A big bull frog had jumped and found
Himself no longer on the ground.
A pail of water, cold and deep,
That from its' grasp, he couldn't leap.
I saw him struggling to be free
And for his plight, I soon found pity;
I dumped the pail but feared to touch
This creature ugly, warts and such.
I'm thankful for the souls who see,
My warts and yet, they pity me,
When in the water, I too, take leap
And find myself in there too deep.
�Gloria Sarasin
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without written permission.
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When your muse fails to inspire
And no ink flows from your pen,
It is then, that you must dig
To find those things deep down within.
What makes you laugh, rejoice and cry
And keeps the things in you alive?
What view of life do you see;
Tell us your view and philosophies.
Look out your window and tell me,
What it is that you now see.
If it's beauty or it's blight,
That my friend, is what you write.
So tell me now, is your muse still dead
And nothing there running through your head?
If there's nothing new you see;
Then my friend, just write of me.
Write of your view of me you see
That may be just your fantasy;
Make me tall, short or thin
Or anything you see within.
Make me fly with wings not clipped
And place in me what isn't there;
Paint me white and sugar dipped
But please, oh please, don't paint me bare.
Within this write may be your muse
So pick now which one you choose;
Write of happy or of sad
On a napkin or scratchpad.
�Gloria Sarasin
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without written permission.
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Silver threads that weave among the brown,
Show the sign that summer's gone,
And the ruts left by the storms,
Seen in the furrowed frown.
Slower now the gait that ran
When spring was here and spirit free
But it is now approaching winter:
This season sees the bent down tree.
Memories linger of birds that left,
But seeing now, an empty nest.
Hearing still, the songs that rang,
Throughout the summer when life was best
When silver threads have turned to white
And the final season has come too fast:
It is then envisioned, the hope of spring,
While sadly letting go, the seasons past.
�Gloria Sarasin
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without written permission.
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