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Open Poetry #12
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The Pasture Pond.................................repost
| Open Poetry #12 |
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The Pasture Pond.................................repost |
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Sunshine
Administrator
Member Empyrean
since 1999-06-25
Posts 63354Listening to every heart 
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 The Pasture Pond There is the 160, and to the northwest corner in a sheltered area lies a small pond, primarily north and southern laid, curving, a drainage area succumbing at the northern end from too much rain, the furthermost corner of the dammed area eroding away. To reach the pond you must go over two swells of elevated native country, not hills, just swells, enough to lift you high at the top to see 360 degrees, and view the Smoky Hills. Indian country. Virgin land. Just you and me. Once at the pond, we can slide rocks over the frozen waters, and test the ice with our boots, give it more weight, hear a cracking and step back. Not cold enough to slide across fear holds us back, we’ve never known how really deep the pond and don’t want to find out now. Wait a moment. Spring’s rains dissolve the iciness of winter and warmer weather starts the pond to brewing scum green, bubbling, warm sun growing algae, with bobbing eyes of half-morphed tadpoles blinking, sinking, popping up over there, see? Step into the worn ruts left from last summer’s cow’s tracings to the edge of the pond, kick the sand a bit with your booted toe, and watch the red ants swarm. Cattails are beginning, reeds only. Wait a moment.  Summer erupts the pond into cattails brown tops and frogs and squirrels chittering along the bank, and turtles and bugs, water bugs dancing, skimming the pond’s surface and down the frog’s throat. Now skim small rocks, flat rocks, make them dance and plop. Plop. Plop. A bit of moss clings to the edge of the water and you walk softly there, to not scare ....croack.... splash, splish, frogs hear you anyway, and dive, dive safely. The weeping willow lends a long trunk outward over the pond, enough to sit on and gaze out on the shimmering pond’s surface, discerning eyes of toads, frogs and perhaps a turtle floating in the middle. Wishing for a small boat. Just for the heck of it. Heads disappear. Pop back up. Croaking. Chirping. Buzzing. Look toward the pond’s south end, a blue heron standing. Still. Silent. Solitary. Ducks overhead, waiting for us to leave. Wait a moment. Rest begins. Water lower, scum gone, cooler mornings, lazy afternoons of fall begun. Cattails effervesced into fuzzy white puffs of seed waiting for scattering winds. Shining gold/yellow/red/orange reflections on blue water from the cottonwoods, elms, birch, and hedgetrees. Quiet. A frog, huge now, croaking deeper, lonely, only the one? No answer. Splush. Cows on the rise, watching you, waiting for you to leave. Come with me. You’ve seen the seasons of the pond. |
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| © Copyright 2001 Karilea Rilling Jungel - All Rights Reserved | |||
Marsha
since 2000-07-10
Posts 7423Maidstone Kent England |
Kari dear heart, Those are the prettiest pictures and this pond poem is utterly wonderful, you really are an outstanding artist. No one does it better than you when it comes to painting the scene. Others paint scenes, beautifully, but the realituy of your pictures is stunning I love it have I said lately that you have one amazing gift, because you do. Take care love as always Majestic puckish Marsha  Take back the hope you gave,- I claim Only a memory of the same Robert Browning |
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ethome Member Patricius
since 2000-05-14
Posts 11858New Brunswick Canada |
Wow! This is beautiful....how come it drifted down through the hungery reader's eyes into almost oblivion...thank God for your Marshas! |
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Jellybean King Member
since 2001-03-07
Posts 153Jelly, Bean |
Like an artist you paint enduring pictures of the pond through the seasons...and gently lead the reader through that journey...once the reader has seen this portrait in their mind's eye, there is the invitation..."come with me"...beckoning us to follow...I'll start packing my bags! Jellybean King |
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Mabel A. Dilley Senior Member
since 2001-03-17
Posts 859Seattle, WA, USA |
You have managed to transport me from the city into the country of my youth, and now I long to return "home". "I am not now that which I have been." |
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Packratmike Senior Member
since 2001-02-25
Posts 632California, USA |
This took me back to the seasons I experienced as a youngster in Illinois. What a beautiful piece you have presented here. Thank you! Mike |
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JamesMichael Member Empyrean
since 1999-11-16
Posts 33336Kapolei, Hawaii, USA |
Sunshine I enjoyed reading your poem...James |
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