Two Toads diverged in a greenish wood,
And sorry, I could not hold them both
And be one amphibian lover, long I stood
and looked at one as far as I could.
To where it got squished in the undergrowth;
Then I looked at the other, just as fair,
Its skin had for sure the better claim,
Because it was spotted and shaped like a pear;
The children said, “touch it”, on a dare
But they’d squished this one, too…about the same,
Now, both, that morning equally lay
in state, near the dirt I then dug, quite black
Oh, I kept the first for another day
In the jar of formaldehyde Toadie did lay
I doubted its life would ever come back.
I shall be dissecting this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence:
Two Toads diverged in a wood, and I –
I took the one less damaged by,
The “squishing”, and *that* will make all the difference.
© Pam Johnson 2005
~Posthumous apologies to Robert Frost
The worker bee, is sweet to me
as I watch her work, and wonder;
just how can she, stay at that tree
long gathering her plunder.
With panniers filled with pollen, milled
into tiny pellets golden,
and buzzily flies through sunny skies
retracing pathways olden.
Returning back with filled up sack
for the good of all her hive.
She’ll then unpack, this yellow and black,
until she’s no longer alive.
Minnows swimming in my fridge
I do not like that sacrilege.
I smile politely and ignore
Their dancing just inside the door.
I will not feed them as some do
But neither go they in *my* stew.
The grubs or worms are just a tad
bit gross, but maybe not as bad.
I have to draw the line somewhere
But I like fish, so- must be fair.
When I find worms wrapped ‘round the grid
I must insist “Keep on the lid!”
Will not complain of the middle “man”,
to avoid the *bait* frying in the pan….
We pray, for our dear children, the best things
the decisions they will make and how they’ll fare,
since you tell us in your Word you really care,
and while we wait please hide us in your wings.
We want those set safe places that are lasting
that seem in future to be a sure net
and secure our attitude, that doesn’t fret.
Our fearful hope’s a little too contrasting.
But hope that’s seen, it really isn’t hope.
Our prayers would cease because we had our way,
or the fervency would die and so would scope
and sequence of our spiritual life turn fey.
We’d get up off our sore knees and turn shallow,
reversing saintliness to become callow.
Glorious jewel studded crosses keep
reminding some, of something deep
What He gave or what we get?
Do we think that it’s well met?
with how the Savior really died
on gilded cross? No. They lied.
The heavy, rough, degrading, crude and lowly,
that caused committed criminals to walk slowly,
with the object of their punishment, it gave
deep slivers whether cowardly or brave.
ex crux. Out of the cross. Excruciation.
by the King, the Lord of all creation,
who refused to deaden His suffering and pain
with vinegar and gall, while being slain.
Can we remember truly then
without the gilded icon’s ken?
We take the vinegar and the gall
because to guilt, we are in thrall.
Unless we believe in the truth;
that ancient promise, from Earth’s youth.
A long life so far
Still some non-ugly there, but
On the cusp of old
Residue of long time past
All systems still work
Looking back on middle age
Making a few plans
Dreaming of a sport
I can still do in my head
That is where it stays