The Puddle

The Puddle prose poem

Photo by pmuellr


The ancient church all vintage stone and loved throughout the ages, was now more famous for something strange, and in all the local pages. A large sinkhole all filled with rocks and lots of other rubble, was on the grounds, and after rain, a giant and deep wet puddle. At noon each day, the clock struck twelve, no matter what the weather, a flock of birds would gather there and clean their every feather. The site become a tourist’s love and at noon was always crowded, filled up with those who heard it praised and very strongly lauded. But then one day a rumor spread that all would soon be ended, for safety reasons, that it’s true, could easily be defended. The rumor caused a great upset among the local natives, who stood in throngs with large wood signs with words all geared to save it. The crowds appeared at noon each date until the town took note, and set a time and date on which each resident could vote. The day arrived, all votes were in, all locals in a huddle, when suddenly a cry rang out: The vote has saved The Puddle. Until this day the birds return at noon to take their daily outing, and cries of joy are heard aloud from happy children shouting.

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Warren P Padla

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majored in journalism at NYU in the 50s; received my masters in business from there and worked for Equitable Life in NY for many years. When retired entered antique business and real estate; retired to Massachusetts and Florida; currently do a lot of volunteer work. Friends forced me into poetry due to much writing I had sent to them over the years. So I joined High On Poems. the end, warren
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