"bullfrog" poems
*all my life i held a dream
of a woman i would love
of course
she would be alluring
supple
a charming countenance
erudite, with an angelic face
her body
a muscular stretching willow
arching her legs over head
kissing her own
curving soft feet
a graceful contortionist
in confetti colored sparkle pantyhose
stretching towards me
silken hair draping a perfect symmetry
with spun sugar kisses
wafting the scent of vanilla
and candied vaporous breath
lips like cherry lozenges
but
one never knows ones destiny
i met her
my girl destiny
and except for a faint look of languor and ruin
with a tinge of withering
she was without doubt unbearably titillating
with razor-thin blackened lips
mascara slits for eyes
hair pulled straight back
jet black
jelled like hardened licorice
with satanic blood rivulets
and pitch fork tattooed ****
a vice of lechery
a malefaction of moral turpitude
her *** scarred from orgiastic beatings
her **** became
like a large wrinkly mouth
resembling the face of a bullfrog
from pleasuring herself with
tableware cutlery
her soul
a broken creel
suffering bouts of anxiety
like a weeping moon
having been institutionalized
in Mother Marys Hell House
from a ghastly bout of parricide
her father,
a hobbling gloomish troll
while the dark veins of mother
ran through her soul
leaving little choice
but to dispatch
the parents
abandoning their corpses in the kitchen
like strewn litter
turned out
just my
kinda
girl
d
e
s
t
i
n
y
May 14, 2017
May 14, 2017 at 9:14 AM UTC
All year the flax-dam festered in the heart
Of the townland; green and heavy headed
Flax had rotted there, weighted down by huge sods.
Daily it sweltered in the punishing sun.
Bubbles gargled delicately, bluebottles
Wove a strong gauze of sound around the smell.
There were dragon-flies, spotted butterflies,
But best of all was the warm thick slobber
Of frogspawn that grew like clotted water
In the shade of the banks. Here, every spring
I would fill jampotfuls of the jellied
Specks to range on window-sills at home,
On shelves at school, and wait and watch until
The fattening dots burst into nimble-
Swimming tadpoles. Miss Walls would tell us how
The daddy frog was called a bullfrog
And how he croaked and how the mammy frog
Laid hundreds of little eggs and this was
Frogspawn. You could tell the weather by frogs too
For they were yellow in the sun and brown
In rain.
Then one hot day when fields were rank
With cowdung in the grass the angry frogs
Invaded the flax-dam; I ducked through hedges
To a coarse croaking that I had not heard
Before. The air was thick with a bass chorus.
Right down the dam gross-bellied frogs were cocked
On sods; their loose necks pulsed like sails. Some hopped:
The slap and plop were obscene threats. Some sat
Poised like mud grenades, their blunt heads farting.
I sickened, turned, and ran. The great slime kings
Were gathered there for vengeance and I knew
That if I dipped my hand the spawn would clutch it.
7.3k
Rainy day people and frogs
Packed New York streets, mossy bogs
Umbrella or bumbershoot
In quagmire and crowded route
Splashing masses, polliwogs
Precipitation, cascade
The alley or everglade
Plebeians and ***** toads
Wetlands, winding back roads
Holding brolly or sunshade
Mobs, croaker in the wallow
Soggy marsh, bypass below
A sprinkle, pitter-patter
Parasol, doesn't matter
Your bullfrog and average Joe
Sep 30, 2013
Sep 30, 2013 at 3:30 AM UTC
Jeremiah was a bullfrog
***Jeremiah was a bullfrog, he was good friend of mine
I never understood a single word he said
But I helped him drink his wine
He always had some mighty fine wine, sing it
Joy to the world, all the boys and girls now
Joy to the fishiest in the deep blue sea
And joy to you and me
And if I were the king of the world
I tell you what I would do
I'd throw away the cars and the bars in the world
And I'd make sweet love to you, sing it now
Joy to the world, all the boys and girls now
Joy to the fishes in the deep blue sea
Joy to you and me
Yah know I love the ladies, love to have my fun
I'm a hard knock flier and a rain bow rider
A straight shootin' son of a gun
I said a straight shootin' son of a gun
Joy to the world, all the boys and girls
Joy to all the fishes in the deep blue sea
Joy to you and me
Joy to the world, all the boys and girls
Joy to the world
Joy to you and me
Joy to the world, all the boys and girls
Joy to all the fishes in the deep blue sea
Joy to you and me
Joy to the world, all the boys and girls
Joy to the world
Joy to you and me
Joy to the world, all the boys and girls
Joy to the world
Joy to you and me***
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=QtYnCmw2CWE
Have You Ever Seen The Rain?
***Someone told me long ago
There's a calm before the storm,
I know
It's been comin for some time.
When it's over, so they say,
It'll rain a sunny day,
I know
Shinin down like water.
[Chorus]
I want to know, have you ever seen the rain
I want to know, have you ever seen the rain
Comin down on a sunny day
Yesterday, and days before,
Sun is cold and rain is hard,
I know
Been that way for all my time.
'Til forever, on it goes
Through the circle, fast and slow,
I know
It can't stop, I wonder.
Chorus
Yeah!
Chorus
Have You Ever Seen The Rain?***
https://www.youtube.com/watch?NR=1&v;=xDGuyGPJ_JE
Dec 23, 2012
Dec 23, 2012 at 11:07 PM UTC
A bullfrog serenades his mate
With a booming baritone in anticipation to conjugate
Whilst the wind hums softly
Dry leaves rustling incessantly.
Within the vicinity, bees buzz
The air abuzz
With beautiful chirpings from birds
Visiting colorful flowers and buds
For nectaries
Nature’s nitty gritty pleasantries
The wind croons in a haphazard harmony
A bearable monotony
Of sorts
All these are exclusive happenings in exotic resorts.
Oct 30, 2013
Oct 30, 2013 at 3:12 AM UTC
JIMMY WIMBLETON listened a first week in June.
Ditches along prairie roads of Northern Illinois
Filled the arch of night with young bullfrog songs.
Infinite mathematical metronomic croaks rose and spoke,
Rose and sang, rose in a choir of puzzles.
They made his head ache with riddles of music.
They rested his head with beaten cadence.
Jimmy Wimbledon listened.
2k
Cross-petals of daffodils sway to the cries
Of starlings – stark shrieks and minute iridescent
Wing-beats – while the willows whistle,
Tumultuous as feathers caught in the wind.
Like the fragrant taste of rain, you tell me
About mistakes made by people in love,
How temptations of her white heron-legs
And meadowlark voice stole your attention,
Like flies drawn into the range of a bullfrog’s tongue.
Your words meet heartbeats under tremolos
Of wild grasses with olive and mauve sprouts,
Lingering beneath brewing oyster clouds.
You adorned yesterday with honeybee stings
And barbed crescendos of climbing roses,
But tomorrow brings sweet-tongued
Hummingbirds and thrumming choruses
As your soft-spoken daylily promises
Dissolve silence into adoration.
Sep 23, 2014
Sep 23, 2014 at 11:53 AM UTC
That Elephant needs to shed some pounds
Said the Hippo to the Giraffe.
You’re right, and abnormally tall, indeed.
Did you hear that it bathes in mud?
Interjected the Bullfrog while savoring a fly,
What an absolute disgust.
I hear you,
Elephants these days lack class, incredible…
Exclaimed the Hippo as gas bubbles suddenly
Formed in the murky water behind it.
Funny thing is, despite its staggering size,
I hear it flinches at the mere sight of its shadow!
The trio burst with laughter, but was cut short
With a slight rustle of nearby grass.
EVERYONE RUNNNNNNN!
The trio fled for their lives.
A tiny field mouse emerged, amused.
Animals.
Dec 13, 2015
Dec 13, 2015 at 12:52 PM UTC
As a child, the 80 acres seemed like the whole world, with its ponds and streams and sunlit meadows.
It looked like Eden to my young eyes.
I chased the lambs and dragonflies, caught tortoises and toads.
The banks of the streams looked like cliffs to me, as I watched the suspended shadows of the bluegill in the water below.
With July's on broil, I found shade beneath a black locust tree, and tried to figure out, how I could use the thorns as fish hooks, to catch dinner for the night.
Evening set the sky on fire and the clouds were all a blaze.
Passion found me early, so much land, and nothing but time.
Then dusk turned gently into night and the summer Moon looked sad, like a giant porch light left on, for a lover that's never coming home.
As I lay in bed the cicadas buzz tucked me in, and from the pond came to bullfrog sad song, and I knew he was lonely like me.
May 10, 2023
May 10, 2023 at 11:08 AM UTC
I am two:thirty heat lightning.
Inconquerable flashes of my elemental fury
leap from grumbling cloud to dewy earth,
dancing naked under a smoky moon. I am a burning
offering to the sodium lamp sentinels looming golden
over black tar; there is tobacco sown
into my every pore. I am the underestimated
weight of fog rolling off the meadow's swollen calf
river, the heavy lowing of labor pains, the thick
croak of the year's last bullfrog. I am the first
crunch of dying light, the gray tinge of wood smoke
on chlorophyll burned red. The sting of my icy breath
creeps into sleeping eyelids, through every crack
in waterlogged armor. My frosty four o'clock
is no place for strangers. The frozen silence
does not know my strength. I will bend the world
with feet of glass. In time, the weight will break
my own limbs, expose their green, soft meat.
I am the green shoots of daffodils sharp,
triumphantly cleaving the rested dirt. There is yellow
warpaint across my forehead, a crown of blistering elegance
glazed by wings of stubborn three:thirty ice. I am resilient
and eternal—perennial—blooming to a cold, white moon.
May 12, 2016
May 12, 2016 at 12:13 PM UTC
Elegantly drifting along on a lake of silver glass
Stunning visions grace my view
Of Weeping Willows hung with purple moss
Resplendent in their royal hue
A taste of crisp morning air greets my face
From lazy clouds slowly rolling in
I can hear the softest splash from a lily pad
As a bullfrog’s day begins
Gliding by the hollow reeds, I hear whispering
Calling out, pick me and let’s play
A song of sentiment to capture every heart
Listening to our lovely cabaret
Up ahead in the distance, I can barely see
The sandy banks of my shore
Yet I never wish to leave my lake of silver glass
Why can I not just stay here forevermore?
Sep 6, 2010
Sep 6, 2010 at 7:22 PM UTC
A bullfrog dipped in molasses,
A quagmire, a slow abyss
What to do about this,
The cost of a late night kiss
Dragging on and on,
Payment for love at the break of dawn.
Money well spent,
The value of feelings sent
Feb 15, 2011
Feb 15, 2011 at 12:45 AM UTC
rain drops dribble
rivers run through green grass;
muddied bullfrog blinks
Aug 31, 2011
Aug 31, 2011 at 4:21 AM UTC
Unchained day beneath dumpling clouds in a baby boy broth
I tumble from the snake's mouth into the belly of the bullfrog
kicking across the river in fits and starts of sloshing and falling
great mirror arms reach imploring
asking the sky to see their brilliance
as steel-grey bracelets encircle one wrist and
then another
and skyward we turn
and vomited unceremoniously from the bullfrog's mouth
I slog easterly through the setting concrete of the new-fettered day
kicking across the avenues in fits and starts of staring and falling
shiny electronic arms reach imploring and
ask the stars to hear the cries
as invisible chokers encircle one's throat and
then nothing
and skyward we turn
and jostled and sweating as fresh popcorn into the gluttonous hall
I ride the current past the kiosks and shuttered kitchens of boutique cafes
kicking down the rapids in fits and starts of surfacing and falling
a majestic and world-weary arm reaches defiantly and
shakes a fist forever at one moment and
then knows
and northward we turn
and
the girl shared my Luna bar
and
the phones were passed around
and
the woman had no shoes
and
the conductor took no tickets
and
the women shared their seat
and
the man gave her cab fare
and
the woman went home with no purse, no keys, no shoes
and
the girl went back to Buffalo
and
still we turn
and
still we turn
and
our shackled arms raised against the sword reaches
necessarily and
blocks the blow as if we were one arm and
then holds
and
still we turn
Sep 7, 2011
Sep 7, 2011 at 8:08 PM UTC
It ain't the pork, it ain't the beans
It ain't the mustard on saltines
It ain't the redneck social scenes
I love about the south
It ain't the ice cold sweet southern tea
It ain't the way that we say please
It ain't the way we lemon squeeze
I love about the south
It ain't the perfect slice of pecan pie
It ain't the wink in the bullfrog's eyes
It ain't the fireflies that light the night
I love about the south
It ain't the way we say yes ma'am
When you visit Alabam
It ain't the attitude of yes we can
I love about the south
It ain't the way that we say ya'll
With the syrupy sweet southern draw
No it ain't none of that at all
I love about the south
It's the crisp clear starry nights
Through the shifting shadows of the loblolly pine
As I stand here with your hand in mine
I love about the south
Just the fact that you are here
And that I can hold you near
As I hear you call me dear
I love about the south
May 28, 2013
May 28, 2013 at 7:37 AM UTC
The elephant is my religion
I am the elephant
A swarm of magic locusts
Flittering into the sunset
A maggots breath of hope
This pact is my priority
Sworn into secrecy to a spirit within myself
Two thoughts becoming one
Like a fairy on slippers of purity
Humanity, a cycle of insanity
Can we overcome the cotton candy
Mystery of mountains in the trees?
An elvish land of history
Like heat upon the leaves
Dilate the sight to see
A cringing demon of flowers and seeds
And bullfrog dances in circles round
A night in the forest
My night on the town.
Nov 16, 2011
Nov 16, 2011 at 3:54 PM UTC
Oh, smooth, smooth unity
A stylistic rhythm penetrates the
boundaries of the world's
appraisal of orthodoxy
AVANT-GARDE
Lively arpeggios and Righteous
time lift the soul with
tones of emotion
LANQUIDITY
Transitions that manifest an
endless terrain of flowing
continuity
BLISS
An orange kite
swiftly descends
from the ominous,
yellow skies
Spontaneous strokes
of my brush dance in
a pool of glowing,
comfortable mist
The angry bullfrog
sits aimlessly in a
black lagoon, waiting
for the return of his heart
IMAGERY
You can see more than the eye
Music is your telescope
Mar 9, 2013
Mar 9, 2013 at 3:33 PM UTC
It's a quiet sacred place,
deep in the oak hammocks,
way beyond the pine flatlands
& cabbage palms.
There I commune
with the crows
and the crickets.
And at night,
a bullfrog symphony plays.
The mosquitoes,
*****
and armadillos
come out to play.
It remains sacred,
but is not nearly as quiet.
May 11, 2015
May 11, 2015 at 5:07 AM UTC
Selfish clam
gives no damns.
Angry wiener
is not a winner.
Bad ***
All ***
No ***
Good ***
Drunken folly,
me so solly.
Moaning rapture.
Fluids capture.
Right ***
Old ***
New ***
Wrong ***
Did you know that if you have one ball bigger than the other it is hard to eloquently pull of a bullfrog with your sack?
I'm coming
I'm coming
I'm coming
I'm coming
I'm coming
I'm coming
Sep 18, 2013
Sep 18, 2013 at 10:05 AM UTC
Look! Mingling with rain
a teardrop hesitates once
Ah! They didn’t see.
A bullfrog just teased
Bloating in its mockery
A bug flies in, snap!
It rolls by unseen
Not even her closest friend
noticed how it flows.
Kokak! Kokak! Jump.
Teasing and teasing kokak!
All the critters laugh.
© Glenn Sentes
03-06-13
Mar 6, 2013
Mar 6, 2013 at 7:08 AM UTC
My drunken whiskey-gin feet are trying to dig toe-knuckles into the wooden bed frame in my room. In my parents house I lay under Cranfield skies of bullfrog croaks. A heron cries.. Dad is gone, Mom asleep, sister aware but silent. This bed frame was Papas. He slept in if for over five decades in Franklin, Tennessee. So why won't my toes curl into the warm wood? They're sweating so why won't they dissolve into this oaken frame? Tomorrow I teach, give a groomsman's speech under the brazen idol of Birmingham, and miss menthol. 2 water bottles and five handfuls if goldfish, I pray and try to sleep.
Tetalasti.
Jun 14, 2013
Jun 14, 2013 at 1:49 AM UTC
Child, the swing set
squeaking in the familiar way.
Father, in the familiar way,
swings me, pushes the chains, my back, my everything,
every time I was back he would whisper or coo,
animal noises, ghost haunting wafts,
the dog barking, the boos.
Swinging so strong the set jumps up from its
Georgia clay grounding,
that fear,
I will topple, or head diagonal in the stopping,
that fear.
When we moved,
the trampoline stayed.
The next house had one.
A new swing set, in front of a pond.
A croaking bullfrog-domination,
fake ducks gurgling under fake fountain.
The fear, falling in the water.
Dog once, now dead,
scampering across the thin layer
ice, the pond in winter,
me screaming me bawling, debating the worth of jumping and saving.
She crossed, me on my knees, both
alive
a prayer.
Saved.
Jul 20, 2013
Jul 20, 2013 at 3:32 PM UTC
i.
at Beggar’s Pond with cousin I seen this bullfrog leap open mouthed from a mud bubble at a low bird and it took the bird to depths. we wowed our way through reenactments but there was no betraying. frog thrash nor bird thrash came to relieve the sight which had passed
had become
our post.
ii.
men on break from the hauling of your stretchered father men parked yonder.
my long stick tied to yours and may our greatest concentration be with us may it scoot
god
over.
iii.
this ladder once leaned on the Tower of Babel. black cat, these are the jokes.
as crow
& thunder
battle.
iv.
then again, a pair of babysitting sisters thought he was
plenty fine like a little
********
tornado.
v.
I look it up about bullfrogs.
Oct 16, 2013
Oct 16, 2013 at 10:16 AM UTC
I've been hiking in the hills for two straight days
It's beautiful out, there is no haze
A ten minute drive from my place
And I'm in a different world, like outer space
By outer space I mean outside
And it takes me for a nice ride
There's nothing to me as beautiful as nature
It relaxes me, maybe someday I'll hike a glacier
I've passed by a marsh and heard a bullfrog's song
I've seen a coyote whose tail wasn't long
I've seen wild turkeys in the mist
And back at work, it's this I'll miss
The bluebirds flitting here and there
Red wing blackbirds on a fence without a care
And always the red tailed hawks circling above
It's their wildness that I love
I remember when I lived in New York City
"We Got Park" was the slogan, and Central Park is pretty
But it's tamed and broken, not at all wild
And I wasn't happy, I liked it, but the feeling was mild
Once I rented a horse and rode through the park
And then when we hit a certain mark
I walked the horse right across a baseball field
You're not supposed to do that, I think the horse thought it was weird
Another time I went riding in the rain
I galloped the horse, can't remember his name
We galloped along Madison Avenue
Taxis going the other direction, we had attitude
And then my hand slipped through the wet reins
And I nearly fell off, and there was a little panic, but hey
I grabbed the horse right by the bit
And then, we finally stopped, but I dropped my whip
And some passers by picked it up and offered it to me
But I said no--really that's the last thing I'd need
And now I'm back on the West Coast side
California, it fits my stride
The wild things are much closer here
And these are the things I hold dear
May 27, 2012
May 27, 2012 at 11:37 PM UTC
I wish to know the universe in all its various weird manifestations. I want to hibernate inside a lenticular cloud for one year straight; I want to be suspended among cryophiles living inside ice cores buried deep deep underneath cold opal blue polar ice glaciers and snowfields; I want to be amid the thermophiles and feel the flames of the sun lick the very essence of my soul from within its hot orange nuclear molten core; I want to wander in space, float in zero g from one celestial body to the other.
But most of all, I want to be. Jus be. Like a bullfrog on a lily pad croaking into the cold thin night.
Sep 23, 2015
Sep 23, 2015 at 4:15 PM UTC