears of the North
Are dying all around
As glacier ice is melting
Because the wild climate
Is shifting back and forth.
They talk about forests
Where trees are disappearing,
And animals are dying
In fires far and wide,
And how they are lucky
To live in such a forest
Where always they may flourish,
Their future always bright.
They also talk about
The state of present morning,
And they complain about
The rain that went by dawn,
And how it is distracting
When from the leaves all over
The water drops are dripping
And ringing, on and on.
And how the little green thing
Is crazy and is weird,
And probably bipolar...
Why doesn't it come up
From down beneath the leaflets
And chat with forest creatures,
The mice, and owls, and foxes,
If just to say: Wazzup!
How strange: one simple morning
It came to them and something,
And for some weird reason
It never came again,
Because it's antisocial
And actually a stalker,
Though probably no longer
Since times are not the same.
Oh, lets all sign together
And celebrate the morning,
(Though it is almost daytime...
We celebrate the day!)
In our fruitful country
That knows no fire or famine,
May we forever prosper,
May we forever stay!
*** II ***
Crrrroooaaack.
Drop.
The nights are growing longer every day.
It will be autumn soon, and winter after.
The snow will fall, the birds will fly away.
The woods will quiet down and hush thereafter.
No longer will the harvest mice come out
Of their warm dens, no longer will they chatter.
Green fields will turn to white, and then again
Survival, food, and nothing else will matter.
And I will be alone as I am now.
Nothing to talk to, but the drops of water...
The happy rain! When droplets break on pond
Or hail on ice, they sing and I respond.
There once were days when pidgeons talked to me,
But no bird will call me any longer.
I am to them the shadow of a tree
That fell by wind, a memory too somber.
And they care not for how I feel. In fact,
They do not even care for each other.
They know each other's names and nothing more.
They don't make lasting bonds with one another.
Whenever they converse they always judge
How Northlands are corrupt, and Greenwood pretty,
Just to complain, never to prove a fact;
While they, themselves, are dirty as a city.
What if they stop complaining about life,
But rather look around and make theirs better?
What if they look for friends, ones who are real...
Forget the former! Care for the latter.
No, they will not, their happyness, though false,
Will feed their egos 'till cold Winter falls.
And no matter what my life may be,
I'll never talk to them, nor they to me.
*** III ***
Night has fallen, moon has risen
Stars shine brightly in the water.
There is temperance in the forest
Toward nothing.
Sits our froggy on a leaflet,
Trying to decide the future.
Great eyes gaze across the marshes,
Seeing nothing.
Trees are dry, no droplets dripping,
Nothing to cheer up our creature,
Who just want to be more social.
Simply nothing.
. . .
Crrrroooaaack.
. . .
Crrrroooaaack.
. . .
. . .
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