Frog

Small green body, smooth and slick,
a sheen like morning dew on leaves.
Bulging eyes, golden-ringed,
watching the world with quiet patience.

Its limbs are long, thin as twigs,
yet strong enough to vault the sky.
Toes tipped with tiny suction pads,
made for clinging to bark and stone.

It crouches low—
a coiled spring in still water.
Then leaps—
a sudden blur,
a splash,
a ripple,
a vanishing.

It moves like thought:
silent, quick,
with purpose written in each twitch.

Its skin glistens under moonlight,
a soft pulse with each breath.
Cool to the touch,
fragile yet firm,
it breathes through the skin and waits.

A heron swoops—
it dives.
A snake slithers—
it freezes,
becoming stone among stones.

When crickets chirp,
it answers.
A sharp call,
throat swelling like a balloon,
a wet bubble of sound.

It shares the pond,
not with pride,
but quiet claim.
Neither friend nor foe to fish,
avoiding claws,
accepting bugs,
living beside the dragonfly
and beneath the duck.

It is small.
It is simple.
It is enough.

Dolphin
Grace notes skim the ocean’s skin—
silver arcs rising,
falling in the breath of salt and sky.

Dolphins,
sculpted in joy,
thread through waves like laughter made flesh.

Not bound by earth,
nor tethered to silence,
they speak in pulses, clicks,
a language shaped in liquid syllables.

They ride the storm’s shoulder,
unafraid of wind’s fury,
dancing in the foam
as if chaos were a game.

We call them intelligent—
but what do they call us?
Landwalkers,
or perhaps
the lonely ones?

Their eyes hold mirrors
to something ancient,
older than ships,
older than our thirst to name everything.

In their leap,
there is more than play:
a hymn to motion,
to the freedom of not knowing fear.

Pods like families,
like dreams that remember each other—
mothers guiding calves through kelp jungles,
fins brushing in tender counsel.

At dusk,
they vanish
into the pewter of the sea,
leaving only ripples
and a silence that listens.

Star

Alone in the quilt of sky,
you blink—
a soft pulse,
older than history,
whispering secrets across silence.

I reach for you
not to touch
but to understand.

Some say you’ve died already,
your light just a memory
still making its way
across this unfathomable dark.

But what is death
to something that gleams so stubbornly,
like a promise
never retracted?

You are the punctuation
at the end of my wondering—
bright, brief, eternal.

Tonight,
you hang just above the roofline,
sharper than any dream,
cooler than breath on glass.

Children draw you
with five careless strokes,
but you are more:
an engine of fusion,
a furnace birthing elements,
a clock of the cosmos.

Still, I name you simply:
star—
as if that word
could contain your fire.

You do not need our language.
You burn,
and that is enough.

Sunshine

Sunshine spills across the waking earth,
not like a flood,
but like fingers brushing lace-curtained windows.

It arrives without apology,
golden and slow,
stretching over rooftops
and the backs of sleeping birds.

It catches in the hair of children,
turns sidewalks into molten ribbons,
drips like honey off the edge of morning.

It has no language,
but everything listens.

The flowers tilt their faces,
cups raised like believers,
and even the shadows lean in,
aching to remember warmth.

Sunshine smells like grass and second chances,
like dust rising from the bones of yesterday.

It hums against your skin,
whispers through leaves,
pauses on shoulders
like a friend too long missed.

It doesn’t ask who you are—
only that you open your eyes.

Some days it burns.
Some days it heals.
Always, it reveals.

It slips through cracks in sorrow,
washes windows of worry,
and scatters gold in forgotten corners.

You do not own it—
but it touches you anyway.

Sunshine:
a daily miracle
that never needed applause.

The Lion: King of the Jungle

Upon the throne of earth and flame,
The lion roars to stake his claim,
His mane a crown, his eyes ablaze,
He rules the wild in ancient ways.

Beneath the sun’s relentless fire,
He walks with strength, with calm, with ire,
Each pawprint pressed in dust and stone,
A mark that says: “This land’s my own.”

The jungle bends to hear his sound,
A thunder rolling through the ground,
And every beast, both near and far,
Knows well the weight of who you are.

No velvet court, no royal crest,
Just heart that beats within his chest,
A king not born from gold or throne,
But made by claw and will alone.

The zebras flee, the antelope dart,
When echoes strike their trembling heart,
They see the flash of amber eye—
A silent hunt beneath the sky.

Yet he is more than just a blade,
He guards the pride, his role well-played,
With cubs that climb and queens that stand,
A kingdom held by tooth and hand.

He watches stars from hills so high,
Their ancient glow within his eye,
And knows, though time may pass him by,
His legend will not fade or die.

For in the jungle, fierce and wide,
Where only strongest can abide,
The lion walks, both bold and free—
A timeless king, by nature’s decree.

 

Struggle Beneath the Canopy

Beneath the thick and tangled green,
Where sunlight fights to pierce the screen,
A world unseen by human eyes
Awakes with roars and silent cries.

The leopard stalks with shadowed tread,
Its golden eyes by hunger led,
While in the brush, the gazelles leap,
With pounding hearts and breath held deep.

The monkey swings from limb to limb,
Its chatter sharp, its senses grim,
It knows the hawk that rides the skies
Will strike before it hears the cries.

A python coils in hush of shade,
Where foolish feet and fate have strayed,
The jungle floor, both home and snare,
Each rustling leaf a whispered dare.

The lion rules, but not with peace,
Each hunt a gamble, no release,
Even the mighty feel the press—
Survival wears a jungle dress.

The ants march on, a tiny horde,
With silent wars and no reward,
While termites build, and beetles hide,
Their battles small, but dignified.

In shadowed nights, the silence breaks
With cries that echo through the lakes—
The strong survive, the weak must yield,
Such is the law in nature’s field.

No mercy here, no gentle guide,
Just tooth and claw and shifting tide,
Yet still they live, and still they strive—
The jungle breathes, and things survive.

  Dance of the Dolphin

Beneath the waves where sunbeams gleam,
A dolphin swims through ocean’s dream,
With silver skin and joyful grace,
It carves a trail through liquid space.

It leaps beyond the foam and crest,
Then dives back to the sea’s deep chest,
A rhythm born of salt and tide,
With currents strong it loves to ride.

Its laughter rings in ocean’s throat,
A song without a single note,
It spins and twirls in playful cheer,
The sea its stage, the world its sphere.

It races past the coral bed,
Where rainbows bloom in silence spread,
Among the fish it swiftly weaves,
Like wind among the swaying leaves.

The moonlight paints its back at night,
A phantom under glowing light,
It dances where the dark is wide,
And stars reflect on midnight tide.

It knows no fear, it knows no chain,
It sings with joy, it swims with rain,
No map, no compass in its mind—
Just freedom in the waves it finds.

So if you see a splash, a gleam,
A dolphin weaving through a dream,
Remember joy is deep and wide—
And swims beneath the ocean’s tide.

 

The Flight of the Unseen Bird

High above the whispering trees,
A silent shadow rides the breeze,
Its wings unfurl, a sacred scroll,
A tale of freedom, sky, and soul.

It soars beyond the mountain’s face,
Unbound by time, untouched by place,
Its feathers stitched with dawn and flame,
Unknown by all, without a name.

It dips through clouds like threads of lace,
A dancer stitched in wind’s embrace,
No cage, no chain, no tethered call,
Just sky to climb and stars to fall.

It drinks the hush of twilight’s hymn,
And glides where daylight starts to dim,
Its eyes reflect the moonlit tide,
A quiet realm where dreams still hide.

No poet’s pen has traced its flight,
No painter caught its wings in light,
It lives beyond the reach of men,
And leaves no footprints where it’s been.

Through storms it sails with fearless grace,
A ghost that time can’t hope to chase,
Each beat a vow, each glide a song,
To skies where unknown hearts belong.

And should you glimpse it drifting high,
A fleeting star against the sky,
Know not its name, nor seek its nest—
Some birds are born to fly, not rest.

The Voice of the Ocean
The ocean speaks in waves and foam,
A shifting heart, a restless home.
It sings beneath the moonlit sky,
And answers back the seagull’s cry.
Its breath is salt, its hands are wide,
It hides the worlds it keeps inside.
No map can mark its every part,
It holds the earth’s most secret heart.
It dances with the morning light,
Then roars with thunder in the night.
It kisses shores, then pulls away,
It never stops, it will not stay.
Its colors change with mood and time,
From silver soft to deep sea grime.
It builds and breaks with patient grace,
And time itself can’t match its pace.
A grave, a cradle, and a mirror,
It shows our fears, it draws us nearer.
The sailor’s hope, the poet’s muse,
It gives, it takes, it loves, it rues.
It knows no end, it seeks no start,
It echoes through the human heart.
We stand and stare, then turn and go,
But still it sings from deep below.
So vast, so wild, yet strangely kind,
It speaks to every searching mind.
The ocean calls, and if we hear,
It tells the truths we hold most dear.

The Passing Wind
The wind it comes, so soft, so still,
It whispers dreams beyond the hill.
It touches trees with gentle hand,
Then slips away across the land.
No eyes to see, no voice to cry,
Yet it can make the oceans sigh.
It bends the grass, it stirs the sand,
Then vanishes, as if it planned.
It knows no name, it holds no face,
But leaves behind a quiet trace.
It moves through cracks and under doors,
It flies through skies, it sweeps through shores.
A silent guest in storm or peace,
It brings both fury and release.
It does not ask, it does not stay,
It simply comes, then fades away.
It carries scent, it carries sound,
It lifts the lost up from the ground.
It cannot lie, it will not wait,
It moves beyond both love and hate.
It has no home, it wears no chain,
Yet finds a path through joy and pain.
It touches all, the young, the old,
Then disappears, both brave and bold.
So let it pass—don’t hold it tight,
Some things are born to live in flight.
For in the wind, we too may find,
The echo of a restless mind.
A voice that calls, a breath so wide,
A soul that cannot choose a side.
It teaches us, though we forget—
To move with grace, and no regret.

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