Breathe...

and the ugly tower of fear will turn to dust
like pollen in the wind
sticking to glass and pavement
where it can't take root
I think the underbelly of my patience
is stretched like twine
around old newspaper
what frame of mind is this
where some frantic something howls
in its cage
amazed at its captivity
amazed I can't hear it
beating bloody fists against
subconscious concrete
I painted it green so it blends in with my denial
All I need are jazz hands
and an extra hip twitch
some swishy drums
and a semi-decent filler
Each clink of seconds is like an onion skin
where does this onion go?
Shall I plant it?

(5/4/03)

Notebooks

Notebooks
by ToadSoda

I wish I wrote that song
stuck in your head
The one that makes everyone stop and listen
But there's no music in me
I'm all ears
I'm a fish in the desert,
a cactus in the sea
Your art owns me
and I don't think it's fair.
I have the silent art
the one that doesn't speak
or dance
or play
or use bold, vibrant brush strokes on 8 foot canvas
Is observation an art?
Are the sentences strung together
end to end to end
anything more than my over worked brain
trying to unravel
the tangle of crap
I've poured into my day?
This page is a wall
between me and greatness
it stares back at me half empty
like a tired old cliche
and it confounds greatness
it avoids greatness
the flat words look like tangled strings
threads discarded from my train of thought
and how could I be heard?
This silent notebook that I bought
at the dollar store
because I can't resist a brand new notebook
with crisp lined pages that beckon
I had to buy it
and now it will know me better than anyone
just like all the other half-full notebooks
locked away in this house
filled with the chicken scrawl
of my silent words
they lay flat and folded
dust covered testaments
to the futility that is my one artistic gift
To write, to create meaning, to communicate
but how far has it gotten me?
the writer...
destined to see everyone else's art
destined to be the silent artist
buried forever in these old notebooks

Blueberry Picking

Blueberry Picking
by ToadSoda (circa 2000)

With bucket in hand
and row after row of blueberries
bowing before me
offering themselves
their round fruit so perfect
so ripe

I can't help
plucking a few from bent branches
and popping them into my mouth

surprised at the sweetness
at the warmth

It will take a long time to fill my bucket
but I don't mind
I like the feel of the leaves between my fingers
I like the way the berries fall off of the branch
and into my hand
then into my bucket
to join the ripe
blue congregation
collecting at my feet
And when I squat down to lift those bottom branches
cooing with delight at hidden clumps of fruit
now exposed
I feel ancient and maternal
gathering the fresh fruit
the sweet food

It will take a long time to fill my bucket
but I don't mind

From Down Here

From Down Here
by ToadSoda

The road is windier
than it looks from my car
where somehow I missed
the ripe wine berries
where somehow I was blind
to the score of rabbits
turkey, deer and that blue heron
always at the water's edge
just below the lip of the road
In my car
I flew past her
wrapped in distraction
insulated by glass and metal
But on my bike,
I am as exposed as she
just like a startled deer
it's not hard to imagine
how easily I will go down
if met with a speeding car,
a distracted driver
and no time to react
But that's not why I ride
I ride to give my legs, legs

Toad Soda is Delicious!

Welcome to ToadSoda.com. A web site full of poetry, mostly mine but also stuff I've stumbled across and really love.

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