GRATEFUL

Flamboyant leaves fall like drops
of luminous paint,

their brilliant, textured hues
take my breath away,

pull my eyes to the canopy above,
then to single leaves below,

I walk slowly,
not wishing to disturb
their comfy, earthen bed,

grateful to witness
another fall miracle,

another forest brushed
with the grace of dawn,

grateful we humans can’t squash
the dreams of nature,

nor deter its desire to be seen
at the peak of its brilliance,

a reminder to celebrate all
who wish to paint the world
with their own, rich palette,

who wish to be loved
for their abundant, textured hues.

Photos taken at Whetstone Park of Rose by Rita Bourland – Fall 2021

My name is Finnegan the Frog and I live by a pond. I’m happy there. I have everything I need. I snack on flies, moths, crickets and slugs. I bask in the sun. I nap in the shade. I like to watch ducklings and goslings grow up and swim with their mamas. I like to watch people who come to watch the ducklings and goslings.

The problem is the other frogs. They gripe about the mud, about the ducks and geese making a mess, and about the frogs they don’t like. But mostly, they gripe about frogs who become princes. It doesn’t happen often, but every few years, a princess comes by, kisses a frog, and POOF, he turns into a prince. Then he goes off with the princess to live happily ever after.

The other frogs dream endlessly about becoming a prince.

I have my doubts about the happily ever after part. I’ve heard rumors that some of the princes long for the pond and the good old days of catching crickets with their buddies. They’re tired of wearing itchy clothes, uncomfortable crowns and having to mix and mingle with fancy folks all day.

And they really miss the mud – the oozy, squishy, wondrous mud.

I, on the other hand, am completely happy living by the pond. Every time a princess comes by, I run for the reeds and hold very still until she passes by.

Truth be told, I only have eyes for one very special frog. Florina is shy and mostly stays on the other side of the pond. I leave bugs for her as small tokens of my affection. I wink and smile with beguiling charm. In a remarkable display of athleticism, I even swim backstroke across the pond. I know that one day I’ll win her over with my impressive ribbits and croaks, my superb hops and leaps and my aforementioned positive attributes.

It’s clear to me there will never be a princess as fine as my dear Florina, nor a place any better than the glorious pond I call home. A place where I can be the very best frog I ever hoped to be.

TIME HOLDS NO SWAY

The dust is thick,

hanging in the air
with persistent hesitation,

wielding a heavy hand,
it weighs down dry, thirsty brush,

a lazy sun masks the horizon,
using brushstrokes of rusted amber,

nothing moves
except a lone giraffe
on a well-worn path
in no hurry to disturb
this languid space,

time holds no sway over this land,

each dawn cracks open
in anticipation
of another South African day
where the rhythms beat slower,
resonate lower,
hold mysteries closer,

a world apart,
yet a part of the same vast world
we walk.

Photo by Annalies Corbin taken at Kruger National Park, South Africa
See more of Annalies’s photography at: https://annalies-corbin.pixels.com/
and follow her at: @annaliescorbinphotography on Instagram

Photo by Lisa Berg ~ Words by Rita Bourland

So much has been said
about this Olympic champion,
this survivor of a difficult childhood,

given up,
placed in foster care,
adopted by grandparents,
discovered in gymnastics,
abused by her doctor,

yet overcoming,
becoming the best in the world,
able to flip, fly, tumble, twist, dance, balance, jump, and land
better than anyone ever has,
ever will, some say,

but wholly human
in the places
the world couldn’t see,
her inner voice, inner trials, inner pain,
became louder, more persistent,
insistent she take a break,

even when the stakes were so high,
on a world stage where mistakes
are analyzed, scrutinized, judged,
taken to the court of public opinion,

even then, she held her ground,
stuck her personal landing,
by being true
to what she knew she could do,
and what she could not,

nothing more should be said
except bravo, dear Simone.

THE BOOK I HELD THAT DAY

It was early one morning,
before the sun poked
its sleepy head above the trees,

before the dog stretched and yawned,

before the coffee brewed,
filling the house
with its wake-up aroma,

that I remembered a day from childhood,
a day spent on the floor of the local library,

a book cradled in my lap,
dusty sunlight
streaming through leaded glass,
creaky floors, heavy oak doors,
the smell of books and wax,

a memory so rich
that even now I can savor its sweetness,

how I wish I could recall the book I held that day.

*********************************************

This is East Branch Library in Evansville, Indiana, my hometown.
It was built in the early 1900’s with funds from the Carnegie Foundation. Carnegie also funded 106 public libraries in the state of Ohio, including our magnificent main library in downtown Columbus, and a total of 1,689 in the United States. He, additionally, built libraries in many other countries. His last grant was issued in 1919. It’s impossible to know how many lives have been changed by the libraries he funded.

UNDETTERED

Who will she become,

this wee lass
who flings her cap
with such abandon,

she cannot know
what her future holds,

none of us know
at such a tender age,

we get off track
between A,B,C’s and Socrates
before finding our way,

it’s all okay,

every way has merit,

yet here she is,
undeterred,

by forks in the road,
by the great unknown,

maybe it’s the elders
who have gone before
whispering wise counsel
to her tender heart:

watch your step, don’t trip on that rock,
beware of looming danger,

it’s everywhere and nowhere
you need to be,

use your intellect, your bravery, your discipline
to traverse the highways of life,
steer with a steady hand and clear mind,

and always keep our whispers close,

we will help you reach
the future your heart seeks most.

Photo taken of my great niece by her parents Josiah and Amanda Garvey.

The stone steps,
embedded in the earth,
rose from ravine to hilly peak,
offering a way for small feet
to complete the ascent,

such a big task for a small lad,

yet, he was glad for the day,
for the way he could
breathe in and out,
while hiking up and up,

he paused to fill his pockets and hands,
an acorn with a perfect cap,
a stick shaped like a wand,
a shimmery, glassy stone,
a leaf the color of sunset,

every few steps,
something new caught his eyes,
something new caught his ears,

chittering chipmunks,
chattering squirrels,
birds fluttering to and fro
in the vast canopy of trees,

when he reached the top,
his folks marveled at his finds,
then took his hands to meander
their way back home,

it was much later in life,
when he, once again,
ascended the stairs,

this time, his giant strides
reached the peak without rest,

he recalled that earlier hike,
the feeling of being so small,
the thrill of seeing it all,

so, he went down
and did it again.

Photo by my niece, Amber, of her young son.

From the beginning,
she displayed
a great lightness of spirit,

stretching in her mother’s arms,
her graceful hands and feet
seemed to dance in the air,

before taking her first steps,
she stood on tiny toes
like a ballerina waiting
for the orchestra’s cue,

she grew, as children do,
she skipped, she danced,

clover tickled her toes,
dandelion puffs brushed her nose,

on the swing set,
she almost touched the sky,

on firefly nights,
her feet left the ground
in great leaps of delight,

through magical days
and dream-filled nights,
gossamer wings grew
for future flight,

one evening, when the moon
shone like a beacon of light,
she lifted toward the starry skies,

she’d finally become the butterfly
she was always meant to be,

free to soar
above the earth,
free to fill the world with her
grace and spirit,

*****************

it’s hard to let them go,
we love our butterflies so,

leave on the light,

even the bravest
return to the cocoon of youth,
and the loving embrace of home.

Photo of my great niece taken by her mother, Alanna

GIVING BIRTH TO SOMETHING NEW

She was walking in the park
having a less than stellar day,

so many things had gotten in the way
of her happiness,

not sure when it all began
or when it would end,

maybe it was a trend that would
continue on some unknown trajectory,

but there, by the pond,
she spied baby goslings
all fluffy and soft,

just beginning their lives,
but already swimming and foraging,

tough little birds,
not yet afraid of unseen dangers
or a world of strangers,

she smiled considering
all the hopeful signs of spring,

trees giving birth to leaves,
geese giving birth to goslings,
people giving birth to dreams,

maybe she could give birth to
something new,

quit counting her losses,
start counting goslings in the pond,
blossoms on the trees,
smiles on the faces of passersby,

maybe she could start counting
on a different trajectory for her life,

one step, one dream at a time.

Photo by Annalies Corbin at Sunny 95 Park. See more of Annalies’ photography at https://annalies-corbin.pixels.com/
follow her at @annaliescorbinphotography on instagram.