Frogs in Love
The bogs are damp with almost too much rain -
By night, the frogs have returned once again,
For November; it is the time they mate,
But why O why our backyard populate?
Perhaps they feel it's romantic: the smoke,
The chill, the wet; relentlessly they croak!
Dear God! Why let the bogs with tall grass grow?
Or teach a colony of frogs to Love?
poem by Dinesh Sairam
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Related quotes
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 Sound Of The Rain
do not mislead me with the
point-of-view of the frog
you croak and you say this
is how something beautiful
sounds, how ugliness feigns
i tell you i like the rain and
the frog likes it too, i am
one of those frogs bathing
and jumping on the pond,
but do not mislead me with
your sound, it does not sound
like the hush of the wind,
it has no color of the moon,
i am one of the frogs of this
pond, but i do not wish to
sound like you: i am in love
with the sound of the rain,
and this is the one that makes
me stay. It is not you, your
sound is not gentle, it is
rough like the skin of the
teething toad. I love the
rain, the way it sounds,
and that is enough
for my suffering.
Dripping.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Rain (Ya-du)
Every where croak
came the frogs out
earth soaked water
saw in morning
first rain was heavily raining.
Filled ponds and tanks
river banks lost
fields sank in water
excess of rain
flooded whole terrain.
Glided farmers
saw better rain
there hoped for good
vegetation
they can grow in the season.
poem by S.D. Tiwari
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Frogs in chorus
The chorus frogs in the big lagoon
Would sing their songs to the silvery moon.
Tenor singers were out of place,
For every frog was a double bass.
But never a human chorus yet
Could beat the accurate time they set.
The solo singer began the joke;
He sang, "As long as I live I'll croak,
Croak, I'll croak,"
And the chorus followed him: "Croak, croak, croak!"
The poet frog, in his plaintive tone,
Sang of a sorrow was all his own;
"How shall I win to my heart's desire?
How shall I feel my spirit's fire?"
And the solo frog in his deepest croak,
"To fire your spirit," he sang, "eat coke,
Coke, eat coke,"
And the chorus followed him: "Coke, coke, coke!"
The green frog sat in a swampy spot
And he sang the song of he knew not what.
"The world is rotten, oh cursed plight,
That I am the frog that must set it right.
How shall I scatter the shades that lurk?"
And the old man bullfrog sang, "Get work,
Work, get work,"
And the chorus followed him: "Work, work, work!"
The soaring spirits that fain would fly
On wings of hope to the starry sky
Must face the snarls of the jealous dogs,
For the world is ruled by its chorus frogs.
poem by Andrew Barton Paterson
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55
I went out early this morning to take a walk and see the world
At its unfolding, Skies grey and moving slowly away from light,
The dim lights, Pushing away dark clouds vice versa tugging each other Perhaps not wanting to part (Whatever happened last night? Nobody wants to recall)
Towards an edge on the right corner of the gym, Everything is shadowy (Like a dawn tryst In a tight room so foul
Filled with cheap perfume Beating warmth like Pink baby rats)
A black outline of coconut trees, Some houses appearing as smoke
Rising to the skies Like men smoking, Letting go off The sighs inside
their hearts
They are huge and keeps a chest full of Frogs wanting to jump
Into the pond, their dreams croak and croak
Throughout this hot summer Pleading to the white heronFor rain and more rain Lest they die
What arrived instead is the plow, Their territories cut into small pieces
And some will have no place to live, I am referring to the frogs
like men And the children Of the little space This pond drying itself
To death. The air is thin and sharp to the feel Of guts
Gathering the early dusts of the south bound road, And few raindrops
Fell on the chalky pathways some two or Three farm children running for cover,
I walk fast, trying to outrun The children, the frogs, the men,
And the shadowy coconut trees, Fast and faster still Like my thoughts running and running In circles Oval to this gym
The first ray is coming out From the edge of a grey cloud Pushed towards a darker side To my eyes Lights stab and light
With more light Gushing forth from the stomach
Of dawn.
Someone just performed The ritual of morning The birth Of another day, I walk past time And must go home on time
I have my lover for breakfast Waiting And some thoughts
Running and running thoughts wanting To stop.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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The ritual of morning
I went out early this morning to take a walk and see the world
At its unfolding, Skies grey and moving slowly away from light,
The dim lights, Pushing away dark clouds vice versa tugging each other Perhaps not wanting to part (Whatever happened last night? Nobody wants to recall)
Towards an edge on the right corner of the gym, Everything is shadowy (Like a dawn tryst In a tight room so foul
Filled with cheap perfume Beating warmth like Pink baby rats)
A black outline of coconut trees, Some houses appearing as smoke
Rising to the skies Like men smoking, Letting go off The sighs inside
their hearts
They are huge and keeps a chest full of Frogs wanting to jump
Into the pond, their dreams croak and croak
Throughout this hot summer Pleading to the white heronFor rain and more rain Lest they die
What arrived instead is the plow, Their territories cut into small pieces
And some will have no place to live, I am referring to the frogs
like men And the children Of the little space This pond drying itself
To death. The air is thin and sharp to the feel Of guts
Gathering the early dusts of the south bound road, And few raindrops
Fell on the chalky pathways some two or Three farm children running for cover,
I walk fast, trying to outrun The children, the frogs, the men,
And the shadowy coconut trees, Fast and faster still Like my thoughts running and running In circles Oval to this gym
The first ray is coming out From the edge of a grey cloud Pushed towards a darker side To my eyes Lights stab and light
With more light Gushing forth from the stomach
Of dawn.
Someone just performed The ritual of morning The birth Of another day, I walk past time And must go home on time
I have my lover for breakfast Waiting And some thoughts
Running and running thoughts wanting To stop.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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The Princess and the Frog
A princess was out for her morning jog
When, by the pond, she met a frog.
She grabbed the poor thing by its head:
”It might turn into a prince! ” she said.
She closed her eyes and made a wish,
Then gave the frog a sloppy kiss.
The Princess counted One, Two, Three...
And opened up her eyes to see.
In a blinding flash and clouds of smoke,
The frog became a handsome bloke.
He stared at the princess in dismay
Then turned and ran the other way.
”Wait, my darling. Please! “ she cried.
The handsome prince to her replied:
”Go stick your head in the palace bogs -
”I hate a girl who kisses frogs! ”
poem by Melanie Ann Calvert
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Song Of The Croaker
An old frog lived in a dismal swamp,
In a dismal kind of way;
And all that he did, whatever befell,
Was to croak the livelong day.
Croak, croak, croak,
When darkness filled the air,
And croak, croak, croak,
When the skies were bright and fair.
'Good Master Frog, a battle is fought,
And the foeman's power is broke.'
But he only turned a greener hue,
And answered with a croak.
Croak, croak, croak,
When the clouds are dark and dun,
And croak, croak, croak,
In the blaze of the noontide sun.
'Good Master Frog, the forces of right
Are driving the hosts of wrong.'
But he gave his head an ominous shake,
And croaked out, 'Nous verrons!'
Croak, croak, croak,
Till the heart is full of gloom,
And croak, croak, croak,
Till the world seems but a tomb.
To poison the cup of life,
By always dreading the worst.
Is to make of the earth a dungeon damp,
And the happiest life accursed.
Croak, croak, croak,
When the noontide sun rides high,
And croak, croak, croak,
Lest the night come by and by.
Farewell to the dismal frog;
Let him croak as loud as he may,
He cannot blot the sun from heaven,
Nor hinder the march of day,
Though he croak, croak, croak,
Till the heart is full of gloom,
And croak, croak, croak,
Till the world seems but a tomb.
poem by Horatio Alger Jr
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Two Frogs
two frogs
agree to take shelter
on a lone leaf
under a heavy rain
they swear
to croak together
after a storm
they swear
to always live
and love
together
what is perfect
is just between them
on a very small pond
just fit for the two
of them
and they both
live happily ever after
and then
the tadpoles
come
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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The Rush of A Lie
Ancient mountains swept with snow,
where a dropp of water begins to flow,
is the birthplace of a small stream,
and something I would never dream.
Streams turn to rivers great,
that make sure not to be late,
that go towards swamps and bogs,
and they keep going into the fog.
Have you not yet reached the ocean,
where all the world is set in motion?
Your waters have rushed,
fed by the clouds' every flush.
You've left such beauty behind,
just for bogs and fog to find.
Your droplet has grown;
at me your lies are thrown.
poem by Soren Valentine
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Oh So Ordinary
Oh so ordinary
is a hot summer night
when the whirl of a fan
is music in the dark
accompanying
croaking frogs
in the distance
oh so ordinary
is waking to a glowing
herald of break of day
and the frogs
now deep asleep
and quiet
oh so ordinary
an electric coffee pot
percolating
as a toilet is flushed
and a faucet lets go
cool morning water
oh so ordinary
a day goes by
in a rush
while someone
stacks oranges
and red apples
and peaches
and apricots
in perfect rows
oh so ordinary
that someone
pushes the wheelchairs
and lines them in
a large room
perfect rows
and there they sit
oh so ordinary
memories of
a seasick morning
on a day called D Day
and another of
a train station farewell
and that was that
he never returned
and another
of sawing two by fours
under a cloudless blue sky
in a backyard
of a tiny two bedroom house
in East L.A.
and another of
a wedding day in 1942
with just a week
before that train farewell
and I still feel the rice
a handful my brother threw
as if it were yesterday
and another of
peeling an orange
near a stream
in the mountains
in that beautiful place that
just right now
I don't seem
to recall
but I can still
taste
that orange.
poem by Bro. Bartleby
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Tadpoles swarm in the Graduate's Pond
He quitted the Socioeconomic further studies
And looked for a job.
His raving resume nobody accepts
And he decided to open a Tadpole farm
At the backyard isolated pond.
He breeds the Tadpoles
And when they become frogs
He sell them to the Scientists
They do research for various matters.
I heard the downright cry of dozy frogs
That's similar to Slaughter House screams!
It's really breathtaking
How the ridiculous educated Man turns to be a criminal?
I read the Encyclopedia and stumble in the Socioeconomic gap!
*How great a Simpleton among the Intellectuals?
poem by Nimal Dunuhinga
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Miss Tweety
Miss tweety
looking killingly pretty
oh! What a pity!
To think we were colleagues!
Smarter!
But now she says i inspire her!
Miss tweety..
Of course i'm nervous!
like a pimply teenager getting his first kiss
though i'm a second kisser.
Miss tweety!
You and i
share this gift-curse
oh! You say i'm your inspirer?
Well, my dear missy...
I say you are my immortalizer!
So please make history with my name for the
sake of our lust!
Lust?
Of course lust!
Lust for floating butterflies
lust for sweet smelling flowers
lust for the buzz-buzz of bees
and croak-croak of the frogs
lust for the words
lust for life! ! !
Miss tweety!
Yes!
You!
With two 350watts halogen bulbs sitting a-
top your button nose..
Oh! how tall are you now?
Supercatwalking the streets of america
showing them how the yorubas of naija do it!
Miss tweety! Miss tweety!
Don't say i inspire you!
Because, my love
you inspire me!
Miss tweety...
poem by williams 'poeticallyImpaired' ella
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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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The Frogs
A POOL was once congeal'd with frost;
The frogs, in its deep waters lost,
No longer dared to croak or spring;
But promised, being half asleep,
If suffer'd to the air to creep,
As very nightingales to sing.
A thaw dissolved the ice so strong,--
They proudly steer'd themselves along,
When landed, squatted on the shore,
And croak'd as loudly as before.
poem by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe
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A New Beginning
the rain falls heavily
on the brown fields
the cracks of drought
heal and soften for
a new beginning
the farmer arrives
bringing his plow
the white herons
hover
the frogs croak
the fish are awake after
a long hibernation
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Be Not Like The Frogs And The Clouds
be not like the frogs that copulate in the rain
on those nights where others cannot sleep
be not like those that croak without meaning
on the murky ponds, on those rivited rivers
be not like the clouds that drift east to west,
and have not known what is fidelity to permanence
or what colors to choose as they change shapes
for the seasons that come and go like the wind
be not like me, for i know not what is there to be
a perfection not attained in any form of my poetry
do not follow me for my ways are not theirs
those who pave the easy & wide paths to destiny
just be yourself my dear, use the light inside your soul
stare at the flicker of your own wisdom your own goal
scroll your own choices, take the path of your loneliness
speak the language of your heart then feel your wholeness.
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
Early Morning Scenario
the frogs are singing
gratitude for the heavy rain last night
the pond has ripples
some fish jump with joy
the trees are tall and fresh
the rainbow appears
the grasses are still filled with dew
disturbed by a little bird that flew
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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dogs and frogs
wail and croak through staring nights
haunting insomnia
quote by by Indira Babbellapati
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