Choosing the Listener

I wonder if it is so easy to recognize

the sweet recall of one time being heard,

when it could be felt,

when word might resonate,

walking along a creek,

listening, the water gurgling forward,

a purpose, a design, an always,

and me,

the quiet remedy to a vacant stare

watching, wondering, hoping,

waiting really

for some reason to pop out of the water

look me in the eye,

suggest the body of life

is the constant flow,

that no matter how far we trail our lives

there is always going to be a need

to continue seeking reason

we stay afloat,

watch the channels change,

the soil erupt from a pressure beyond

themselves,

only a part of the whole.

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Listening, As Bullfrogs Might

Outside my window,

The sky black in twilight,

No breeze to offer an anxious

Tear into a calm evening.

 

Except the bullfrogs near

Must be a dozen at least

A three sound utterance

Shared by another nearby

 

Three times that’s all,

Perhaps the pitch might change,

Another again will chime in,

They’ll all be together in sound

 

I wonder about the simplistic strife

Surrounded alone in a pond of afterlife