Long Croaking Poems
Long Croaking Poems. Below are the most popular long Croaking by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Croaking poems by poem length and keyword.
Green is my favorite color,
The color of a beautiful nature,
Looking at the lovely green fields ,
My soul really wants your shields .
Trees all around me,
Everywhere I see,
Celebrating a great day,
For us to be happy.
The coolness I feel,
My eye shed a tear,
Hearing the sound of crickets,
Hiding under the rice fields.
Green grasses proudly showing,
Green frogs merrily croaking,
To the world of wonderful creation,
Thanks God for this green revolution.
Mother earth is smiling,
Because of our nice living,
People plant trees and help to clean,
It's now all looks refreshing...so green…
February 23, 2013
For Sandy's Contest "Go Green"
Honorable Mention
5/9/22
Let me change my toning
Skills mastered and others still honing
I am not droning
People to this day passed away from a stoning
Continually condoning
With no cease to cloning
It's become often and corroding
Occasionally exploding
All the while a struggle to break through the coding
Something worth noting
It's harmful not beneficial, yet constant doting
Still too much gloating
Evil agendas many have been secretly promoting
Originally got to the spot by boating
Then thrown overboard now saturated and soaking
The body would be floating
Due to bloating
But it was weighed down from others hoping
It'd never see the light of day, or an investigation probing
More or less
Cause and effect
Correct, I'm still pot smoking
Go ahead and ask me how my battle with alcohol is going
I start dozing
From overdosing
Little if any good that did like loafing
And postponing
As well as screens always loading
It's a joke, no I'm not joking
Still adding fuel to the fire with prodding and poking
Eventually leading to a struggle involved with choking
For one party the outcome was croaking
A process of life and death, living or decomposing
All this goading
And foreboding
Opportunity remains yet the door is closing
Either after it or just ogling
It's pathetic or engrossing
Having to do with an article of clothing
Or a sharp point dipped in a toxic coating
Meanwhile maniacal egos they're stroking
No I'm not joking
Like all the boasting
Is there such a thing as safety when danger is always approaching?
Treated like garbage it's gross to me
In the end it always benefits them mostly
Just the truth, not looking at it morosely
Homie
Pay attention closely
Instead of overlooking it all like it's bologna
Regardless of it being clear, rainy or snowing
The wind calm or harshly blowing
You're out of the loop or knowing
Impacting how waters are flowing
Endlessly on it's growing
Radioactive and glowing
Causing harm with no chance of slowing
This is what evidence has been showing
Whether or not it is the time of gloaming
To this day still roaming
It's worldwide not just in Wyoming
Like a rabid beast at the mouth foaming
Toward their desires always combing
With missiles that are homing
Mr Pompous Frog you make enough noise all right.
Your fog horn voice is loud and hoarse, a marvelous plight.
I can hardly see you even with my night flashlight
You are so darling and daring with your throat so white.
The evening is clear, so your croaking has a bite.
You are my hero, Mr. Pompous Frog, you are a knight!
I wish your song’s tempo someone could write.
Your melody is a big deal in the early starlight.
Your history I would truly love to recite
I see it and I think that I might….
Give you a toss and a turn so big and bright.
Seeing you fly through the air would be a sight!
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."
*I've been called a 'shrew,' told I am self centered, petty, and a few other rather insulting and invective names, so here is my rebuke.
Who plays the straight man for the one known as 'Schmoe?'
It's the Jester who juggles where ever Schmoe tells him to go.
Then there's Mr. DoGoody who seeks the spotlight of fame,
reproaching PS poets by pointing his finger at them in shame.
Three fatuous figures who lie in wait for Poetry Soup blogs
Croaking like three pompous bullfrogs in criticizing dialogues
Verbal abusers, slanderer of a nation, and he who prances
hoping to give Schmoe, his bro, the stage... the lackey dances.
It's a tragic case of fools rushing in where wiser men never go
A disease suffered by the egos of DoGoody, Jester, and Schmoe
A threesome pretending they're Red Barons in control of awacs
but they're just three old wacky muggins, Poetry Soup Quacks.
Ask a question and see what nonsense they will spew at you
Swearing their intent is righteous, and their cause is true blue,
but the more they protest, the deeper the holes they are digging.
A misguided clique always zagging when they should be zigging.
So if you bother to read what they write, just consider this...
the underlying meaning to their dribble shows what's amiss.
It's a game they play...one where they often make mistakes
Nuts have to be added to the batter while making a fruitcake
Now if you're thinking I'm just as guilty for some name calling,
I'm ready to be under attack with their whining and squalling.
I've already been accused by DoGoody of talking behind his back...
So here I am, you're all unblocked if you want to talk more smack.
So Much To Thank You For Lord
Eyes to view the beauty of this glorious land...
Of mountains, trees, creatures. flowers and lakes....
Gifts generously decorate earth sent from Your Command.
Ears to hear leaves rustling as the wind passes by...
The laughter of children at play 'neath a summer sky.
A babbling brook, a croaking frog..Nature in harmony.
A soldier's footsteps walking through the gate.
Is sweeter than a symphony.
Nostrils to inhale Springtime fragrances that fill the eager air
Aroma of a roasting turkey on Christmas Day for family to gratefully share.
The touch of a child's hand clasped trustingly in your own....of wet grass beneath naked feet as they hurry home.
The taste of an early morning dew drop, a slice of Mama's homemade pie, cool drink from a mountain stream, the salty tear drop from a much needed cry.
And when You send the rains Lord... I am drawn outdoors to be drenched in the refreshing flood.
I'm reminded of the sacrifice You gave so sinners could be saved through your Love and Precious Blood.
Reflections by JMDonnellyEllis March 17 2015
In the stillness of the night when it rains
Haven’t you listened to a funny chorus?
Cra…. Cra… Cra…. it goes on rough n’ raucous,
A ‘music’ coming down to us through the air porous.
It is a frog family who forms this nocturnal band
They live happily close to a marshy land
During day they roam catching flies, their treasured prize
At night in water, popping up, they sometimes surprise
Equally comfortable on land and lake
With croaking music, the night’s stillness they break
With bulging eyes and webbed feet,
These slimy creatures are an interesting sight.
One evening as the light was waning away,
The frogs were feeling sleepy and stopped their play.
But the youngest was singing in his usual tone
Sitting on a rocky promontory, all alone.
It was then that a fiddler came that way, singing in style.
Listening to the frog’s song, he stopped with a smile.
Sonorous though the music was, he felt it had a lively rhythm
It sounded reverberant as if beating on a hollow drum.
The fiddler sat and sang the whole night on his fiddle
With the Cra- Cra music of the little frog thrust in the middle
Everyone who passed that way greatly enjoyed that lively duet
The sleepy frogs woke up and joined the chorus so sweetly set
Every night the little frog sat outside, recalling that heavenly night
When he and the fiddler drowned the surroundings in music’s delight
But never once again the mysterious fiddler came their way
To play on his fiddle, pouring music to make them gay
Jan. 30. 2023
The Fiddler and the Frog Poetry Contest
Sponsor- craig cornish
Where I Make
When the weekend comes, this is where I make,
With camping gear, canoeing on the lake,
Dipping the paddle as I contemplate.
Between the banks and shores of rocks and trees,
Breathing in fresh air, relaxing and fishing,
Just enjoying nature’s stress therapy.
The sun’s rays glare down to redden my skin,
But the water soothes the burn when I swim
In the birthday suit that I was born in.
Near to day’s end, I erect my shelter
And gather kindling to start a fire
And savour the smell of cooking odours.
With wood burning and the night descending,
I listen to loons laughing and wailing
And the male frogs croaking during mating.
Old Sol appears much larger as it dips
And even bigger at dawn when it lifts.
Inside my sleeping bag to sleep I drift,
And tomorrow will continue my trip.
Plucking the Poisonous Parrot
Antonia had been a happy go lucky flamingo until her wings cracked
Now cascades of monotonous voices extracted venomous bickering
The parrot she took on as a charity case to quell her sadness now pecked
And would not shut up until the cage engulfed both vicious black souls
In her black box of contempt and too tired to shine life plucked away
Her coat tarred and feathered hanging from a thread of Munch’s scream
She attempted to touch away the poisonous croaking until she hung
Upside down from the swing with her head drowning in char coaled paint
Which oozed into her every pore morose and devoid of harmony’s rainbow
She became so void that all chakras burned in toxic cantankerous fire
Beatings of her life parroted a cacophonous mind pierced and exploding
Until everything shattered even her deafening malignant resentment
When the clock struck midnight and there was nothing more to vanish
But her Self and the stained melancholy sheet of dysphonic dysphoria
She remembered Oscar of the novel The Tin Drum shouting so loudly
That her crystal dysmorphic mirror imploded and bars bent under the strain
With her last resolve she plucked the parrot and An-Tonia was free
Colours shone brightly once again and the voices were good
She buried the bird under an olive tree with a song of epitaph’s prayer
And kept one single feather to remind her just in case it was not yet dead
20th January 2019
Contest entered: Free style poetry contest sponsored by Emily Pinet
12 BARS
Twelve brazen bars, one frozen lock!
Confined, sublime, an ancient Roc
endures inside a barren cage,
her catacomb in sundown sage.
Of former days there is no trace
except displays of fallen grace –
Twelve dreams, abiding in her place,
are free, inhabit yawning space:
12 DREAMS
... of wings unfurled, and seething eyes
that dredge the depths of dawning skies,
divining clouds that cling below,
once ice, dissolved in morning’s glow;
... of clutching winds that carry free
above an anguished leaden sea,
dispersing dust of distant stars
midst chunks of chain in slave bazaars;
... of swooping to a silent shore
to perch beside the ocean’s roar,
at last to feel the sobbing breeze
message the leaves of rooted trees;
... of stalking strays and twilight tramps
within the fog of lighthouse lamps
that blink forlorn through caldron nights
in search of shades of errant Kites;
... of darkling vast deserted lands,
with shadowed stones on windswept sands,
where ghosts of Moorish maidens lost
disgorge faint groans in mourning frost;
... of blotting out the bloated moon
while feathers beat a banshee tune
and glimmers dance and prance aglow
upon a pearly pale plateau;
... of tasting cool torrential rains,
beyond the realm of binding reins,
and sipping freedom they exude
in quiet drops of solitude;
... of vanquishing a galley crew
aboard a ship of midnight dew,
beneath the pierce of seagulls' screams
that mock the strands of scarlet streams;
... of sating once an aching craw
with tearing beak, with ripping claw,
and echoed by an eldritch screech
while feasting on abandoned beach;
... of restive thoughts and weary wings
that drift on haze in smoky rings,
obscured within the opal shroud
of her resemblance in the crowd;
... of croaking caws in broken rhyme
in winter woe, in summer clime,
while building nests of sundown sage
beyond outside a barren cage.