Ryan Holden Jun 5

Leaping frogs catch the breeze
And air between speckled thighs.

Floating green, shiny jewels
relaxing reflection in lake pools
light-heart-shaped pedestals
glistening peace on waxy leaves
listening to hope in croaks' pleas
the ancient sound of language in trees
Ah, the serenity of frog stools
and the cleansing of a soft breeze

12-17-16 (C)

I just wanted to birth a poem, and this is my new baby!

Thanks for reading! K:)
Denel Kessler Jun 2016

I can’t help but mourn the frogs, flattened
like Wile E. Coyote after the inevitable boulder
plummets from a great height, leaving him
mashed on the pavement while the Roadrunner
speeds off -  vroom, vroom, beep, beep.

I try to steer around them, but they blanket
the road in biblical numbers during the rain
and it’s like some impossible video game
weaving through masses of randomly hopping life
a certain amount of death is unavoidable.

When I walk the road I can’t stop
counting one, two, five, ten, twenty
cartoon-flat bodies littering the pavement
where I extinguished their glittering
copper and golden-green existence.

Last night, on the panes of every lit window
frogs of all sizes and colors gathered
outside, they covered doors, watering cans
even lined up single file on the coiled garden hose
like they were climbing the ladder to frog heaven.

Through the glass, I admired their rhythmic
throats and soft, creamy, underbellies
one, two, five, ten, twenty
fragile creatures seeking warmth
in the hastening darkness.

Brandy C Zoch Jun 2016

Run away to a foreign country, one with plush yellow green pastures. The grasses hiss soothingly as the breeze brushes them down this way and that. My home, a simple one room shelter built atop a broad and wise dark leafed tree who has welcomed me to its strong open arms. The skirt of my plain brown dress tickles the tops of my feet as I step down onto the soft soily earth.

There are no people here but I am not alone. The wind is here to lift the overflow of thoughts from my ever questioning mind and the water is here to soothe me and commiserate like an old companion purified from the complications of humanity. The dirt is my mother and my father, providing for me. Nurtures me with its succulent plants and cups its hands so that I might take a few small fish from them now and then.

A spotted sun perch hangs behind me as I perambulate meditatively. I see a few delicate vibrant blossoms on the side of my arborous home. They chime a brilliant tune that I will later compose onto a clay canvas. The afternoon is spent cleaning the small token and then toasting it over fire. I tend the patches of nearly wild vegetables and fruits. The most desirable ones plucked for my plate.

Guardian stars begin to dot the serenity of a dazzling dusk that demands my awe. I am aware of my tiny existence and its grand insignificance yet at the same moment I feel as though I was specially chosen by the cosmos to witness this perfect event. An intoxicating shiver grips me suddenly as a gust flits up my spine and through the back of my hair. Slowly it falls and the lulling chirps of a million violinists begin to play to one another. An admiring amphibian adrift the pond lilies relinquishes some commending croaks.

As the dark begins to settle in I climb to my aerial cottage to lie down. The rustling of my nest-bed reminds my neighbor owl of the time and she hoots appreciatively before flying off to begin her hunts. The splendid nocturnal symphony soon sends me to my dreams.

Mar. 2, 2010
Pauline Russell Mar 2016

I sit and listen to the crickets melancholy tune
I watch the moon start to bloom
The stars pirouette across the sky
Soon the frogs are croaking in relpy
Fireflies light up the night
Flickering their golden light

A single wolf starts to howl
As if to ask the age old question how
I ended up so lonely
And where's my one and only

My dog is sitting at me feet
She looks up at me as if to say, nothing here is off beat
In the cool of the evening
the honeysuckle is smelling much sweeter
Than in the day under the sun's heater

The moths flutter around on silent wings
My heart is so light it just sings
I just sit here for hours dreaming
Under the moon that now is just beaming

My dog gets up and moves to the door
I look at my watch it's way past four
She's ready for the foot of my comfy bed
So I oblige, and make my way inside,and lay down my weary head

Hans Dytian Feb 2016

Birds are flying!
So many birds flying!
So finessed,
Fluid, and breezy
Look at that flight!
So cool...

Frogs are hopping!
Yes they're hopping!
Such Jump!
Look at me do it!

I was really bored...
But there's nothing wrong with making people happy. :)
Sean Tierney Jan 2016

the flame of attention
burns lilies
when you mention its name
feeding on your glare
and retort

I say
stay with the frogs
the real victims
and enjoy the cold mud

wade in the swamp
of much bigger things

things like frogs

Cori MacNaughton Sep 2015

In the wee hours
as the crickets chirp
and frogs and owls converse
a forest symphony
outside my window

I am reminded why I came here
not so long ago
for the glory of the Milky Way
the Moon and all the stars

as far away from light pollution
as we could have come
for the river
for the woods
for the quiet

And on those days when I would trade
our winters for a song
I think of all the years it took
to bring me to this place

I walk the woods in gratitude
for all our many gifts
and think
the owls feel the same

I wrote this as I went to bed last night, around 3 AM, and at least three large owls were calling to one another.  One was very close, another a bit farther away, and a third I could barely hear; if there were others, they were beyond my range of hearing.  The frogs, crickets and other sounds of the woods gave the background for the sound tapestry.  

Interestingly, as I finished the poem, the owls apparently moved on, as if they had done their job.  ;-)  We have a number of different species in our woods, and I'm not certain which these were, but they were clearly larger owls.

Written 28 Sept 2015, All rights reserved.
Nightingale74 Sep 2015

Five green and speckled frogs sat on a speckled log.
They tell you one jumped,
But he didn’t—
He died.
And when he died,
The other four looked up into the clouds,
With heavy hearts.
And though they willed the drops to fall,
The clouds were empty.
What would the others say?
They thought.
So one after another, those green and speckled frogs…
One by one they left their fellow frogs
To battle with the empty skies,
Till only one was left—
All alone.
He saw the empty log,
And he suddenly felt so small
In a world that felt so big.
And then…
Then the skies opened up,
And it poured.

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