Croaking Poems | Examples

The Golden Ball

A croaking echo, dark and deep,
A princess shivers in her sleep.
She lost her golden ball of light,
To a monstrous, endless night.

The moon hangs, a violet stain,
As the bog begins to rain.
A frog, with skin of slimy green,
Leaps from a shadow, rarely seen.

"I'll find your ball," it rasps and sighs, 
with golden flecks within its eyes.
But as it speaks, the sound turns dread,
A monstrous voice, not what it said.

Its body swells, a horrid sight,
Engulfing all the fading light.
The frog is gone, the monster's here,
And the princess screams in primal fear.

The violet sky starts to decay,
As the monster grins and starts to play.
The golden ball, a final gleam,
Sinks with the girl into the stream.

CRICKETS IN THE AUTUMN-

autumn crickets fall;
the noise they make they so call;
field crickets widespread;
~
fall cricket songs heard;
across North Americas;
ambience alone--
~
cracklings fire mist;
the waters flow and amiss 
the grass still's grows loud;
~
cracks the crickets cricks;
the noise they make they so call;
field crickets widespread;
~
like a leap frog knee-
-deep embedded in a spring
log croaking ribbit
~
field crickets widespread;
the noise they make they so call;
cracks the crickets cricks;

8/30/2025
Written words by James Edward Lee Sr. 2025©

The Yard

Cats and dogs
Croaking bull frogs

Peas and beans
Dandelion greens

Oaks and pine
Maple trees fine

Lilac and rose
Azalea’s grow

Birds and bees
Two apple trees

Pond and lawn
A spotted fawn

Fence and stonewall
Framing it all

A Pond's Melody

A Pond’s Melody

dragonflies buzzing
spring peepers chirping for mates
splashing fish jumping for meals
blue herons squawking
bilious bullfrogs croaking
quacking mallards leading young

FIRE

River makes its final clunk
Between
Hills
Rolling boulders like turtle shells
Empty of their mouths and hearts

River bent
Flailing legs and neck
No longer reflects
The sun and moon
From water’s absence down its back.

Turns her terrible brittle head
From me
Teeth gnashing on the spools of willow

To her memory
When mud was forest
Footsteps
Croaking with frogs and dazzled with dragonflies
Ringed in a halo of cold fog.

We are dying
Together
Not angels nor even demons

But conquering visitors from a desert
Who brought nothing but the leech of desert
With us
Covering the entire Earth with insatiable thirst
And hunger

Kings and Queens for a day
Destroyers
Of those ceremony drums
Of gods and plants animals and language

When we lived as One
Gift
Strummed through the harp of gratitude.

Now, I seek a forgiving signal
From perhaps a divine wave
Coming from the dying Mother

This way
You poor skinless fool

The fire shall burn behind you
The entire Earth and its people
Which is all the things that flutter

Crawl walk and sing

"An empty bowl
With a spoon beside you."

Soul Ties

Another drag... inhale, exhale, inhale, lungs fill with toxic smoke
another sip... fire glides down her aching throat
another croaking whisper to the one beside, although aloof and remote.

She laughs in the face of sorrow, trying in vain to hide behind her eyes
the sound is an open coffin, a high hysterical
 plea filled cry

I imagine she has children, and the sweetness of  love since nothing less can cause such hurt
For what we care for most, are the very things
 we just can't desert

As much as we yearn to dislocate, hide and finally
 push self~destruct
We are bound with soul ties that true love feverishly constructs

Unable to throw off these chains 
connecting soul to soul
We walk about as Marley's ghost, 
each link taking a toll.

For the ties are conducive to nightmares or dreams of lost loves
Imprinted on our hearts and minds, never fully leaving us. 

Whether your Love is unrequited, or Love that stays true
You create the spirits that will forever haunt you.

A Poem For Your Child

The sky is blue, the blossoms pink,
A world of colors made to think
Of girls with bows and boys with toys—
Of butterflies and croaking frogs.

A little girl in lace and light
Will chase the wings of morning bright,
While laughter spills like summer rain
From fields that never know of pain.

A little boy with muddy feet
Will follow frogs through grasses sweet,
With daring eyes and tousled hair,
A heart that beats without a care.

But let them stray, let colors blend,
Let frogs and butterflies be friends—
For joy is neither blue nor rose,
But something deeper no one knows.
A child is more than what we see.
Let love decide who they shall be.

I love cockeyed whangdoodle writing

I love cock-eyed whangdoodle writing
When frogs are croaking and fish are biting
I adore silly missives with cartoon-like stuff
Of child-like fun I simply cannot get enough

dragonfly cannot leave yet

Iridescent wings of rainbow hues
Flitter amongst the lily pads
Will she light or is this a drive by?

Dragonfly sighs upon finding the delicate pinks
Their yellow middles calling to her shy side
She decides to stay for a few minutes

The frogs go silent; no more croaking
There is a delicate fragrance in the air
Is it cherry blossoms or the lily pads themselves?

Dragonfly cannot leave yet.
She feels rested in this tranquil place.

Night Vibes

Night Vibes


The vibes are a little different at night.
The crowds hang now on artificial light.
Satire set the stage on drama that is near,
an argument between two humans smear.

The vibes are a little different at night,
songs of frogs croaking heard on the right.
The night birds lift there voices and sing
it is a bit different than what the day birds bring.

The vibes are are a little different at night.
The stars and the moon, not the sun provide light.
All the lights from atop a store parking lot glow,
but there are less shoppers in the store, it's slow.

The vibes are a little different at night,
but for many we are tucked in our bed tight.
When a stroke of morning pink brushes the sky
the vibes at night wave bye-bye!

Silent Pining

My heart is closed again,
Croaking with but a beat to stay alive.
It is angry, cramped.

It is remorseful,
Now scared of the possibilities,
Of false ties and
Infarct seeping once reflected.

It is drunken,
Longing to say soaking,
To inflate and explode in waves,
Clawing at it’s enclosure.

It is confused,
What are these ties?
The string woven over each other,
Wrapping and complex and unintelligible.
Elder fingers could not have the insight
Into a tale as known as this one.

My heart wants to know who you are,
But it aches still,
As my brain absorbs our string,
And it spits out Morning Glory.

music in the bog

marshy mossy fly
fuzzy crowding cattails
green bulldog croaking

music in the bog
evening buzzes and humming
wild things aboard

Wistful Thoughts

Dreaming of castles in the sky
wishing that I could drop by
I could maybe learn to fly

Seeing unicorns passing 
silvery coats glistening
as sun beams are shining

Leaping frogs croaking
at flies that are teasing
by merely swooping

Trees are slowly creeping
ashes and oaks are bowing
forest is breathing

Ah dreams escaping
each is speaking
leaving me wondering

Kim, Trump, Vlad and Musk

Writing anything political can throw fuel on a fire,
but these Limericks are not meant to ignite anyone.
Just a bit of humor in my opinion. Yes, we all have one. 

A Musk rat and a vengeful dog
Both wantin' to be called Boss Hogg
In a rocket they'll launch
The critter with a paunch
Always croaking like a bullfrog

Trump wrote a poem about the day
A verse about those who will pay
For insubordination
He'll demand castration
Through vengeance, he will get his way

Took them all to the launching pad
The rat, the dog, Fat Kim and Vlad
Cast them into deep space
Earth will be a safer place
When it's saved from those who are madddd

Kim Jong Un asked to be on board
It was a seat he could afford
"Take Putin for the ride"
Trump wants him at his side
Into space and beyond they soared

The real 'rocket man,' evil Kim
Thinks the world should belong to him
Trump and Vlad lost in space
Lil Pudge will take their place
And King will be his pseudonym

Seussian Salve

You can’t force a poem, although you can try;
it seems that’s a maxim, but I don’t know why.
You smash it and bash it and beat to a pulp,
like using sledgehammers when trying to sculpt.
Sometimes it’s the topic, at others, the form -
just rains in your brain like some strange neural storm.
The trochees are croaking and Anna’s a pest;
the dactyl’s intractile, the iambs cause stress.
And Poet’s Collective just makes matters worse
'cuz Rannaigheacht bheag sounds more like a curse.
So it’s back to your childhood, the muse of your youth;
the Seussian salve is quite soothing, forsooth!

----------

"Rannaigheacht bheag" is pronounced “ran-a-yah voig”

• Short Croaking Poems
• Famous Croaking Poems
• Best Croaking Poems
• Read Croaking Poems
• Long Croaking Poems
• Croaking Quotes