Short Bog Poems
Short Bog Poems. Below are examples of the most popular short poems about Bog by PoetrySoup poets. Search short poems about Bog by length and keyword.
marshy mossy fly
fuzzy crowding cattails
green bulldog croaking
music in the bog
evening buzzes and humming
wild things aboard
There was an old man who lived in a bog
And he owned a hog
Each time the hog farted
The old man darted
right out of the back door.
Form:
I love fluffy clouds
And those with thundering shrouds
Which can disperse crowds
By sending buckets of rain
Like God pulling his loo’s chain
Form:
There once was a cocky male frog
Who met a cute toad on a log
She thought he said “Ribbit”
In fact, he said “Rub it”
Now he’s belly-up in the bog.
Cassidy was a curious dog;
One day he walked into a bog,
Coming out, he looked about,
He couldn't see and began to pout;
Because he’s a sludge caked dog!
Step into
reason
The quicksand
of mind
The harder
you struggle
The deeper
the slime
The deeper
the slime
The harder
you fight
The sun
further distant
Consumed
— by the night
(Dreamsleep: May, 2024)
The Frog bog
When you go to the fair today.
Listen real close to hear.
A man yelling as he says,
Flip them and flop them
Slip them and slop them.
Three frogs for a dollar.
One in the lily pad you do win.
Here at the frog bog.
in a barnyard pen sits a happy hog
bullfrogs in a blizzard bog
dense and daring grayish fog
a curious machine with a metal cog
a summertime yip from a happy dog
going on a jaunty jubilant jog
black ants sliding on a wet log
chef includes New Years eve eggnog
love to rhyme hog fog bog cog and dog
When Sunday dinner is through
There’s something you must not do
Don’t flush Yorkshire Pudding
It could cause bad flooding
In toilets - wee paper or pooh!
Inspired by story on Sky News - you know me guys I just couldn't turn down the opportunity to do a limerick!
2/24/19
They sat on a bog log.
eating some hot lunch.
And when it was all gone
plugged their axes into a stump.
Frog says to fiddler.
I won't let it go, son.
Seventy-one years old
it's on a long run.
Fiddler says yeah man.
but we're not alone.
Mustard on a bug
in G, Rock N Roll.
Entered in the frog and the fiddler contest.
Sponsored By: Craig Cornish.
1/30/ 23
daddy daughter dance is in full swing
every daughter feeling her daddy is the king
the bog is lit with frisky fireflies, the air is full of zing
the frog princess’s heart does a wild ding-a-ling
her daddy is surveying, jumps down with a ring
swirls her and twirls her, his princess Whilaming
a night to remember, every single terrific thing
terrific night, daddy daughter dance in swing.
he is as much like Frank Sinatra as I have ever met
A natural crooner, said the boy named Leer Jet
I was curious of course, so followed him to the bog
Good grief, he was right about this singer, a frog!
The frog had a look that was Sinatra-like too
He reminded me of Frank, his rhythm was of that hue
He gave me a “come hither” look and I melted away.
I kind of lost my heart at that pond that day.
Event On The Bog
A dazzling bright light
In a blinding flash
Thunders through the night sky
Broke it open
On an otherwise silent Scottish marsh
Remote and dense are the waters there
But a moment… an event
Revealed a vast blue dome
Shocked to life in the yellow red blast
Then back to black again
No one the wiser
Only a faint hot hissing
Something heavy
Sounding in the mist going down
Hidden by the bog
The grueling skies are darkened now
as heavy clouds clutch barren ground
through thickened fog there lies a bog
a silent menace, foreboding grog.
Yet now, against my wiser will
I slog, to view the slimy pit
that locks the suffocating water tight
no ripples flow, no fresh respite.
A strange attraction draws me in
to meld within this cursed lip of spite
it carries me down and out of sight
to solemn end, to depth of night.
Time is a sieve through
which everything slips
what once mattered
rendered meaningless
as our lifeblood drips
onto the clay creating
a muddy bog that in
our well worn boots
we wearily slog
like tired Tommies
in the trenches waiting
with bated breath
for the shrill sound
of the officer's whistle
to pierce the fusty
fetid air and send us
surging over the top in
a futile foray where we
will meet our final fate
that in our wasted youth
we failed to contemplate