(by John F. Keane)
The pale frog sprawls across parched canvas.
Cave-eyed in represented sentience
And limbless repose, he loves us not.
Across the craggy border goes the grieving man,
Cast from his hall of pride into a harder place.
His robes are rags, his sceptre now a staff
And all his storied wealth is barren slate.
The pale frog blinks and stirs.
His mottled, bloodless flesh gleams maggot-white
Across the starless void.
The Reveal, When It Came, Surprised Him
(by Linda Cosgriff)
I thought you were God, he wailed,
I thought you exposed, he sighed,
How can the amphibious, he wept,
be so insidious?