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the frog and I
exchange glances
both motionless

haiku by Don Haney
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Tree's Frog - Parody Joyce Kilmer

I think that I shall never fail
to see with glee a frog full pail
less lovely than a poem which
most must with difficulty stitch.

Who's uninspired by froggy frail
leaves cheeks livid, features pale –
their sale may even make one rich
when cogent rhyme spares metre’s (gl) itch.

Sage frog we sing as holy graal
not trite, - right pristine risqué trail –
write neither tedious nor kitsch
preposterous or piteous pitch.

Wage man in name of culture’s flail
culls brazen female framed with veil,
In time of need none sex may switch -
unlike the frog, who’ll spawn enrich.

When frog finds itchy leg is pressed,
although he’ll jump, he won’t protest,
croak lends itself to joke’s delight
where faced with sore mosquito bite.

A cloud of frogs is treasure chest
most moonlit lovers has impressed,
with warble charming much unlike
officious neighbours swift to strike.

We rummage words which stipulate
fine frog’s resilient verbal gumption,
days, grievance sweeping, meditate
on nightly summer song’s resumption.

The nightingale’s no consolation
except for poets orthodox,
for Frog’s flag flies for every nation
as arcane jumping jack in box.

Against vain heckle we exude
full confidence in frogzster’s mood
whose speckles toad – more lecherous –
looks on with envy, missing bus.

For toad, four toed, can only yammer
in jaded solitary stammer,
Frog, indistructible none unhinge
resilient, when on singing binge.

[...] Read more

poem by Jonathan Robin
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Phileas the Frog

Phileas the frog was awfully large -
To see the muscle in his thighs -
A sight bedazzling to your eyes!
With plenty there to feed a town -
If you would dare to take him down!

Phileas the frog could tow a barge.
One hefty bound could clear a tree -
A scary sight I'll guarantee!
And something else to make me dread:
Were he to land upon my head!

Phileas the frog was known as 'Sarge -'
Accounted by that massive chest.
No other frog would care to jest
That tidy Phileas!

So if you've sense and know your place -
And hold some value to your face,
Then don't get supercilious
With Phileas!

Copyright © Mark Raymond Slaughter 2009
All rights reserved.

[...] Read more

poem by Mark R Slaughter
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Hop Frog

Well they call me a juicy hop-frog
you can see me in any wood bog
don't you know that they call me the hop-frog
hopping frog
I'm a hop-frog
a hop-frog
they call me the hop-frog
hop, hop-frog
They call me the hop-frog
see me in any wood bog
don't you know that call me a hop-frog
hop-frog
They call me the hop-frog
see me in a wood bog
they're calling me a hop-frog
hop-frog
You can see me in a ballroom
you can see me in a bedroom
you can see me in the woods
hop, hop-frog
They call me the hop-frog
they call you the hop-frog
well they call you the hop-frog
hop, hop-frog
Frog

song performed by Lou Reed
Added by Lucian Velea
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The Frog and The Nightingale

Once upon a time a frog
Croaked away in Bingle Bog
Every night from dusk to dawn
He croaked awn and awn and awn
Other creatures loathed his voice,
But, alas, they had no choice,
And the crass cacophony
Blared out from the sumac tree
At whose foot the frog each night
Minstrelled on till morning night

Neither stones nor prayers nor sticks.
Insults or complaints or bricks
Stilled the frogs determination
To display his heart's elation.
But one night a nightingale
In the moonlight cold and pale
Perched upon the sumac tree
Casting forth her melody
Dumbstruck sat the gaping frog
And the whole admiring bog
Stared towards the sumac, rapt,

And, when she had ended, clapped,
Ducks had swum and herons waded
To her as she serenaded
And a solitary loon
Wept, beneath the summer moon.
Toads and teals and tiddlers, captured
By her voice, cheered on, enraptured:
"Bravo! " "Too divine! " "Encore! "
So the nightingale once more,
Quite unused to such applause,
Sang till dawn without a pause.

Next night when the Nightingale
Shook her head and twitched her tail,
Closed an eye and fluffed a wing
And had cleared her throat to sing
She was startled by a croak.
"Sorry - was that you who spoke? "
She enquired when the frog
Hopped towards her from the bog.
"Yes," the frog replied. "You see,
I'm the frog who owns this tree
In this bog I've long been known
For my splendid baritone
And, of course, I wield my pen
For Bog Trumpet now and then"

[...] Read more

poem by Vikram Seth
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Punch Up At 'Dart Man's Aim

Fifteen stone and just five foot eight
And yet he doesn't seem overweight
Deep, deep chest and shoulders wide
The strongest in this countryside.

He's the mighty Dan the frog
From the house beside the bog
Swarthy looking with raven hair
A happy man without a care.

He's no plans to take a wife
As he prefers the single life
And he's still a young man anyway
Just twenty five on his last birthday

Froggy is his dad's nickname
And that's from where the name frog came
But his nickname of frog he doesn't appreciate
In fact the word called frog he's grown to hate.

Fastest man for miles around
To part with the green back pound
In him you'll find nothing cheap
Money he can't seem to keep.

He's a happy sort of bloke
Happy even when he's broke
He's got the right mentality
Never down, always carefree.

Likes his guinness doesn't like beer
Drinks his liquor with good cheer,
Whiskey makes the man walk tall
And he likes whiskey best of all.

He is merciful though strong
And without good reason won't do wrong
But do him wrong and he will fight
And with his fists he'll put things right.

He'd prefer to crack your jaw
Than chastise you with the law
Solves his problems like a man
That's the way it is with Dan.

And though when need arise he can be hard
Dan the frog is no blaghguard
But his type you don't kick around
As men like him do not yield ground

[...] Read more

poem by Francis Duggan
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Frog

France and China feed from your demise,
Restaurateurs are not exactly chums,
Oh how they rave about your tender thighs!
Gourmand orders - another frog succumbs…

Copyright © Mark R Slaughter 2010

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poem by Mark R Slaughter
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The Frog Prince

Frau Doktor,
Mama Brundig,
take out your contacts,
remove your wig.
I write for you.
I entertain.
But frogs come out
of the sky like rain.

Frogs arrive
With an ugly fury.
You are my judge.
You are my jury.

My guilts are what
we catalogue.
I’ll take a knife
and chop up frog.

Frog has not nerves.
Frog is as old as a cockroach.
Frog is my father’s genitals.
Frog is a malformed doorknob.
Frog is a soft bag of green.

The moon will not have him.
The sun wants to shut off
like a light bulb.
At the sight of him
the stone washes itself in a tub.
The crow thinks he’s an apple
and drops a worm in.
At the feel of frog
the touch-me-nots explode
like electric slugs.
Slime will have him.
Slime has made him a house.

Mr. Poison
is at my bed.
He wants my sausage.
He wants my bread.

Mama Brundig,
he wants my beer.
He wants my Christ
for a souvenir.

Frog has boil disease
and a bellyful of parasites.

[...] Read more

poem by Anne Sexton
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A Snail Goes To Heaven (A One-Act Tragicomedy)

Bare stage. A square neon sign on extreme right which reads: “This way to Heaven”.
Prolonged silence. Enter Snail, moving very slowly throughout the play.

Snail:
I’m a dead snail.
I’m going to Heaven.

I’ve lived for 15 years.
That’s a ripe old age.
I’ve been blessed.
Had a marvellous sex life, you know.
Well, if you know snails
we attract a mate with our slime.
Oh, slime turns me on, baby.

(Snail moves slowly, and then stops.)

Well, maybe I should focus on holy thoughts.
Purity...refined thoughts...you know...
Snail God does not like sex.
Copulation is not exactly what
Snail God meant when Snail God declared:
'Go forth and slime the world;
be ye together...'
Snail God demands purity
so let me be so...
after all, I’m going to Heaven...
a dead snail and moving on to Heaven...

(Snail moves slowly, and then stops.)

Had a precarious life,
you know,
all these 15 years...
A farmer saw me in the grass.
I heard him curse
and he raised his foot to crush me.
Well, unfortunately for him
he stepped on a snake
and the last I heard of the man
was an expletive
and the last I heard of the snake was a hiss.
Yes, I’ve had a long life
a risky life - but it’s all worth it
for an eternal life in Heaven
is my reward

(Snail moves slowly, and then stops.)

(Enter Frog, jumping. Snail looks at Frog in amazement. And Frog stops and looks at Snail in amazement.)

[...] Read more

poem by Raj Arumugam
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A Frog's Fate

Contemptuous of his home beyond
The village and the village-pond,
A large-souled Frog who spurned each byway
Hopped along the imperial highway.

Nor grunting pig nor barking dog
Could disconcert so great a Frog.
The morning dew was lingering yet,
His sides to cool, his tongue to wet:
The night-dew, when the night should come,
A travelled Frog would send him home.

Not so, alas! The wayside grass
Sees him no more: not so, alas!
A broad-wheeled waggon unawares
Ran him down, his joys, his cares.
From dying choke one feeble croak
The Frog's perpetual silence broke: -
‘Ye buoyant Frogs, ye great and small,
Even I am mortal after all!
My road to fame turns out a wry way;
I perish on the hideous highway;
Oh for my old familiar byway!’

The choking Frog sobbed and was gone;
The Waggoner strode whistling on.
Unconscious of the carnage done,
Whistling that Waggoner strode on -
Whistling (it may have happened so)
‘A froggy would a-wooing go.’
A hypothetic frog trolled he,
Obtuse to a reality.

O rich and poor, O great and small,
Such oversights beset us all.
The mangled Frog abides incog,
The uninteresting actual frog:
The hypothetic frog alone
Is the one frog we dwell upon.

poem by Christina Georgina Rossetti
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Walking The Frog

I have a pet frog
We go frog walking every day at 6pm
He is fine until he sees another frog
He sniffs & then tries to jump
I pull him away

Last week we had a problem
My frog stopped to do his business
A passer bye said stop your frog fouling
I cleared up after him but it left a slimy mark
The other man slipped on it

My frog likes water
Especially ponds
He likes jumping on lilies
The local gardener is mad
Control your frog he shouts

Well now Im in trouble
Despite the sign
Beware of the FROG
He bit a policeman
A fine guard frog

My frog is now banned
From walks anywhere
Poor froggy is in a cell
Eating flies & drinking water
Its a frogs life

poem by Alan Draper
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Brent River Bride

Flow proudly fair river,
For one who fell under
Your spell was the liver
Doc, Gershon - asunder
Found all his plans, muddled
By nymphs of the water -
He greatly befuddled
Then married the daughter
Of Count Joe of Wandle
Far south of the city
And went on to fondle
Her milk flowing titty.
I send this wet letter
To Brentische planners;
Such amour is better
Than yekkishe manners.

LRH
6.5.06 In reply to GWH's Bride of Brent of 6.5.06

Bride of Brent

Unlike Lucia from far Lammermoor,
fair Linda, hailing from far Chaumonix,
excels when she’s preparing salmon or
deep-frying spuds and spinach that aren’t gammony.

She tried to keep the frog which wooing went
outside the net she guarded as a goalie
till she became the Bride of River Brent
and played the role of Princess Rowley-Powley.

The frog, he always used to say “Heigh-ho, '
because he knew that he could never find a
more lovely princess once she’d kissed him so
he was more charmed than Chaumonix by Linda.

Inspired by Linda, who married me at the Brent Bridge Hotel in August 1996, and by “A frog he would a-wooing go”: [Old folk song].

A Frog he would a-wooing go,
Heigho! says Rowley,
Whether his mother would let him or no.
With a rowley, powley, gammon and spinach,
Heigho! says Anthony Rowley.

So off he set with his opera hat,
Heigho! says Rowley,
And on the way he met with a Rat.
With a rowley, powley, gammon and spinach,
Heigho! says Anthony Rowley.

[...] Read more

poem by Linda Hepner
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My Frog

As I was walking by a pungent lake
Just outside of Meigs,
I stopped and did a double-take,
A frog with four hind legs! ! ! ! !

He was a rather normal frog,
From his head down to his waist,
And even with his excess limbs,
He had a certain grace.

So I picked him up and took him home
And there he would be today,
If that Molly girl hadn't come along
And stolen my frog away.

She snuck into my house, that thief,
And took him from his bed,
Then later had the gall to say:
'I had to bury him cause he was dead! '

Well one day Molly came to school
And said something about her frog
And when I questioned mine's whereabouts
She said she'd found hers on a log.

She went on to say that yesterday
Her little frog had died;
She sat there a while, just sat and sat
And cried, cried, cried, cried, cried.

I went to her frog's funeral,
Just to ease my suspicious mind,
And there lay a frog with four hind legs
Which looked a lot like mine!

Once again I questioned her
About her frog's strange state
And then she told the strange tale
Which I will now relate.

As she walked through my house
She heard a small voice say,
'I will gwant you any wish
If you'll take me away.

'Fow I'm not an owdinary fwog,
And with some love and cawe,
I will be bown again with golden wings
And Heavenly will be my share.'

[...] Read more

poem by Lydia Thacker
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The Greenie

A frog, dark green, sat in the gutter
and waited for the frightened flutter
of insects native to these parts.
He heard, that evening, just farts.

He had been raised by his grandmother
together with a younger brother.
His mom had died when she was two
inside the cistern of a loo.

The plumber had installed within
and fastened by a stainless pin
a reservoir that would dispense
blue liquid here to recompense

for odours, stains and other matters
like flying pieces, even splatters.
Yet no one had observed the critter
who spent her days inside the shitter.

Her skin was green, she was depressed
although with man and children blessed.
Postpartum blues had been the rumour,
her neighbour whispered the word tumour.

She was in somewhat of a trance
and took the first and final chance
drank Mrs. Stewart's liquid blue
and found her private Waterloo.

But I digress, back to emissions
they sound in insects like small fissions,
though frogs can never ascertain
if creatures on the windowpane

are moving, ready to be guzzled
or if their rectum is unmuzzled.
The flutter is what Nature chose
it is a way to diagnose.

A thunderbolt now shook the city
what follows really was a pity.
A huge white bird with bright red feet
reached up and grabbed, to taste and eat

the frog, our hero who had not
hatched from his mother's rooftop cot.
Still mourning noisily her death,
he took a long and final breath.

[...] Read more

poem by Herbert Nehrlich
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The History Of Frog Pigment

A frog is green not by design,
but by his own volition,
it started all with Father Rhine
where Grandpa did his fishing.

Back then pollution was a word
used only by the teachers,
it's what they read and overheard
on air wave science features.

Each Saturday, my Opa sat
down by the raging river
he was a stocky man, not fat
and had a touchy liver.

I think they told us kids that fate
had brought him this affliction
I had my doubts....at any rate
it was a plain addiction.

His tackle box contained the lure
and hooks and rooster feathers,
two flasks of Russian Vodka, pure
a snot rag which was Heather's.

He'd spend the afternoon in place
and caught some on occasion,
a buddy from a different race
would join him, he was Asian.

The Asian fellow saw him first,
a frog of brownish colour,
and while they stilled their urgent thirst
Opa began to holler:

'This animal seems bigger then
the fishes in these waters
I think it is a water hen
with lots of sons and daughters.'

It is unclear what happened now,
the frog took great exception
he raised one eye beneath each brow
to tender this subreption.

He had, from passing fishermen
heard of the Northern creatures,
there was a land beyond Big Ben
where publicans and preachers

[...] Read more

poem by Herbert Nehrlich
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Fantasy: Eyes On Dreams; Shape-Changed; Daylight; Dormant

Eyes On Her dreams

The frog, living at the bottom of the well
by the Wonderland-Lake, waiting for a princess
to come along, hoping to be recognized as a
Prince in Disguise, frog-leaped to
Shahrazad, the crocodile

demanding a kiss, she did as instructed by
the imperious frog, almost imbibing him as
guided by her reptilian heart, nearly
choking in the effort to keep from
swallowing him; she started to

blunder and bluster and obfuscate; the frog
was disappointed while Shahrazad left in a
hurry, already late to meet Okefenokee Al,
her only real pal, who could be expected
to be there for her all the time

meanwhile the frog, tired out from his efforts
at being kissed by a crocodile, slunked away in
true froggy fashion until he met the Ice Princess,
walking along with her eyes on her dreams
when the frog appeared

with his request for a kiss; she asked what would
happen should she kiss him, he replied he would
turn into a Prince, even a King; she dreamily
complied, her lips trembling and cold as
behooves an Ice Princess spawned

on a Mountain of Glass, the frog looked up in
disappointment; ordered her to kiss him again
with more fervour and enthusiasm, she tried
again, kissing the little green frog,
left by the King of the North

at the bottom of the well by the Wonderland-
Lake… What happened then, dear Scribe,
would you care to tell us
sometime?

Shape-Changed

It is wonderful to be alive
when I have shape-changed
into a mermaid in my mind
gamboling in the Gulf Stream

[...] Read more

poem by Margaret Alice
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The Frog Poem(duh Duh Duhhhhhhhhh)

Leap frog,

Jump frog,

Everywhere you go frog,

Smile frog,

Croak frog,

Everywhere you go frog,

stomp, stomp, stomp

SQUASH! ! !

Bye, bye frog.

poem by Maddy Jen
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Homer's Battle Of The Frogs And Mice. Book III

Now Front to Front the marching Armies shine,
Halt e'er they meet, and form the length'ning Line,
The Chiefs conspicuous seen, and heard afar,
Give the loud Sign to loose the rushing War;
Their dreadful Trumpets deep-mouth'd Hornets sound,
The sounded Charge remurmurs o'er the Ground,
Ev'n Jove proclaims a Field of Horror nigh,
And rolls low Thunder thro' the troubled Sky.

First to the Fight the large Hypsiboas flew,
And brave Lychenor with a Javelin slew.
The luckless Warriour fill'd with gen'rous Flame,
Stood foremost glitt'ring in the Post of Fame;
When in his Liver struck, the Jav'lin hung;
The Mouse fell thund'ring, and the Target rung;
Prone to the Ground he sinks his closing Eye,
And soil'd in Dust his lovely Tresses lie.
A Spear at Pelion Troglodytes cast,
The missive Spear within the Bosom past;
Death's sable Shades the fainting Frog surround,
And Life's red Tide runs ebbing from the Wound.
Embasichytros felt Seutlæus' Dart
Transfix, and quiver in his panting Heart;
But great Artophagus aveng'd the slain,
And big Seutlæus tumbling loads the Plain,
And Polyphonus dies, a Frog renown'd,
For boastful Speech and Turbulence of Sound;
Deep thro' the Belly pierc'd, supine he lay,
And breath'd his Soul against the Face of Day.
The strong Lymnocharis, who view'd with Ire,
A Victor triumph, and a Friend expire;
And fiercely flung where Troglodytes fought,
With heaving Arms a rocky Fragment caught,
A Warriour vers'd in Arts, of sure Retreat,
Yet Arts in vain elude impending Fate;
Full on his sinewy Neck the Fragment fell,
And o'er his Eye-lids Clouds eternal dwell.
Lychenor (second of the glorious Name)
Striding advanc'd, and took no wand'ring Aim;
Thro' all the Frog the shining Jav'lin flies,
And near the vanquish'd Mouse the Victor dies;
The dreadful Stroke Crambophagus affrights,
Long bred to Banquets, less inur'd to Fights,
Heedless he runs, and stumbles o'er the Steep,
And wildly flound'ring flashes up the Deep;
Lychenor following with a downward Blow
Reach'd in the Lake his unrecover'd Foe;
Gasping he rolls, a purple Stream of Blood
Distains the Surface of the Silver Flood;
Thro' the wide Wound the rushing Entrails throng,

[...] Read more

poem by Thomas Parnell
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The Boy Next Door

There's a boy who lives next door;
And this boy is just as bad
As a boy can be; and poor!
He's so poor it makes me sad
When I see him. Out at knee;
And no shoes; and, more than that,
Hardly any shirt or hat.
He's as poor as Poverty.

II.

But I like him; yes, I do.
He can play 'most any game,
And tell fairy stories, too;
Funny stories, just the same
As my father does. And he
Told me one about a frog,
Living near a lake or bog,
Frog that married a bumblebee.

III.

And another of Jumping Joan
And Hink Minx, the old witch that
Sits before the fire alone
Frying fat for her black cat.
And of Craney Crow; her dog
And her chicken. But the best,
One I like more than the rest,
'S that one of the bee and frog.

IV.

Well, the bumblebee would sing
All day long; and all the night
Sang the old frog; till the thing,
So folks said, was done in spite,
Just to keep the flowers awake:
One a rose, a brier-rose;
And the other, one of those
Lilies that grow in a lake.

V.

All day long the bee would prod
At the rose and buzz and keep
Shaking it; it couldn't nod,
Much less ever go to sleep:
Humming to it, 'Don't you hear?
I'm so happy! Can't you be

[...] Read more

poem by Madison Julius Cawein
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The Frog and the Lion

A LITTLE FROG WENT OUT ONE DAY
TO HAVE A FROGGIE WALK,
HE SAW A LION ON HIS WAY
AND STOPPED TO HAVE A TALK.

AND THEN THE LION SAID TO HIM,
THERE’S FLIES UPON MY BACK,
AND I AM FEELING PRETTY GRIM
WHILE STANDING IN THIS TRACK.

SO IF YOU CLIMB ABOARD MY FRIEND,
YOU’LL HAVE A LOVELY FEED,
I’LL FLICK MY TAIL SO I CAN SEND
THE FLIES TO FILL YOUR NEED.

SO FROGGIE CLIMED ON LION’S BACK
AND ATE AND ATE AND ATE,
AND LION STOOD UPON THE TRACK
TO WAIT AND WAIT AND WAIT.

ONE DAY LION LOOKED AT FROG
AND SAW HIS EYES WERE DIM,
THEN LET HIM DOWN INTO THE BOG
SO HE COULD HAVE A SWIM.

AND THEN THE FROG CAME BACK AGAIN
THE LION TO ATTEND.
HE CLIMBED BACK IN THE LIONS MANE,
THE LION WAS HIS FRIEND.

AS TIME WENT BY THE FROG GOT FAT.
AND LION WAITED ON.
THEN FROG WAS EATEN BY THAT CAT,
AND SO THE FROG WAS GONE.

THE FROGGIE IN THE LION,
JUST SCHRIVLED RIGHT AWAY.
THE FROG WAS FULL OF POISON.
THE LION DIED THAT DAY.

THE MORAL OF THIS STORY.
IS TWOFOLD, LISTEN ON.
JUST BE VERY CAREFULL,
BEFORE YOUR DAYS ARE GONE.

CHOOSE YOU VERY WISELY
THE FRIENDS WITH WHOM YOU GREET.
AND DON’T BE LIKE THE LION.
BE CAREFULL WHAT YOU EAT

poem by George Savige
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The Frog Prince

As I was walking through the wood
One warm and sunny summer day,
I chanced upon a lovely sight
A swirl of butterflies in flight;

Urged on by curiosity,
I followed down the path they flew
And tumbled through a hidden door
Beneath the leafy woodland floor;

A wondrous sight did then appear
As if by magic to my eyes,
And there within a hollow log
I spied a very princely frog;

Nestled deep within that place
Of musty darkness shone a light,
And there I saw as I did look
A princely frog with poem book;

Lounging in his comfy space
With spectacles perched on his nose,
The frog prince reading unaware
Of being watched as I stood there;

So engrossed within his book,
He did not notice as I sneaked
Behind his chair on velvet feet -
Then all at once our eyes did meet

He dropped the book into his lap,
Complete surprise upon his face -
I turned to run and he did follow
Leaping from his hidden hollow

Swift I ran around the tree
And hiding, waited patiently
And soon he lept upon a rock
And then this frog began to talk;

'My dear, within your book I've read,
Your songs of love and gratitude,
Your tales of woe, of joy and such
I must admit, I like it much! '

But there is one thing I would ask
If I may only be so bold,
Now would you please consider this,
And place upon my lips a kiss?

[...] Read more

poem by Linda Ori
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