The Pond
Cold, wet leaves
Floating on moss-coloured water,
And the croaking of frogs-
Cracked bell-notes in the twilight.
poem by Amy Lowell
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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To The Frog Clan
This shall be the symbol of my clan
The slime of my ancestors
For those whose claim for life and prosperity
Is as prolonged as the length of the list found in the clan’s tree
This frog is your frog
It is part of the multitude
Taking the power of the ten rivers
Its croaking
Is the uproar against the loudest blur of the reigning rains
You are the frog like us
From water to land to grasses to marshes to trenches
Of this earth
We shall remain as the true descendants of the great frog
By our nature
We shall not go hungry
By the power of the longest tongue
By the secret poisons of our skins
By our rounded views
By our slime
By the strong clinging of our ties
We shall all be saved
From the great flood
May our dead ancestors
May the great frogs
Lead us to the most secure pond of our future lives
And may the frog in us
Give us the great leap
The great jump
Taking us to our dream
Our clear cool waters
Teeming with mashing marshes
And there
Dear loving frogs of this clan
Let all our croaking be one.
Let all our croaking be true.
Let our croaking be love.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Its Croaking Shows Its Presence! !
The croaking echoes through the neighborhood,
the blasting croaking echoes as braying,
sometimes as barking, another time as whistling,
the sounds of croaking may crack our heads,
in the tropical region where it rains,
every other day and musical begins,
with the mono syllabic cricket,
house lizards join them occasionally,
The frogs repeats one day and one night,
as the Native American folklore says,
brother sun agreed and the bear hibernated,
the frogs repeat one day and one night,
it may not be alive the next day,
unnecessary croaking,
is being heard by something,
that slithers and hungry,
its croaking showed its presence,
right to the mouth of that reptile.
In the middle of the meetings,
some of us croak to show our presence,
Croak the wrong information,
out of our peanut brains,
sometimes we croak in the viva verse,
mostly something the invigilators unaware,
fail us then and there,
keeping quiet, sometimes good,
people assume that we know many things,
Politicians croak,
clergies croak,
our teachers croak,
our parents croak,
our children croak,
you and I croak,
our nature make us to croak,
most of the times we get caught,
because we croak a lot.
poem by Veeraiyah Subbulakshmi
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The moss that loves the stone
It is the moss that loves the stone
Most. No matter what or when, the
Moss somehow manages to stay
Even without a why, they say.
But the moss keeps on sticking
To the body of the stone that
Keeps its nonminding stiffness.
It is cold, it is hard, it is unfeeling
At all. It is the moss that keeps its
Love. It sticks with it, rain or shine.
It rolls with it. It stays with it even
In the desert, even it if means its
Own death. It is the moss that sticks
To the stone. It is its true lover.
In the river, the water has ordered
The moss to leave. It ordered the stone
To crush it. The moss cannot be
Removed. It covered the stone.
It is loving it whole.The stone has
Become the moss, and the stone
Is gone.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Frog For a Day
When we croak,
were dead,
on the other hand,
when a frog croaks
he speaks to
nature and is
so cheerful,
When we croak
were silent, and so
still, not cheerful
at all.
Frogs are always
croaking and so
happy,
People are always
croaking and so
sad.
For once it would
be nice to be
a frog for a day.
wrote 4-9-07
Morning song
It feels as if the screaming
of a cricket goes right through the depths of me,
pass sleep into my brain.
Outside there’s a choir of frogs croaking
to really wake me up
and I wonder why everything
and now even the birds
this morning is singing so happily
and somewhere in the distance
a cock crows a few times.
The sun’s red fingers
already feels through the twilight
and I see the big old dark brown dog
stretching herself out
as if she is worshiping the sun
and then sits prepared on attention
while she’s watches the street.
poem by Gert Strydom
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A Change Of Color Of The Wind And The Sun
earlier there is this color of comfort
soft light spreading on the grass
pastel green to light green and then
deeper, like a pond covered with
floating moss
stone coated with greenish
river and driftwood floating
in silence
i sit patiently waiting for the coming of the changes
faint light getting stronger the sun rises from the twin peaks
peeping tom between two breasts of green hills
light spreads getting stronger
the lady walking on the path begins to wear her turban
noonday, the shadow becomes short and compressed
flashed against a rock
scorched the grasses stiffen short of the water
the moisture is gone
and then the hot air reigns
there is this silence that keeps running
to the places of the heart
fanning leaves comforting a grieving
man under a mango tree
someone left him
someone is shattered like a very dry leaf
crumpled and cracked and calling for help
the plain is dry and wide
there is no shadow of a horse coming
on the other side of the road
far to the edge of the mirage
there are only watery illusions.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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To Gather Moss And More Of Moss
to gather moss
be a stone
to gather more moss
be a very still stone
be a stone still till the end
of time
you stand still and think
you want to be the moss
rather than a stone
to be all moss
you must betray the stillness
of stone
you must even forget
the importance of
what a moss can be
then you think some more
to be completely this moss
you need to be friendly
to the water and to the river
then you decide to be the water
instead of the moss
to be more than the water
you wish instead to become the river
and so you flow and learn the rush
and become the running river
until what you want really
is just to flow
to rush and run and then
you become nothing
but the motion itself
until you are lost
and then
you become what you are now
lost but real
always flowing, rushing, running
where nobody owns you
not even the river
or the stones or the moss
you have become
this running, this flowing, this being
so real so free
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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I am less concerned about them than about the croaking frogs in the marsh.
The River Flows
The river flows and moss grows
And I dangle my feet in the water
The water is cold, but so is my heart
As I sit and just watch time goes by
No place I have to go, no place to be
Time has passed too fast, as fast as the river flows
Who else has sat here and felt this way
Felt pain in their heart and soul
They don't understand, did they ever?
All the hurt down deep in my soul
The leaves sway with the wind
And the chill sets in
I know I must leave, I don't know where
Guess I'll find my way down the road
With tears in my eyes and a broken heart
I'll find my way back to somewhere
The river flows on and the moss will keep growing
Till someone else sits here
And remembers things like I do
And wish I had them all back
I leave in the night, goodbye to the river and moss
May each persons who comes this way
Find a peace inside like I did but on the way
I'll always remember that the river flows on and the moss grows.
Written by Jo Carey
The Crickets and Frogs
Now it is raining
Many crickets are chirping
And frogs are croaking
poem by Asif Andalib
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A Rainy Day
It’s raining cats and dogs,
Frogs are croaking
Here and there.
poem by Asif Andalib
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Signs That Will Never Change
Leaves come falling on a winter's day.
Robins weep and watch them sail away.
Floating on the water is autumns last farewell.
These are signs that will never change,
signs that will never change.
Rivers once were frozen now they're free
Showing winter's going rapidly.
Tadpoles turning into frogs in winter's last farewell.
These are signs that will never change,
signs that will never change.
The changing faces of the seasons
are those that cannot be compared
Except in love it sometimes happens
love grows but all too soon it dies.
Tadpoles turning into frogs in winter's last farewell.
These are signs that will never change,
signs that will never change.
signs that will never change
song performed by by Hollies
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Eventually
I met a man
And talked about you
He seemed like a man from Osaka I knew
And he listened while I told him how you hurt me
And he consoled me when he told me he'd been hurt too
And he said we are inter-dependent
And the effects on each other never ending
And that the air has no boundaries
I think this water that surrounds me
Is the same water soaking through to you
So what comes floating to me
Eventually
Will come floating back to you
What comes floating to me
Eventually
Will come floating back to you
I had some tea
With a gal from Paris
We talked about life, sex, love and poetry
And you can't help it
Your name came up again
And she said man those kind of guys
Really know how to steal all of the oxygen
And I said we are inter-dependent
And the effects on each other never ending
And that the air has no boundaries
I think this water that surrounds me
Is the same water soaking' through to you
So what comes floating to me
Eventually
Will come floating back to you
What comes floating to me
Eventually
Will come floating back to you
I have a friend I confide in
He always says doll you got to learn not to lead with your chin
But you can't help it
It all comes up again
And then you have your fill
And your spill reaches down as far as a flood
So what comes floating to me
Eventually
Will come floating back to you
What comes floating to me
Eventually
Will come floating back to you
Eventually
Eventually
Will come floating back to you
Eventually
Eventually
song performed by by Cyndi Lauper
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Yellow Frogs
On this rainy day
The yellow frogs are croaking
To find their playmates.
poem by Asif Andalib
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Do Not Give Poetry A Bad Name
The frogs should not have croaked a lot
when everyone is fast asleep
Aristophanes after all is right
These frogs should not live like the Clouds.
On the other hand
THe Philosophers should cling to being
Philosophers
Stay with the embrace of Reason and Not
Embrace the Strong Arms of Emotions
For Emotions belong to nothing but the
Realm of Poetry
aH! Lysistrata shall now wage her own
War against the Men
Claiming as she does
Her sole right to Eroticism
Honestly, i still love to hear the frogs croaking
In the Pond
I for the meantime loves to Keep
The Philosophers dwell in their Own
Cloud Point of view.
If Lysistrata obliges
One night with Her would be enough
After which, I shall work hard to
Give Poetry its Own Right Name.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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A toad
why cry all alone?
get out and meet somebody
the frogs are croaking
for companion, why arent you?
get out, and get to know somebody
anybody is better than nobody
even a toad waddling in the pond
poem by John Tiong Chunghoo
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Bigger Blue
Nothing is more blue,
nor anything more empty,
than a swimming pool,
it's dry leaves,
and cracked bottom,
a heart of light, and old rain,
glittered-out, with winking shards,
worn numb, by the concrete of
some Hollywood life,
drained into pictures,
turning to the skies,
sitting knee-sprung,
poised over,
an unreflective gulf,
with different strokes,
all triumphant blue is lost,
and as these moments,
are wind measured,
with floating dust,
cracked glass,
and shelved light,
perhaps i'll see you again,
returning,
like a swimmer,
or perhaps,
I won't see this day again,
a swimming pool, and an echo
a librarian, skimming pages,
splashed like leaves,
the colours of hopeful love.
poem by Guy Peppin
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Poor but rich
Poor but rich in flowers
I lay amongst those stems
In them burning gem's
I hear my singing, child
singing to the croaking, frogs
sweet words-
of jangled, thought!
And time I have to laze
And read a poem,
That leaves me dazed,
In humble, awe!
I'm poor, but rich in flowers…
poem by Mark Heathcote
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Apple for a prince
Nice apples can be red and often green
and sometimes something in between
Frogs are nearly always green
Soon you'll see what I mean
I took a bite and now the worse
as this apple had a curse
Im now a frog with little chance
of finding my desired romance
Sunlight came and sunlight go
Poor frog doesnt know
To lift the curse he needs a kiss
Can a princess take a risk
Ill try and reach her from the ground
Maybe she'll hear my croaking sound
Please be kind to frogs you see
As the one you spot may be me
poem by Alan Draper
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Sounding rains judging
Sloshing ocean, rivers, falls all
Croaking frogs help ponds
haiku by Indira Renganathan
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