Long Croak Poems
Long Croak Poems. Below are the most popular long Croak by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Croak poems by poem length and keyword.
Drug Addiction and suicide are no joke.
Some people find it entertaining when those individuals croak.
Recovering and living I've seen both sides
I just wish people could live their lives.
Whether it's a pill, powder, or a needle
This epidemic can be unspeakable.
Whether it's a rope, gun, or a razor.
Society can make you feel crazier.
The addictions and the feelings are real
But unfortunately not everyone can heal
These things are not one bit bias.
Our surroundings are what supply us.
I've lost many to these addictions.
I was lucky enough to leave these conditions.
Ones I've loved and lost I wont forget.
Not helping more is definitely a regret.
There was a boy that was 18yrs old.
His heart not one bit cold.
Always laughing and smiling.
But on the inside he was dying.
He couldn't deal with the pain no more.
He felt it deep inside of his core.
At home he took a gun to his head.
That's where his parents found him dead.
There was a girl that was 22yrs of age.
Always in life she was engaged.
Her huge hugs that held me tight.
It seemed her life was full of light.
But then one day just changed it all.
I guess she felt she couldn't fall.
A needle in her arm led her to an overdose.
Lost yet another one that was so close.
A hard working man 37 and strong.
Always made people fell like they belong.
Family was his always his number one.
He got clean and figured he was done.
But the addiction took over one night.
Unfortunately he couldn't keep the fight.
The needle took him to a new place.
Now our earth cant ever see his face.
Beautiful and young another one.
Always happy and free and we had fun.
We would joke and laugh through the night.
Life had its struggles and that was in sight.
She couldn't continue on no more.
Her insides became way to sore.
She took her own life in a blink of an eye.
Didnt tell anyone she wanted to die.
26 a mother, still young and free.
Always was a happy smile she could see.
She had no fears in the world.
Everything in life must have twirled.
She gave in to her addictions.
She believed in every last conviction.
Her life was taken by an overdose.
There's no set lethal dose.
They dont all end bad, some turn out right.
Some are accidental, others are what's in sight.
But education and understanding is key.
If lowering the count is what we want to see.
In one square mile, northeast of Noojee,
there are seven birds that I often get to see
as I walk on the tracks in pristine forestry,
in one square mile, northeast of Noojee.
A Whipbird crack through ti-tree scrub,
a Lyrebird echo from Cascade Creek,
Red Browed Finch on the sword grass heads,
I’m watching close a Ground Thrush sneak.
Black Cockies feed on Blackwood wattle,
in heath Blue Wrens are a family,
Yellow Robins perch on a paperbark trunk
in one square mile, northeast of Noojee.
In one square mile, northeast of Noojee,
are seven mammals sometimes I get to see,
as I walk on the tracks in pristine forestry,
in one square mile, northeast of Noojee.
Echidnas forage in wood or litter
Wallabies graze on grass and weeds,
a burrowing wombat sleeps all day;
high in a manna gum, a Koala feeds.
Sugar Gliders doze in a hollow log,
like Ring-tail Possums in a high ti-tree.
A Bandicoot scarps through the undergrowth
in one square mile, northeast of Noojee.
In one square mile, northeast of Noojee,
in Cascade Creek sometimes I get to see,
as I look at the water in pristine forestry,
in one square mile, northeast of Noojee.
Flowing over sand, fishbone fern as cover,
lurk Blackfish and the Gippsland Cray.
Brown trout forage in the hiding place
where Mountain Galaxias are their prey.
In Cascade Creek; well the Platypus play,
in long deep holes, but are rare to see.
There’s Short Finned Eel, Yabbies and Shrimp,
in one square mile, northeast of Noojee.
In one square mile, northeast of Noojee,
are a few reptiles I sometimes get to see,
if I look down at my feet in pristine forestry,
in one square mile, northeast of Noojee.
There are Blue Tongue Lizards and Three Lined Skinks;
Goanna’s up a tree and the Tiger Snake.
There’s Copperheads or Red-bellied Black,
and treading on snakes is a big mistake.
In one square mile, northeast of Noojee,
Growling Grass Frogs watch from water grass,
And the ‘pobblebonk’ croak is an Eastern Banjo,
in a swampy pool as I walk on past.
Skippers float over the canopy blooms;
Mosquito, March Fly, Bush Fly blight;
Jezebel Caterpillars feed on mistletoe;
Stag Beetles hover in the fading light.
In one square mile, northeast of Noojee,
on walking tracks there is much to see,
where I’m just a link that don’t belong,
in one square mile, northeast of Noojee.
Theme for collaboration suggested by Tim Smith
Two enormous old toads crossed the road
On Tom’s back lounged Thomasina toad
Both are ugly and warty
Thomasina’s so naughty
As her bowels on his back she’d download
06-16-17
WRITTEN BY JAN ALLISON
When Thomasina toad dumped on old Tom
He thought her poop explosion was a bomb
He hopped in the air
gave her a mean stare
shouting, "I'm not taking you home to Mom!"
WRITTEN BY LIN LANE
Ribbit rubbit robbit 'n ro
this crazy toad has got to go
She's turning quite mean -
Fifty shades of green
No time to chat but still does crow
WRITTEN BY TIM SMITH
"Why don't we do it in the road?"
Said Thomas, the old horny toad
Thomasina hissed,
"Get a load of this!"
and a "blessing" on him bestowed
WRITTEN BY LIM'RIK FLATS
Thomasina was on a road trip
Her taxi was Tom's back she'd grip
But she strained as she held
And her bottom expelled
So she said "I've just left you a tip"
WRITTEN BY RAY GRIDLEY
Tom and Thomasina were the perfect pair
They were ancient toads without a care
He had a huge wart
She gives a mean fart
Anyone in her vicinity better beware!
WRITTEN BY ALEXIS Y
Now Tom was an over achiever
He wanted the lady, not leave her
He sprayed his back with Scotch-Guard
and rubbed down with lots of lard
the dumper was now the receiver
WRITTEN BY DALE GREGORY COZART
Tom gave Thomasina the boot
Got sick from the smell of her poot
told her to get lost
right after he tossed
She gave him the one finger salute
WRITTEN BY DANIEL TURNER
Thomas and Thomasina loved to hear
the waterboatmen rubbing their gear
Thomas tried and started to croak
causing Thomasina to choke
you two will never get it right I fear
WRITTEN BY SEREN ROBERTS
When T'sina hopped on for a ride
Old Thomas reminded his bride,
"Though you're my sweet dish,
on the road we'll get squished",
"Just do it!" was her terse reply.
WRITTEN BY CRAIG CORNISH
Thomasina and Tom a heavy load
Lingered a little too long on the road
He could have kissed her all night
shocked at the oncoming lights
Croak and ribbit was heard; two flattened toads
WRITTEN BY EVE ROPER
PLEASE SOUP MAIL ME ANY SUBMISSIONS FOR THE COLLABORATION
06-16-17
One December Night
(Continuation to the End)
All that year Santa had hoped and had tried to find a child's love that would strongly abide.
But month after month he was given the boot. It didn't matter whether he showed magic or
gave them some loot. Many children were selfish. Not one gave a hoot.
Until one cold blizzard night, in a stormy plight, the frog rang the doorbell and walked
right on in. In the warmth of the house, after ousting the mouse, four children accepted the
frog for his good. It was a happy sight for the frog there that night. Yes, they showed him
great kindness and genuine love, the
spirit of Christmas shown down from above. The purest of love without expectations turned
the frog into Santa who promptly gave each one hugs. “I'll be back with my sleigh to leave
gifts on Christmas night. Thank you dear children for your gifts of love tonight. Leave me
some cookies. I shall eat no more bugs! He laughed as he juggled three gifts in the air.
Then, soon disappeared out of sight by the moonlight.
The children, still laughing and squealing with joy, had broken a spell put on Santa
last spring. And the mean old witch that had made him a frog, sat sadly outside all alone on
the log. She had made him a frog with a croak, out of tune. She wanted his voice instead of
her own. Christmas carols she had heard bring so much joy. She could not carry a tune for
one single song. She had hoped she could sing if she stole Santa's voice. But the love from
the children left her no choice. The spell had been broken by love's sweetest choice.
But while they were happily playing about, they noticed the wand from the brown bag lay
out. So they went to the witch and gave her a voice. And taught her that goodness over bad
is a choice. So together they played with the now happy witch. Who gave up her evil and to
goodness did switch. The gift of pure love and light in the world is a gift to all who give
heaven a whirl. For even the wickedest of wicked have some goodness in them. So,
encourage the right and to evil say, “Take a flight!” (And let God be the judge…)
© Dane Ann Smith-Johnsen
December 5, 2009
Inspired by:
Poetrysoup member's Contest Anything Goes!
Sponsored by: Constance La France (I took you at your word... It's a LONG story.)
Exracted from Gerald Nforche's Epic, The Slave's Tale
-Across the Atlantic, 1793-
We cry out cursing to our very gods
Whilst mokala and plotters lead us in lots.
And slaves we have become, slaves we are groomed
And setting in the milken sky, is the moon.
This is the hell that befalls one’s prism
If he doesn’t open himself to pragmatism.
The ways of mokala are not our ways
And their days are never like our days.
Hope you fall in line with my tune’s knell
As it would guide souls to wisely dwell:
Now permit me continue with my sad tale
Before we are rapidly placed on sale.
For here I stand under an alien sun
Faraway from my own sweet land’s rung
Battered, chained to the queue’s label
As humans are placed on the auction table.
Here I proceed with my tale feeding you
With my pain, pains of brothers on cue
As they are sold off like fresh tobacco
Whips meeting flesh if anyone plays the hero.
***
Rocks! ebesse rocking, shaking like old
The chains cutting into arms, legs to mold
Croaks and groans climaxing to a sadistic rhythm
Beating us to yield forth into realism.
Light strained in through rat nibbled openings
Else we would have left the hold like blind goblins
Vicious to the point of abandonment
Scuffling for blood, mokala’s disbursement.
Aided by the scurrying light, my head worked
East, west, south and north, on shoulders, rocked-
Acquainting itself with the crampy hold
Taking in every detail for any bolt.
In long prodigious rows we humans lay
Meditating, some wide-eyed not to say
Tear tracks dry on their black paling cheeks.
They now submissive despite the reeks.
A cough here, a huff there. A groan here
A croak there. A curse far afield, a stifle near.
A prayer whimpered here, a shiver rippling
There. A horrid sight it was, a grappling.
That pungent stench, from decaying beings:
Men awake whilst parts decayed in rings.
I was nauseated, my eyes reeling, pained
My stomach flaring to throw up content.
And there they ran, hiking on heaving bodies
Playing hide-and seek- on chained enemies.
Tossing about, screeching on their suppers-
Causing a kick here, shrieks there, left-overs.
And my groans joined the choir, a dirge
Loud to fissure walls, and seditious to merge
Vocal forces to kill, kill! Kill! No shy-
And we’d die sober, die! Die! Die!
Pulled one perfect day from the heart of summer,
Went with my wife, the kids, a friend
Down to cruise the monuments
To study those menhirs we set for marking passage
Into collective memory.
We ascended the virile spire
Erected in honor of our ponytailed First Elect,
The children pleased to gaze out on a toy city below us.
We descended and walked down the long flat mirror of water
To where Lincoln, strong and sad in bronze
Sits forever troubled by his sundered nation
In his cool, dark, echoing vault.
Then lunch, and a visit to the commemoration of our most recent sorrow;
We cross over and walk the Wall.
Row on row,
Stark white upon shining black
The rollcall of the dead processes by.
It's crowded today, but no one speaks
The silence here is a crashing thing that falls all around us
As we walk and search
Some for names, some for answers,
Some for both, or neither
Ourselves for I know not what.
And in the black
Flowing past the names, and names, and names
This perfect day hangs captured in its light:
Cotton clouds on blinding blue
Grass greener than new money
The faces of children, dogs
And a parade of young couples -
It all hangs there, flowing over the terrible list,
Reminding all how they should be here too,
Those not-so-long-ago lost.
But then, in a sense, they are here
And that's why the silence crashes so.
58,000 empty chairs are here.
58,000 phantoms,
The Bad Conscience of a good nation.
58,000 Not-To-Bes are here:
Not-To-Be husbands, fathers, family, friends
Not-To-Be Victories and Not-To-Be Dreams
58,000 horrors of Loss.
In the midst of these shuddering reveries
My blissfully distracted 7 year-old son
Plucks a small, perfect feather off the lawn,
As black and glossy as the wall itself,
And carries it idly along.
Once out, we stop to talk with one of the Fallen's many advocates,
A great Viking of a man who notices the feather
Who says right away,
"Ah, a raven's feather. Odin's birds, who bring him Wisdom and Rememberance."
I saved the feather, knowing what I do of ravens:
Those sombre, croaking birds,
First on the field after battle
I stroked its silky black and wished
Odin's birds would visit the common folk more often
And croak to us of Remembrance, and Wisdom.
Echo from the lace-veiled night, whisper of a secret spring,
Gets lost in the recesses of my thought, hidden and undefeated.
There, where the dream embraces the dark eternity,
A soul wanders between dream and oblivion, seeking the pearls of shadows.
Is there, in the vastness of the cosmos, a tear so large,
To extinguish the burning flame of longing, to calm the restless dream?
In mysterious depths, dusted by eternal thoughts,
Heavy leaden eyelids rise towards the stars, praying in the profound night.
In the heart of autumn, dressed in rusty leaves,
The bell of suffering resounds under the silver moon,
The stars croak in chorus, gathering in a mystical song.
The trembling light of a candle, the immortal soul's flame,
Burns in the sanctuary of the chest, hidden beneath the veil of secrets.
On astral paths, unknown to the world, the stellar evening descends,
The wind brings questioning voices, echoes rushing through the cosmos.
Streams of tears flood the earth, with their deep bitterness,
Not even the seas can contain in their depths so much pain in flight.
Autumn falls over all that is alive, with storytelling steps,
And knocks on the windows with fingers of wind, unhurried, yet unyielding.
On a bench forgotten by the world, caressed by wind and time,
Sits a street bard, with a guitar to his chest, enchanting the empty time.
He plucks strings that carry spells and sweet sighs,
Weaving an ethereal canvas between joy and divine longings.
This urban wizard, hidden in the world's sidewalks,
Captures in silent songs, the echo of a heart fallen into somber tones.
How can I speak of pains and memories, when he paints shadows with sounds?
His song, a spell that weaves and unravels, soothing the heart's wounds and burns.
Time, that eternal alchemist, seeking unseen paths,
Looking deeply, my eyes wish to shine, to dance in the circles of the sky.
He shares the mystery of his thought, turning questions born of tears,
Into celestial sparks, transforming the burden into solace and knowledge.
His magic resonates, transforming into the whispers of the night,
In singing strings, each heartbeat sways and becomes clear.
Tell me, street wizard, with your sublime voice,
How many golden songs must we sculpt from our breath of wind,
Before the moon rises gloriously in the enchanted garden of the night?
This is the Third in a series that I wrote for my son a few years back. I wrote the first and he asked for more. I think they got a little better with each one, but am also a little biased. Hope you enjoy.....
Remember young Walter and his bungled escape
That wound up with him in a terrible state?
Bruised, but still able to think quite clearly.
Dreaming of another chance, No Really!
Bullfrogs do dream, but usually at night;
And mostly of mealworms, beetles and flies.
But, Walter was different and lived for the day
When opportunity for freedom would come his way.
He thought that his luck was turning for good
When Joey appeared with a boat made of wood.
Carried to bath in the hands of the boy,
Where the sight before him brought him great joy
He wriggled his way to get better peep
At the porcelain pond about ten inches deep.
The vessel was placed in the water first,
Then Walter on top, he thought he would burst!
He dove straight in drink and started to swim.
And felt the cold water envelop him.
He swam it’s full length and then back in turn.
He was gathered back up and eagerly squirmed.
For the water was clear and felt just too good,
To bother being still on that boat like he should.
Joey was called to another room by his Mum.
Now it was time for Walter to have some fun.
So back in the water he quickly returned,
To swim on his own and not be disturbed.
He made several laps before tiredness hit;
He was getting a bit knackered and wanted to sit.
But realized now that there was no way out!
The sides were too steep and he couldn’t shout!
For the words of a bullfrog if to you and me spoke
Would all sound the same… nothing but Croak.
Walter started to panic and swam a bit faster,
But this would lead only to further disaster
He tried to clamber back onto the boat,
But now full of water it would no longer float
Walter’s kicking and thrashing had filled it to brink,
And with all of his splashing it started to sink.
And with it the hopes of one Walter the Frog
Who wished he was safe back under his log.
But then to his rescue came Joey again,
To pull from this peril his little best friend.
Now safely at home in the warmth of his bed
Recalling his day and its fortunate end.
Walter fell asleep and started to dream,
Of things that make little girls scream….
A dreaming man in the state of REM
sees the dream as a reality
rivers of thoughts like sparkling gems
reveling in his new found sanity.
hours ago, a dozen empty bottles
deafening music and cheesy sizzles
gagging from second hand smoke
rhetorical nagging, senseless jokes
laser lights blinding, dancing to tune
a guy signing, sounding like a croak
who was better off in the heat of the dunes
Staggering dizzily up steep stairs
without acrobatic skills of balance and grace
like in a masquerade with ladies all fair
behind his mask, the unseen face
drooling and smelling of alcohol
like in a trance at this dream ball
as dim lights lead to his abode
soft music playing in shuffle mode
eager for that soft fluffy pillow
to unburden all of the days load
into this dreamy soft silo
Rumbling snores fill the bunk
like thunder after the blinding bolt
deep into the sea of linen he is sunk
impervious even from a jarring jolt
closed eyes start to move and spin
like in a search that is to begin
falling , falling into deeper slumber
into a world far, far beyond yonder
played out by his own memories
a scene of a goose and a gander
replaying happy childhood stories
Splattering water drops in constant dripping
from a leaky rusty faucet
old china strewn in the sink, smelling
like a stale stiff baguette
while a cockroach enjoys the rich dinner
laid out in a gold rimmed platter
unmindful of the thundering snores
that sends minute tremors down the floor
munching, licking, chewing, gnawing…
eating his fill till he can eat no more
while others continue their wild feasting
As light beams transform dark to day
cutting through mists, reflecting in dew
heralded by songs of love birds at play
as the sweet smell of neighbors hot brew
sings along from a whistling pot
a morning harmony he never forgot
as he struggles up from bed
ringing in his ears, knocking in his head
dizzily dragging himself to the mirror
staring at eyes of blood shot red
as he strains to reach his trusted razor.
His hangover lasted for 3 hours to the dot
couldn’t get to work, so sheepishly he just sat
his job hanging from a thin thread
and a nagging that he hears in his head
round and round he swirls the stirrer
of the hot coffee and a piece of bread
he gingerly asked from his good old neighbor.
Yesterday I had a beer
In a place that was near
Soft light and music filled
The sight of you left me thrilled
Your name I did not know
But oh I loved your body so
Thick but lean, muscled and tanned
What a fine specimen of a man
I sat and sipped and watched all night
At lips that promised sheer delight
Of arms that could capture me
Unbridled passion now set free
Your eyes blue grey with such depth
Languid lust that silently crept
Arousal concealed under shadow of lash
Upon Love's shore I yearned to crash
Someone said your name aloud
I heard it float through the crowd
Andrew they said your name to be
Randy Andy I hoped to me
Randy Andy with hair so fair
Magnetism that caused all to stare
A body made for hands to explore
Leaving me yearning and needing more
I decided to try and attract you
So up beside you to give you a view
For such was the ache inside off me
Begging loudly for you to set it free
You turned your head and found my eyes
As if you suddenly heard my cries
Reaching out you touched my hand
Lust's fire burned and did so expand
I was so focused on your sexy lips
As you gently moved your fingertips
Lost I was in your touch
I wanted you so very much
So imagine my shock when you spoke
In that high pitched little girl croak
I shook my head, I didn't believe
Your voice did so absolutely deceive
My beautiful sexy dream of a man
Had a voice as scratchy as a old tin can
Lust took off and went straight to bed
Reality quickly raced through my head
If that wasn't bad enough you see
Your breath stunk and your IQ was three
Within a minute I knew you were a Neanderthal
Clearly visible even through all the alcohol
It shook me from my dreamy reverie
What had I been thinking anyway
To fall for someone from afar
Is like wishing on a blessed star
For wishes rarely turn out to be
What you thought you wanted to see
So now I know the right thing to do
Look past the looks to the inside and true
Ah Randy Andy I thought you were the one
In you I saw the rising sun
But once it shone, I found the glare
Way to harsh to sit and stare
So now my search begins anew
To find love within my view
But I will always look deeper within
For someone to spend my years in sin