Three Poems By Don Hogle

Christ of the Frogs,

with Thieves

In the photo of three boys jumping naked into a lake,

One appears to step on a discarded swimsuit,

walking over water, arms uplifted

in hallelujah.

Another almost races across the surface,

a skeptic, fearful it won’t uphold him,

his body torqued with doubt.

The central figure looks like a frog that’s leapt

from a lily pad, hind legs akimbo, arms reaching

out into the emptiness before him.

Clouds have dropped onto the hilltops

like a sheet settling over a bed, like a shroud

over the faces of the dead.

In the photo of three boys jumping naked into a lake,

there’s a break of clear blue sky in the clouds,

and the frog-boy is trying

to leap through it.

Catchment

This development was woodland before

it was cleared, sub-divided, built on,

and paved over. Now, it’s temporary

quarters for my sister and brother-in-law,

while they build a house jostling pines

on a hillside several miles away.

Trails loop through remnant nature––

a creek crossed by rustic log bridges,

wood-chipped paths, a canopy of Scarlet Oak.

A manmade catchment pond gathers

run-off from storms, the soil that held

the water buried now beneath street

beds, sidewalks, and foundations.

I used to walk Fang, the family dog,

on similar trails where my sister lived before.

He strained at the leash, aching to chase

squirrels, barking inappropriately at children.

There was a storm basin behind a neighbor’s

backyard, a huge drain at its center. Water

gushed into it from drainage pipes, flooding

the basin, swirling down the drain, strong

enough to take a small dog with it; I held

Fang’s leash tightly. Fang, who slept

at the foot of my bed whenever I visited,

and whom my sister mourned for months

after he reached the end of his days.

At the 9/11 Memorial, water flows beneath

the names of the dead, cascades into pools,

then drains into an abyss, the bottom of which

can neither be seen nor fathomed, just as

the grief that follows loss is bottomless,

even as we learn to live with remnants.

Operating Instructions

When the room set temperature is satisfied, the fan will cycle off and on.

−Frigidaire, Use & Care of Your Room Air Conditioner

Notice that when it’s off,

it’s not over—

just off.

You can always restart

with an inspiration

from Frank O’Hara—

In your orange shirt you look

like a better happier

St. Sebastian.

So pull out the arrows.

Nothing needs stanching,

you won’t bleed out;

it’s in Sylvia’s “Cut”

that a million soldiers run,

Redcoats, every one.

Put on your yellow jacket

and be a honeybee, pollinating

currants, clover, and beans

while circling dear old Earth,

who never seems to tire

in her own revolution.

Everything, even the torturer

on his horse, eventually

is overthrown.

Don Hogle's poetry has appeared recently in Apalachee Review, Atlanta Review, The Carolina Quarterly, Chautauqua, Hayden’s Ferry Review, and others. He received an Honorable Mention for the 2018 E. E. Cummings Prize from the New England Poetry Club. A chapbook, Madagascar, was published by Sevens Kitchens Press in the fall of 2020. He lives in Manhattan. www.donhoglepoet.com