The Pond the Bog the Pit

Reads: 196  | Likes: 0  | Shelves: 0  | Comments: 1

More Details
Status: Finished  |  Genre: Poetry  |  House: Booksie Classic
The fate of beauty

Submitted: September 18, 2014

A A A | A A A

Submitted: September 18, 2014

A A A

A A A


I see the pond sleep
undisturbed.
A single step would explode
a mirky mixed mushroom cloud of sediment and milfoil. 
Sunshine,
kaleidoscoping through nimbostratus and clover-like pennywort
under a bronze autumn sky
oscillating between swaying weeds,
trafficing frogs burping on lily-pad trampolines. 
The water’s face
perfectly reflects warm colors of an amaretto sunburst dusk
fused with the deepest shade of October.
I can’t see the horizon that discerns sky from pond. 
The brisk breeze shivers between surrounding trees
swirling thousands of mint scented pine needles in open air
that silently helicopter to ground,
raining to where they rest. 
I hear the crickets
whistling unsynchronized melodies;
a referee marching band without rhythm. 
Each beat is lost within glass shattering upper octave screeches. 

I see spilled rainbow streaks.
Gurgling petroleum waste 
hovering over the waters
leaving tadpoles and minnows gasping for survival. 
Empty bottles 
of Tide, Mountain Dew, and WD-40 cluttered 
in a “7-11” display;
tightly packed rows.
I see the pond I once knew.
I see the pond;
the bog;
the pit
vacant of the chilled water reinventing forest skylines;
pierced by sharpened shards of broken Heinekens’.
I see the pond’s reflection created in the image of
The pines replaced by worshiped industrial shrines 
thundering and spewing intoxicating white smoke as a sign of progress. 
A single step would go 
unnoticed, unheard, unfelt.


© Copyright 2019 Jay Allan Young. All rights reserved.

Add Your Comments: