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Limerick
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On edge of the marsh trills a Spring Peeper.
His pal is a fiddler, whose strum’s deeper.
Together their tune’s not bad,
yet driving the neighbor’s mad.
Their hands over ears - still not one sleeper.
The fiddler and frog with their tunes mingling,
with sun in tired eyes and marsh ears tingling,
Both perfectly contented
though neighbors, they’ve tormented.
The fiddler and frog with their trills mingling.
2/3/2023
The Fiddler and the Frog
Sponsor: Craig Cornish
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Free verse
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Mosquito populations explode in murky bogs
Their larvae swim with tadpoles in this incubation
This ugly undertaking commanded by their nature
Constant as the day is long and just as distant
Marsh water echos soon produces frogs
As katydids reverberate through forest wilderness
A noise most unpleasant from their leaf like wings
Driven to find a mate
Frogs dominate the world in summer
Devouring every living thing in sight
When they are done
They know how to cannibalize their young
Each tadpole and every frog becomes a meal
Mosquitoes beware
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Light Verse
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There once was a frog that sat on a log,
And the home he chose was in a marsh bog.
He sat on the log with a great big smile,
And watched flies buzz in the sun awhile.
The clothes he wore were a bright green,
The colour was like a green string bean.
There on his back were occasional spots,
That decorated his coat with gay polka dots.
Now frog can’t sit still without eating,
For flies flying by were so fleeting;
But frog had a tongue that was very quick,
He used it with abandon, just like a joy stick.
Sitting in the sun he watched the flies,
And snatched them up to their surprise.
There were many who came but many were gone,
And those that came didn’t stay very long.
The eating was great but he gained weight,
Which to his alarm, caused him to inflate.
For his clothes no longer seemed to fit,
Which gave him a feeling of being unfit.
So he decided to lose weight, to go on a diet,
To croak sad songs and not to be quiet;
For forcing himself not to eat it seems,
Take joy out of green froggie dreams.
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Rhyme
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In a damp, bluesy club in the middle of the reeds
Two amphibious musicians gathered in the weeds
Stringed instruments of driftwood and canary grass
Played with webbed fingers and a dash of southern sass
Two of them will face off to see who would headline
Swamp juice and flies aplenty and the music is divine
Marsh creatures waiting, having a drink on mossy log
While they watched the marsh house band, Bulrush Bog
Tadpoles grooving in the water, afraid of the limelight
Since they are literally spineless, some likely stage fright
Beavers gnawing on wood, carving out a double bass
Muskrats drumming cattails at Animal’s Muppet pace
The music now quiets with the sun as the light goes dim
Fireflies set the mood, drinks filled, lake foam to the brim
Two finalists take stage, Marsh music battle is to start
Yet… they sounded the same, you couldn’t tell them apart
So how do you decide which musical act will take the win
When it’s a toad with a fiddle versus a frog with a violin?
January 23, 2023
The Fiddler and the Frog Contest
Sponsor: Craig Cornish
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Narrative
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In the wee hours of the morning
When the owls and imps were upon the marsh
We would take our old pirogue and paddle into the darkness
Our intent was to catch bullfrogs but anything was game
We were two young boys armed with BB guns and fishing poles
Headlights strapped hard and tight around our skulls
We searched the shore and stumps for eyes glowing in the night
Cypress trees towered overhead and occasionally the canopy would break
And we would see the clouds drifting quickly past and catch a glimpse of the moon
The paddles would never break the waters surface, as silence was our friend
Once we spotted our prey we would move in slowly and my brother would creep
Slowly to the bow. He would bend over the bow reaching out many feet in front of the boat and grab the frog behind the front legs and quickly stash it away into a burlap sack
Every catch brought us great pleasure, as this was no easy feat. We could have shot them with the BB guns but that was illegal and not nearly as fun. On occasion we would have to steal them from a water moccasin that was ready to strike. Those moments were like lighting and only steeled our intentions to catch more.
Once we had caught a dozen or so we would begin to look for other prey to catch or harass (we were teenagers and couldn’t help ourselves). The occasional raccoon caught out in the open was always fun to chase but never pleasurable to have in the pirogue with us. We learned that lesson the hard way one night when I pushed the boat into the fork of a cypress tree with an old mother coon eating a turtle. My brother and I fought like hardened sailors to keep her at bay but both ended up in the water and nearly sank the pirogue.
Other occasions found us pulling loggerhead turtles from the depths and trying to dispatch them before they bit off a finger.
We both have all our appendages to this day, but I swear Lord we tried, we really tried to lose them.
I never saw a frog leg jump from the pan, but the old man did make us slice them at the knees just to be sure we didn’t loose a piece of that meat that tasted better than any chicken I ever ate.
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I do not know?
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Four, six, or seventeen tulip buds grinning. Of course not on a salt marsh. Leave that alone. Misted aromas of ancestral graves should be cared for not dug but if a slug us in power then a lemon woman could do much damage to lochs, lands, fields and mountain so do not discuss paperwork with a tiny dog whose obligations are merely to dress in a fur coat. Is the sheer fornication of the environment that is of great concern at this time. Gaping holes can never be earth wombs so digging will produce an end to life. When chatting in a queue always question the mind set of the jaded eyes. Grasping concepts is often a difficulty when all intelligence is received from square entertainment sets. A lone lizard sits on an empty beach waiting for the strobes. The lights to take up and away. Patterns of time. Printed not. Yet in sound waves enjoyed freedom and thus gave birth to new inspiration through interdimensional beams. Often it is said that dancing a waltz with a frog is the best idea as sudden movements of tango could cause unintentional hopping movements. Such a slur. Sour are the sauces whose injection to meats cause secretions. And many a leopard printed ham fails to deliver wine to the exact specifications and timing. Yet a portly shrew arriving in a southern breeze can stop by multitudes of shopping centres in an urgent attempt to purchase grand golden negligées' for their mice partners who are asleep in fairytale yachts complete with pinnacles. Akin to a childhood book. Likened to a cartoon castle of great magic. But when a corvette changes it's clothes it is time fir the sputter sputter sounding cards of the fat dark purple bus. Who would want to eat toast in an elevated slime kitchen with Mr and Mrs cockroach and a laughing 900 foot long light beam of a snake. Portray not a plant as a plate. An apple as a card. And remain aloof to chard writing as this will amuse cats who thrive on milky truths. It is not a justified weapon if planted in a school. Scenes are unjustified and should be abolished. For fried is the skin like an egg in a pan. Turning tuning taking teachings. Yelping yachtsman. Gardeners. Xx booming balance braked xx snail diving henchmen xx saturation xx
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Prose Poetry
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Some folks believe it. Others do not. The legend told in the Bayou Cannot. The only witness who can swear that it's true, are the creatures who live in the bayou. The owl told the gator, the gator told the frog, about the horror filled night that changed their home in the bog. Far off on the mainland, miles from the marsh, in a large city, where living is harsh. A man's world invention sprang into life. A breath of fresh air to man's world of strife. A new deisel engine, queen of the line, would make it run for the very first time. The sunset limited it was aptly named. Gleamed in the station waiting its moment of fame. Boarded by folks going south, some headed out west, none mindful of anything, but each's own quest. New York to L.A. via the southern run. So it was, the trip had begun. Back in the bog, things were happening too. A barge made its way north with its captain and crew. The day had been hot. The night had turned cool. The fog roiled in, with its blanket of dew. The captain steered his tug, painfully slow, caution was key to safely deliver the tow. All of a sudden there was a scrape and a jolt the barge floated free, not held by a bolt. Panic seized the crew! "We've lost the tow!" "MAYDAY!" screamed the captain over the radio. Amid the chaos and moans of disdain, another great jar, "We've got it again!". Back on land not far down the track the Limited sped with a clickety-clack. Approaching the tressel no one noticed the shake. Who could blame the poor folks; the hour was late. Midway over the bayou came the tressels demise. A great shiver another great quake, tons of speeding steel, folks met their sad fate. Days went by weary and sad. Rescuers agreed none worked a wreck this bad. Twisted and bent the engine was pulled from the muck and the slime. "102" came the final count, the coroner spoke and noted the time. A weary voice shouted "Wait!" "Sir, I disagree!" Tired eyes turned, what did they see? A weary man held in his arms a child about three. Today believers say "an angel wanders." "A tiny spirit" Others agree. On foggy nights when no moon can be. A tiny light flickers so you will see. "It's a firefly!" Say the skeptics of haunt. The creatures disagree and murmur their taunt. They know the spirit of the child now lives in their swamp.
Written by my grandmother Sandra Burch
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