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The Tinker Of Words The Imagist At Work

early dawns
are stressed frogs
they cannot sing
their croaking throats
there is simply
no rain here

they change themselves
into poets
to demean you and
what you do

they swim in the
air (as there is no water
here yet
as there is no rain
and that is
logical enough
to understand)
and the birds
laugh

their tongues are as small
as a punctuation mark
of their
poems
that croak like a frog

as i watch all these
from the hammock
that mocks
i fall into a deep sleep
like Alice
into the big hole
of my
indignant indifference

pure imagination
seeking the support of logic
yet hollow still
because there is really
no one there

nothing human
like a friend.

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Added by Poetry Lover
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