69 Frog Poems to Recall Times of Childhood

Frogs have been a subject of fascination and inspiration for poets for centuries.

Whether it’s their unique croak, bouncy hops, or transformational life cycle, something magical about these amphibians captures the imagination.

In this collection of frog poems, we will explore various types of frog poetry that will bring back childhood memories and inspire and entertain readers of all ages.

From famous poems to funny, inspirational, short, long, cute, rhyming, and kid-friendly poems, to haiku and frog prince poems, there is something for everyone in this delightful collection.

So let’s read these poems about frog.

Famous Frog Poems

Famous frog poems have been celebrated for their literary value and have become an important part of our cultural heritage. In this category, we will explore some of the most famous poems about frog that have stood the test of time.

1. Frogs

       by Sir Charles George Douglas Roberts

Here in the red heart of the sunset lying,
My rest an islet of brown weeds blown dry,
I watch the wide bright heavens, hovering nigh,
My plain and pools in lucent splendour dyeing.
My view dreams over the rosy wastes, descrying
The reed-tops fret the solitary sky;
And all the air is tremulous to the cry
Of myriad frogs on mellow pipes replying.
For the unrest of passion here is peace,
And eve’s cool drench for midday soil and taint.
To tired ears how sweetly brings release
This limpid babble from life’s unstilled complaint;
While under tired eyelids lapse and faint
The noon’s derisive visions—fade and cease.

2. The Tree Toad

       by John Brainard

I am a jolly tree toad, upon a chestnut tree;
I chirp, because I know that the night was made for me;
The young bat flies above me, the glow-worm shines below,
And the owlet sits to hear me, and half forgets his woe.
I’m lighted by the fire-fly, in circles wheeling round;
The caty-did is silent, and listens to the sound;
The jack-o’-lantern leads the way-worn traveller astray,
To hear the tree toad’s melody until the break of day.
The harvest moon hangs over me, and smiles upon the streams;
The lights dance upward from the north, and cheer me with their beams;
The dew of heaven, it comes to me as sweet as beauty’s tear;
The stars themselves shoot down to see what music we have here.
The winds around me whisper to ev’ry flower that blows,
To droop their heads, call in their sweets, and every leaf to close;
The whip-poor-will sings to his mate the mellow melody:
“O! hark, and hear the notes that flow from yonder chestnut tree.”
Ye caty-dids and whip-poor-wills, come listen to me now;
I am a jolly tree toad upon a chestnut bough;
I chirp because I know that the night was made for me —
And I close my proposition with a Q. E. D.

3. Frogs at Night

       by Madison Cawein

I heard the toads and frogs last night
When snug in bed, and all was still;
I lay and listened there until
It seemed a church where one, with might,
Was preaching high and very shrill:
“The will of God!
The will of God!”
To which a voice, below the hill,
Basso-profundo’d deep, “The will!”
“The will of God!
The will of God!”
“The will! The will!”
They croaked and chorused hoarse or shrill.
It made me sleepy; sleepier
Than any sermon ever heard:
And so I turned upon my ear
And went to-sleep and never stirred:
But in my sleep I seemed to hear:
“The word of God!
The word of God!”
Chanted and quavered, chirped and purred,
To which one deep voice croaked, “The word!”
“The word of God!
The word of God!”
“The word! The word!”
And I slept on and never stirred.

4. The Chorus of Frogs

       by Aunt Effie

“Yaup, yaup, yaup,”
Said the croaking voice of a Frog;
“A rainy day
In the month of May,
And plenty of room in the bog.”
“Yaup yaup yaup,”
Said the Frog, as it hopped away;
“The insects feed
On the floating weed,
And I’m hungry for dinner to-day
“Yaup, yaup, yaup,”
Said the Frog as it splashed about;
“Good neighbours all,
When you hear me call,
It is odd that you do not come out.”
“Yaup, yaup, yaup,”
Said the Frogs; “it is charming weather;
We’ll come and sup
When the moon is up,
And we’ll all of us croak together.”

5. The Song of The Toad

       by John Burroughs

Have you heard the blinking toad
Sing his solo by the river
When April nights are soft and warm,
And spring is all a-quiver?
If there are jewels in his head,
His wits they often muddle,—
His mate full often lays her eggs
Into a drying puddle.
The jewel’s in his throat, I ween,
And song in ample measure,
For he can make the welkin ring,
And do it at his leisure.
At ease he sits upon the pool,
And, void of fuss or trouble,
Makes vesper music fit for kings
From out an empty bubble:
A long-drawn out and tolling cry,
That drifts above the chorus
Of shriller voices from the marsh
That April nights send o’er us;
A tender monotone of song
With vernal longings blending,
That rises from the ponds and pools,
And seems at times unending;
A linkéd chain of bubbling notes,
When birds have ceased their calling,
That lulls the ear with soothing sound
Like voice of water falling.
It is the knell of Winter dead;
Good-by, his icy fetter.
Blessings on thy warty head:
No bird could do it better.

6. Five Little Speckled Frogs

       by Anonymous

Five little speckled frogs
Sat on a speckled log
Eating the most delicious bugs. Yum! Yum!
One jumped into the pool
Where it was nice and cool
Now there are Four green speckled frogs
Four little speckled frogs
Sat on a speckled log
Eating the most delicious bugs. Yum! Yum!
One jumped into the pool
Where it was nice and cool
Now there are Three green speckled frogs
Three little speckled frogs
Sat on a speckled log
Eating the most delicious bugs. Yum! Yum!
One jumped into the pool
Where it was nice and cool
Now there are Two green speckled frogs
Two little speckled frogs
Sat on a speckled log
Eating the most delicious bugs. Yum! Yum!
One jumped into the pool
Where it was nice and cool
Now there is one green speckled frog
One little speckled frog
Sat on a speckled log
Eating the most delicious bugs. Yum! Yum!
It jumped into the pool
Where it was nice and cool
Now there is no more speckled frogs

7. Again and Again and Again

       by Anne Sexton

You said the anger would come back
just as the love did.

I have a black look I do not
It is a mask I try on.
I migrate toward it and its frog
sits on my lips and defecates.
It is old.
It is also a pauper.
I have tried to keep it on a diet.
I give it no unction.
There is a good look that I wear
like a blood clot.
I have
sewn it over my left breast.
I have made a vocation of it.
Lust has taken plant in it
and I have placed you and your
child at its milk tip.
Oh the blackness is murderous
and the milk tip is brimming
and each machine is working
and I will kiss you when
I cut up one dozen new men
and you will die somewhat,
again and again.

8. I Ask You

       by Billy Collins

What scene would I want to be enveloped in
more than this one,
an ordinary night at the kitchen table,
floral wallpaper pressing in,
white cabinets full of glass,
the telephone silent,
a pen tilted back in my hand?

It gives me time to think
about all that is going on outside–
leaves gathering in corners,
lichen greening the high grey rocks,
while over the dunes the world sails on,
huge, ocean-going, history bubbling in its wake.

But beyond this table
there is nothing that I need,
not even a job that would allow me to row to work,
or a coffee-colored Aston Martin DB4
with cracked green leather seats.

No, it’s all here,
the clear ovals of a glass of water,
a small crate of oranges, a book on Stalin,
not to mention the odd snarling fish
in a frame on the wall,
and the way these three candles–
each a different height–
are singing in perfect harmony.

So forgive me
if I lower my head now and listen
to the short bass candle as he takes a solo
while my heart
thrums under my shirt–
frog at the edge of a pond–
and my thoughts fly off to a province
made of one enormous sky
and about a million empty branches.

9. Brooding Grief

       by David Herbert Lawrence

A yellow leaf from the darkness
Hops like a frog before me.
Why should I start and stand still?
I was watching the woman that bore me
Stretched in the brindled darkness
Of the sick-room, rigid with will
To die: and the quick leaf tore me
Back to this rainy swill
Of leaves and lamps and traffic mingled before me.

10. Assault

       by Edna St. Vincent Millay


I had forgotten how the frogs must sound
After a year of silence, else I think
I should not so have ventured forth alone
At dusk upon this unfrequented road.


I am waylaid by Beauty. Who will walk
Between me and the crying of the frogs?
Oh, savage Beauty, suffer me to pass,
That am a timid woman, on her way
From one house to another!

Funny Frog Poems

Interesting poems about frog can be lighthearted and humorous, capturing the playful spirit of these amphibians. In this category, we will showcase some of the funniest and most amusing frog poems that will make you laugh out loud.

1. The Fairie’s Fair

       by Zora Bernice May Cross

Who?s that dancing on the moonlight air,
Heel tapping, Toe-heel rapping?
Oberon opening the fairies? fair
To jig away sorrow on the grave of Care.
Come along, old folk, cold fork, bold folk,
Drop your shears at the midnight stroke.
Elves are crying: “Who?ll come buying
Jugs of Joy from a fairy?s cloak?”
Mab is sitting on a silver shoe,
Bright eyes laughing, Light lips quaffing
Airy bubbles from a cup of dew,
Her bracelets tinkle with delights for you.
Come along tall folk, small folk, all folk,
Race the stream where the fat frogs croak,
Buy a bobbin! There goes Robin
Tying Time to a daisy?s yoke!

2. My Frog Has Got a Steering Wheel

       by Kenn Nesbitt

My frog has got a steering wheel,
a radio, a door,
a hefty V-8 engine
and a stick shift on the floor.

My frog is a convertible
with comfy leather seats.
I drive my frog to go to work
or cruise around the streets.

But now my frog is missing.
Though parked it on the road,
I didn’t plug the meter
and it must have gotten toad.

3. The Smoking Frog

       by Robert William Service

Three men I saw beside a bar,
Regarding o’er their bottle,
A frog who smoked a rank cigar
They’d jammed within its throttle.

A Pasha frog it must have been
So big it as and bloated;
And from its lips the nicotine
In graceful festoon floated.

And while the trio jeered and joked,
As if it quite enjoyed it,
Impassively it smoked and smoked,
(It could now well avoid it).

A ring of fire its lips were nigh
Yet it seemed all unwitting;
It could not spit, like you and I,
Who’ve learned the art of spitting.

It did not wink, it did not shrink,
As there serene it squatted’
Its eyes were clear, it did not fear
The fate the Gods allotted.

It squatted there with calm sublime,
Amid their cruel guying;
Grave as a god, and all the time
It knew that it was dying.

And somehow then it seemed to me
These men expectorating,
Were infinitely less than he,
The dumb thing they were baiting.

It seemed to say, despite their jokes:
“This is my hour of glory.
It isn’t every frog that smokes:
My name will live in story.”

Before its nose the smoke arose;
The flame grew nigher, nigher;
And then I saw its bright eyes close
Beside that ring of fire.

They turned it on its warty back,
From off its bloated belly;
It legs jerked out, then dangled slack;
It quivered like a jelly.

And then the fellows went away,
Contented with their joking;
But even as in death it lay,
The frog continued smoking.

Life’s like a lighted fag, thought I;
We smoke it stale; then after
Death turns our belly to the sky:
The Gods must have their laughter.

4. An Old Silent Pond..

       by Matsuo Basho

An old silent pond…
A frog jumps into the pond,
splash! Silence again.

5. Growing Up

       by C Micheal James Dennis

Little Tommy Tadpole began to weep and wail,
For little Tommy Tadpole had lost his little tail;
And his mother didn’t know him as he wept upon a log,
For he wasn’t Tommy Tadpole, but Mr. Thomas Frog.

6. My Frog Recycles All His Trash

       by Kenn Nesbitt

My frog recycles all his trash.
He eats organic food.
He cares for the environment.
He’s quite the hipster dude.

Reduce, reuse, recycle
is the motto of my frog.
He drives a solar-powered car
to cut back on the smog.

He helps endangered species and
opposes climate change.
He knows that, since he’s just a frog,
this might seem kind of strange.

But still he does his very best
to keep our planet clean.
He thinks it’s only natural.
He’s proud of being green.

7. Impending Doom

       by Wilhelm Busch

Up high, the flies are playing,
And frolicking, and swaying.
The frog thinks: Dance! I know
You’ll end up here below.

8. Frog on Pug

       by Sallam Yassin

Waters song on a mud
Passing away summer mug
Frog on a pug

Inspirational Frog Poems

Frogs can teach us many valuable life lessons, such as perseverance, adaptability, and transformation. In this category, we will present inspirational poems about frog.

1. The Frog

       by William Henry Dawson

Have you ever wished when fretting
‘Bout the chilly air of spring,
When the days are longer getting
And the frogs begin to sing,
Have you ever wished that you could
Just change places with the frog—
Let him shoulder all your trouble
And then leave you on the log,
In the middle of the mill-pond,
Nothing in the world to do?
Have you wished you could change places,
You be frog and frog be you?
He don’t fret ’bout rainy weather;
If the sun shines he don’t cry;
He just takes it all together;
Happy wet and happy dry.

2. The Frog and The Toad

       by Cheryl Love

The frog glanced down at himself
and compared himself to the toad
But the toad was distracted, who
was desperately trying to cross the road.
“Don’t do that in a hurry toadie, old man
You will soon be as flat as a pancake!”
Bang, smash and whollop, true to the word
he had made the fatal mistake.
The frog peeled him off the road
and flung him by the wayside.
The frog thought the situation funny
and couldn’t keep a straight face if he tried.
“Charming” thought the ghost of the toad
“He will get a scare alright I’ll see to that”
The toad ghost waited for the moment
and took on the form of a rat.
The giant rat alias the toad stood in front of the frog
He wriggled his tongue out in a rude way
The frog thought the rats are strange around here
and moved aside as he had nothing to say.
The frog decided to have some lunch, a nice idea
he laid out the cloth on which to dine
The rat grabbed all the nosh and said
“I think you will find all of this is mine”.
“I don’t see how you think that it is” said the frog.
“What in Heavens name as it got to do with you”
“Well if you had stood out of the way of traffic
while I was crossing the road, I’d have had a better view.”
I would have noticed the large lorry hurtling towards me
I would have still been here to tell the tale
I’d have felt the wind, not been a ghost and my
hole would not be up for sale.

3. Upon The Frog

       by John Bunyan

The frog by nature is both damp and cold,
Her mouth is large, her belly much will hold;
She sits somewhat ascending, loves to be
Croaking in gardens, though unpleasantly.

The hypocrite is like unto this frog,
As like as is the puppy to the dog.
He is of nature cold, his mouth is wide
To prate, and at true goodness to deride.
He mounts his head as if he was above
The world, when yet ’tis that which has his love.
And though he seeks in churches for to croak,
He neither loved Jesus nor his yoke.

4. A Dialogue of Self and Soul

       by William Butler Yeats

My Soul.
I summon to the winding ancient stair;
Set all your mind upon the steep ascent,
Upon the broken, crumbling battlement,
Upon the breathless starlit air,
“Upon the star that marks the hidden pole;
Fix every wandering thought upon
That quarter where all thought is done:
Who can distinguish darkness from the soul

My Self.
The consecretes blade upon my knees
Is Sato’s ancient blade, still as it was,
Still razor-keen, still like a looking-glass
Unspotted by the centuries;
That flowering, silken, old embroidery, torn
From some court-lady’s dress and round
The wodden scabbard bound and wound
Can, tattered, still protect, faded adorn

My Soul.
Why should the imagination of a man
Long past his prime remember things that are
Emblematical of love and war?
Think of ancestral night that can,
If but imagination scorn the earth
And interllect is wandering
To this and that and t’other thing,
Deliver from the crime of death and birth.

My Self.
Montashigi, third of his family, fashioned it
Five hundred years ago, about it lie
Flowers from I know not what embroidery –
Heart’s purple – and all these I set
For emblems of the day against the tower
Emblematical of the night,
And claim as by a soldier’s right
A charter to commit the crime once more.

My Soul.
Such fullness in that quarter overflows
And falls into the basin of the mind
That man is stricken deaf and dumb and blind,
For intellect no longer knows
Is from the Ought, or knower from the Known –
That is to say, ascends to Heaven;
Only the dead can be forgiven;
But when I think of that my tongue’s a stone.


My Self.
A living man is blind and drinks his drop.

What matter if the ditches are impure?
What matter if I live it all once more?
Endure that toil of growing up;
The ignominy of boyhood; the distress
Of boyhood changing into man;
The unfinished man and his pain
Brought face to face with his own clumsiness;

The finished man among his enemies? –
How in the name of Heaven can he escape
That defiling and disfigured shape
The mirror of malicious eyes
Casts upon his eyes until at last
He thinks that shape must be his shape?
And what’s the good of an escape
If honour find him in the wintry blast?

I am content to live it all again
And yet again, if it be life to pitch
Into the frog-spawn of a blind man’s ditch,
A blind man battering blind men;
Or into that most fecund ditch of all,
The folly that man does
Or must suffer, if he woos
A proud woman not kindred of his soul.

I am content to follow to its source
Every event in action or in thought;
Measure the lot; forgive myself the lot!
When such as I cast out remorse
So great a sweetness flows into the breast
We must laugh and we must sing,
We are blest by everything,
Everything we look upon is blest.

5. Morgan’s Dog

       by Andrew Barton Paterson

Morgan the drover explained,
As he drank from his battered quart-pot,
Many a slut I have trained;
This is the best of the lot.
Crossing these stringybark hills,
Hungry and rocky and steep
This is the country that kills
Weakly and sore-footed sheep.

Those that are healthy and strong
Battle away in the lead,
Carting the others along,
Eating the whole of the feed.

That’s where this little red slut
Shows you what’s bred in the bone;
Works it all out in her nut,
Handles it all on her own.

Backwards and forwards she’ll track,
Gauging the line at a glance,
Keeping the stronger ones back,
Giving the tailers a chance.

Weary and hungry and lame,
Sticking all day to her job,
Thin as a rabbit, but game,
Working in front of the mob.

Tradesmen, I call ’em, the dogs,
Those that’ll work in a yard;
Bark till they’re hoarser than frogs,
Makin’ ’em savage and hard.

Others will soldier and shirk
While there’s a rabbit to hunt:
This is an artist at work;
Watch her — out there — in the front.

6. The Touch

       by Anne Sexton

For months my hand was sealed off
in a tin box.
Nothing was there but the subway railings.

Perhaps it is bruised, I thought,
and that is why they have locked it up.

You could tell time by this, I thought,
like a clock, by its five knuckles
and the thin underground veins.

It lay there like an unconscious woman
fed by tubes she knew not of.

The hand had collapse,
a small wood pigeon
that had gone into seclusion.

I turned it over and the palm was old,
its lines traced like fine needlepoint
and stitched up into fingers.

It was fat and soft and blind in places.

Nothing but vulnerable.

And all this is metaphor.

An ordinary hand — just lonely
for something to touch
that touches back.

The dog won’t do it.

Her tail wags in the swamp for a frog.

I’m no better than a case of dog food.

She owns her own hunger.

My sisters won’t do it.

They live in school except for buttons
and tears running down like lemonade.

My father won’t do it.

He comes in the house and even at night
he lives in a machine made by my mother
and well oiled by his job, his job.

The trouble is
that I’d let my gestures freeze.

The trouble was not
in the kitchen or the tulips
but only in my head, my head.

Then all this became history.

Your hand found mine.

Life rushed to my fingers like a blood clot.

Oh, my carpenter,
the fingers are rebuilt.

They dance with yours.

They dance in the attic and in Vienna.

My hand is alive all over America.

Not even death will stop it,
death shedding her blood.

Nothing will stop it, for this is the kingdom
and the kingdom come.

Short Frog Poems

These short poetries about frog are perfect for those who want to enjoy a quick and easy read that captures the essence of these fascinating creatures. In this category, we will present some of the best poems!

1. I’m Nobody! Who Are You?

       by Emily Dickinson

I’m nobody! Who are you?
Are you nobody, too?
Then there’s a pair of us — don’t tell!
They’d advertise — you know!

How dreary to be somebody!
How public like a frog
To tell one’s name the livelong day
To an admiring bog!

2. The Tree-Frog Pedigree

       by John B. Tabb

Our great ancestor, Polly Wog,
With her cousin, Thaddeus Pole,
Eloped from her home in an Irish bog,
And crossing the sea on the “Mayflower’s” log,
At the risk of body and soul,
Married a Frog; and thus, you see,
How we come by a place in the family-tree
And the family name, Tree-frog.

3. Listening to The Moon

       by Yosa Buson

Listening to the moon,
gazing at the croaking of frogs
in a field of ripe rice.

4. Where My Sight Goes

       by Yvor Winters

Who knows
Where my sight goes,
What your sight shows—
Where the peachtree blows?

The frogs sing
Of everything
And children run
As leaves swing.

And many women pass
Dressed in white,
As thoughts of noon pass
From sea to sea.

And all these things would take
My life from me.

5. Frog-Making

       by John B. Tabb

Said Frog papa to Frog mamma,
“Where is our little daughter?”
Said Frog mamma to Frog papa,
“She’s underneath the water.”
Then down the anxious father went,
And there, indeed, he found her,
A-tickling tadpoles, till they kicked
Their tails off all around her.

6. The Frog

       by Robert Frost

Be kind and tender to the Frog,
And do not call him names,
As “Slimy skin,” or “Polly-wog,”
Or likewise “Ugly James,”
Or “Gap-a-grin,” or “Toad-gone-wrong,”
Or “Bill Bandy-knees”:
The Frog is justly sensitive
To epithets like these.

Long Frog Poems

In this category, we will present some of the most captivating and immersive long poetries about frog that will take you on a journey through the fascinating world of these amphibians.

1. The Three Frogs

       by George W. Swarthout

Three frogs, one time, lived in a pond,
Which thought themselves quite wise;
They wore green coats and vests of white;
Each blinked two shiny eyes.
They sat upon a mossy log
Down in a damp, cool place,
And gave a concert free to all,
Of tenor, alto and the bass.
A sly old turtle chanced that way—
He heard the singing gay;
And now, said he, I’ll have a meal
Before the close of day.
This turtle he was fond of frogs—
Ah, very fond was he;
And these three frogs were sleek and fat
As he could wish to see.
Said one frog, “Listen to my voice
With every note complete;
I think you fellows must agree
That none sing half so sweet.”
“Oh, fie!” the other two frogs said,
“How foolish you must be;
Your voice is harsh—you can not sing
One half so sweet as we.”
The singing ceased and in dispute
Each frowned upon the rest;
For each was very sure, you know,
That he could sing the best.
And each had told the other,
In frog language, that he lied,
When the turtle showed his old brown nose
And said: “I will decide.”
“But I am very deaf, my friends
You needs must come quite near,
You know I cannot well mistake
When I can plainly hear.”
And so they all sat very near,
And sang with all their might;
The turtle laughed; he never saw,
Three frogs in such a plight.
“A little nearer, if you please,
Then I shall hear each note,
And know which soft sweet strains
Are uttered by each throat.”
Just then old turtle made a grab
And caught those foolish frogs,
And swam away with all his might
Among the weeds and bogs.
Some foolish men, like these three frogs,
Invent some strange dispute,
And call a lawyer on each side
To carry on the suit;
But soon, alas! when all too late,
They plainly see and feel
That while they lost their dinners,
The lawyers made a meal.

2. The Toad

       by A. C. Benson

Old fellow-loiterer, whither wouldst thou go?
The lonely eve is ours,
When tides of richer fragrance ooze and flow
From heavy-lidded flowers.
With solemn hampered pace proceeding by
The dewy garden-bed,
Like some old priest in antique finery,
Stiff cope and jewelled head;
Thy sanctuary lamps are lit at dusk,
Where leafy aisles are dim;
The bat’s shrill piccolo, the swinging musk
Blend with the beetle’s hymn.
Aye something paramount and priestly too,
Some cynic mystery,
Lurks in the dull skin its dismal hue,
The bright ascetic eye;
Thou seem’st the heir of centuries, hatched out
With aeons on thy track;
The dust of ages compasses about
Thy lean and shrivelled back.
Thy heaving throat, thy sick repulsive glance
Still awes thy foes around;
The eager hound starts back and looks askance,
And whining paws the ground.
Yet thou hast forfeited thy ancient ban,
Thy mystical control;
We know thee now to be the friend of man,
A simple homely soul;
And when we deemed thee curiously wise,
Still chewing venomed paste,
Thou didst but crush the limbs of juicy flies
With calm and critic taste.
By the grey stone half sunk in mossy mould,
Beside the stiff boxhedge,
Thou slumberest, when the dawn with fingers
Plucks at the low cloud’s edge.
O royal life! in some cool cave all day,
Dreaming old dreams, to lie,
Or peering up to see the larkspur sway
Above thee in the sky;
Or wandering when the sunset airs are cool
Beside the elm-tree’s foot,
To splash and sink in some sequestered pool,
Amid the cresses’ root.
Abhorred, despised, the sad wind o’er thee sings;
Thou hast no friend to fear,
Yet fashioned in the secret mint of things
And hidden to be here.
Man dreams of loveliness, and bids it be;
To truth his eye is dim.
Thou wert, because the spirit dreamed of thee,
And thou art born of him.

3. The Frog and The Swan

       by Ikong Garabiles

One night as dark as my hair
Shines the moonlight clear
One night I got a nightmare
And woke up full of fear
One dream every time I remember
Gave me river of tear
This dream I wrote in a paper
Recalls the girl I dear

I was awaken in a pond
Standing in a lily pad
I was as green as lively grass
Gets fluffy as I breathe so hard
Definitely I am a frog
A frog disliked by everyone
I am a frog treated like mud
Because nobody wants a frog
And as a frog I also have
No care of what is all around
Unmindful of so many harsh
All I know is insect sound
But then once upon a time
Two birds I saw flew apart
And she calmly swum inside
Then the frog and swan collide
But as a frog I still care none
Even the presence of a swan
Standing still in lily pad
Still think I am just a mud
Suddenly I don’t know why
I notice tears in her eyes
I am a frog that doesn’t care
But swear I can’t resist to stare
My body moves on its own
I hop from lily pads to stones
I play dumb and acts with craze
To see a curve in her face
Then the swan smiles so light
And look far on the other side
I notice how she watches his flight
And then another tear subside

I miss a smile from a bird
That bears a broken-heart
Her circumstance was so absurd
Like a very solemn art
In her back I took a ride
We act like groom and bride
We play even under the sun
Comfortably have so much fun
As frog I only croak
But I still sing a song
I croak I croak I croak
That makes her laugh along
But then the sky roared
As well as rain poured
I stop to sing
She spread her wings
Without a word she flee
The swan left me
A tear in my eye roll
Imitating the rainfall
I looked at the bird afar
That bears a broken-heart
I was like gazing at a star
With a shape of a heart
I’m just a frog in a pond
A tiny frog who knows no fun
But for some reason I sob
The reason might be love

Then I opened my eyes
I felt cold like ice
A tear roll in my cheek
I felt so numb to rise

Before I wrote this on a paper
I hunt for the finest pen
Like how the frog wander
To seek the swan again

4. The Frog

       by Christina Rossetti

Contemptuous of his home beyond
The village and the village pond,
A large-souled Frog who spurned each byeway,
Hopped along the imperial highway.
Nor grunting pig nor barking dog
Could disconcert so great a frog.
The morning dew was lingering yet
His sides to cool, his tongue to wet;
The night dew when the night should come
A travelled frog would send him home.

Not so, alas! the wayside grass
Sees him no more: – not so, alas!

A broadwheeled waggon unawares
Ran him down, his joys, his cares.
From dying choke one feeble croak
The Frog’s perpetual silence broke:
“Ye buoyant Frogs, ye great and small,
Even I am mortal after all.
My road to Fame turns out a wry way:
I perish on this hideous highway,-
Oh for my old familiar byeway!”

The choking Frog sobbed and was gone:
The waggoner strode whistling on.

Unconscious of the carnage done,
Whistling that waggoner strode on,
Whistling (it may have happened so)
“A Froggy would a-wooing go:”
A hypothetic frog trolled he
Obtuse to a reality.

O rich and poor, O great and small,
Such oversights beset us all:
The mangled frog abides incog,
The uninteresting actual frog;
The hypothetic frog alone
Is the one frog we dwell upon.

5. Astigmatism

       by Amy Lowell

The Poet took his walking-stick
Of fine and polished ebony.
Set in the close-grained wood
Were quaint devices;
Patterns in ambers,
And in the clouded green of jades.
The top was smooth, yellow ivory,
And a tassel of tarnished gold
Hung by a faded cord from a hole
Pierced in the hard wood,
Circled with silver.
For years the Poet had wrought upon this cane.
His wealth had gone to enrich it,
His experiences to pattern it,
His labour to fashion and burnish it.
To him it was perfect,
A work of art and a weapon,
A delight and a defence.
The Poet took his walking-stick
And walked abroad.

Peace be with you, Brother.

The Poet came to a meadow.
Sifted through the grass were daisies,
Open-mouthed, wondering, they gazed at the sun.
The Poet struck them with his cane.
The little heads flew off, and they lay
Dying, open-mouthed and wondering,
On the hard ground.
“They are useless. They are not roses,” said the Poet.

Peace be with you, Brother. Go your ways.

The Poet came to a stream.
Purple and blue flags waded in the water;
In among them hopped the speckled frogs;
The wind slid through them, rustling.
The Poet lifted his cane,
And the iris heads fell into the water.
They floated away, torn and drowning.
“Wretched flowers,” said the Poet,
“They are not roses.”

Peace be with you, Brother. It is your affair.
The Poet came to a garden.
Dahlias ripened against a wall,
Gillyflowers stood up bravely for all their short stature,
And a trumpet-vine covered an arbour
With the red and gold of its blossoms.
Red and gold like the brass notes of trumpets.
The Poet knocked off the stiff heads of the dahlias,
And his cane lopped the gillyflowers at the ground.
Then he severed the trumpet-blossoms from their stems.
Red and gold they lay scattered,
Red and gold, as on a battle field;
Red and gold, prone and dying.
“They were not roses,” said the Poet.

Peace be with you, Brother.
But behind you is destruction, and waste places.
The Poet came home at evening,
And in the candle-light
He wiped and polished his cane.
The orange candle flame leaped in the yellow ambers,
And made the jades undulate like green pools.
It played along the bright ebony,
And glowed in the top of cream-coloured ivory.
But these things were dead,
Only the candle-light made them seem to move.
“It is a pity there were no roses,” said the Poet.

Peace be with you, Brother. You have chosen your part.

6. Colors Passing Through Us

       by Marge Piercy

Purple as tulips in May, mauve
into lush velvet, purple
as the stain blackberries leave
on the lips, on the hands,
the purple of ripe grapes
sunlit and warm as flesh.
Every day I will give you a color,
like a new flower in a bud vase
on your desk.
Every day
I will paint you, as women
color each other with henna
on hands and on feet.

Red as henna, as cinnamon,
as coals after the fire is banked,
the cardinal in the feeder,
the roses tumbling on the arbor
their weight bending the wood
the red of the syrup I make from petals.

Orange as the perfumed fruit
hanging their globes on the glossy tree,
orange as pumpkins in the field,
orange as butterflyweed and the monarchs
who come to eat it, orange as my
cat running lithe through the high grass.

Yellow as a goat’s wise and wicked eyes,
yellow as a hill of daffodils,
yellow as dandelions by the highway,
yellow as butter and egg yolks,
yellow as a school bus stopping you,
yellow as a slicker in a downpour.

Here is my bouquet, here is a sing
song of all the things you make
me think of, here is oblique
praise for the height and depth
of you and the width too.
Here is my box of new crayons at your feet.

Green as mint jelly, green
as a frog on a lily pad twanging,
the green of cos lettuce upright
about to bolt into opulent towers,
green as Grand Chartreuse in a clear
glass, green as wine bottles.

Blue as cornflowers, delphiniums,
bachelors’ buttons.
Blue as Roquefort,
blue as Saga.
Blue as still water.
Blue as the eyes of a Siamese cat.
Blue as shadows on new snow, as a spring
azure sipping from a puddle on the blacktop.

Cobalt as the midnight sky
when day has gone without a trace
and we lie in each other’s arms
eyes shut and fingers open
and all the colors of the world
pass through our bodies like strings of fire.

Cute Frog Poems

Frogs are undeniably adorable creatures, and cute frog poems are a great way to express your love and admiration for them. In this category, we will showcase frog poems that will warm your heart and make you smile.

1. There Will Come Soft Rains

       by Sara Teasdale

There will come soft rains and the smell of the ground,
And swallows circling with their shimmering sound;

And frogs in the pools singing at night,
And wild plum trees in tremulous white;

Robins will wear their feathery fire,
Whistling their whims on a low fence-wire;

And not one will know of the war, not one
Will care at last when it is done.

Not one would mind, neither bird nor tree,
If mankind perished utterly;

And Spring herself, when she woke at dawn
Would scarcely know that we were gone.

2. The Carver

       by Conrad Potter Aiken

See, as the carver carves a rose,
A wing, a toad, a serpent’s eye,
In cruel granite, to disclose
The soft things that in hardness lie,
So this one, taking up his heart,
Which time and change had made a stone,
Carved out of it with dolorous art,
Laboring yearlong and alone,
The thing there hidden?rose, toad, wing?
A frog’s hand on a lily pad?
Bees in a cobweb??no such thing!
A girl’s head was the thing he had,
Small, shapely, richly crowned with hair,
Drowsy, with eyes half closed, as they
Looked through you and beyond you, clear
To something farther than Cathay:
Saw you, yet counted you not worth
The seeing, thinking all the while
How, flower-like, beauty comes to birth;
And thinking this, began to smile.
Medusa! For she could not see
The world she turned to stone and ash.
Only herself she saw, a tree
That flowered beneath a lightning-flash.
Thus dreamed her face? a lovely thing
To worship, weep for, or to break . . .
Better to carve a claw, a wing,
Or, if the heart provide, a snake.

3. Summer Evening

       by John Clare

The frog half fearful jumps across the path,
And little mouse that leaves its hole at eve
Nimbles with timid dread beneath the swath;
My rustling steps awhile their joys deceive,
Till past, and then the cricket sings more strong,
And grasshoppers in merry moods still wear
The short night weary with their fretting song.
Up from behind the molehill jumps the hare,
Cheat of his chosen bed, and from the bank
The yellowhammer flutters in short fears
From off its nest hid in the grasses rank,
And drops again when no more noise it hears.
Thus nature’s human link and endless thrall,
Proud man, still seems the enemy of all.

4. My Mother

       by Claude McKay


Reg wished me to go with him to the field,
I paused because I did not want to go;
But in her quiet way she made me yield
Reluctantly, for she was breathing low.
Her hand she slowly lifted from her lap
And, smiling sadly in the old sweet way,
She pointed to the nail where hung my cap.
Her eyes said: I shall last another day.
But scarcely had we reached the distant place,
When o’er the hills we heard a faint bell ringing;
A boy came running up with frightened face;
We knew the fatal news that he was bringing.
I heard him listlessly, without a moan,
Although the only one I loved was gone.


The dawn departs, the morning is begun,
The trades come whispering from off the seas,
The fields of corn are golden in the sun,
The dark-brown tassels fluttering in the breeze;
The bell is sounding and the children pass,
Frog-leaping, skipping, shouting, laughing shrill,
Down the red road, over the pasture-grass,
Up to the school-house crumbling on the hill.
The older folk are at their peaceful toil,
Some pulling up the weeds, some plucking corn,
And others breaking up the sun-baked soil.
Float, faintly-scented breeze, at early morn
Over the earth where mortals sow and reap–
Beneath its breast my mother lies asleep.

5. Bee! I’m Expecting You!

       by Emily Dickinson

Bee! I’m expecting you!
Was saying Yesterday
To Somebody you know
That you were due—

The Frogs got Home last Week—
Are settled, and at work—
Birds, mostly back—
The Clover warm and thick—

You’ll get my Letter by
The seventeenth; Reply
Or better, be with me—
Yours, Fly.

Frog Poems That Rhyme

Poems about frog with rhyming words are a popular form of poetry that captures the rhythm and musicality of these creatures. In this category, we will present some of the most delightful and catchy frog poems!

1. The Frog and The Nightingale

       by Vikram Seth

Once upon a time a frog
Croaked away in Bingle Bog
Every night from dusk to dawn
He croaked awn and awn and awn.

2. Frogs in Chorus

       by Andrew Barton Paterson

The chorus frogs in the big lagoon
Would sing their songs to the silvery moon.
Tenor singers were out of place,
For every frog was a double bass.
But never a human chorus yet
Could beat the accurate time they set.
The solo singer began the joke;
He sang, “As long as I live I’ll croak,
 Croak, I’ll croak,”
And the chorus followed him: “Croak, croak, croak!”

The poet frog, in his plaintive tone,
Sang of a sorrow was all his own;
“How shall I win to my heart’s desire?
How shall I feel my spirit’s fire?”
And the solo frog in his deepest croak,
“To fire your spirit,” he sang, “eat coke,
 Coke, eat coke,”
And the chorus followed him: “Coke, coke, coke!”

The green frog sat in a swampy spot
And he sang the song of he knew not what.
“The world is rotten, oh cursed plight,
That I am the frog that must set it right.
How shall I scatter the shades that lurk?”
And the old man bullfrog sang, “Get work,
Work, get work,”
And the chorus followed him: “Work, work, work!”

The soaring spirits that fain would fly
On wings of hope to the starry sky
Must face the snarls of the jealous dogs,
For the world is ruled by its chorus frogs.

3. The Barefoot Boy

       by John Greenleaf Whittier

Blessings on thee, little man,
Barefoot boy, with cheek of tan!
With thy turned-up pantaloons,
And thy merry whistled tunes;
With thy red lip, redder still
Kissed by strawberries on the hill;
With the sunshine on thy face,
Through thy torn brim’s jaunty grace;
From my heart I give thee joy, –
I was once a barefoot boy!
Prince thou art, – the grown-up man
Only is republican.
Let the million-dollared ride!
Barefoot, trudging at his side,
Thou hast more than he can buy
In the reach of ear and eye, –
Outward sunshine, inward joy:
Blessings on thee, barefoot boy!

Oh for boyhood’s painless play,
Sleep that wakes in laughing day,
Health that mocks the doctor’s rules,
Knowledge never learned of schools,
Of the wild bee’s morning chase,
Of the wild-flower’s time and place,
Flight of fowl and habitude
Of the tenants of the wood;
How the tortoise bears his shell,
How the woodchuck digs his cell,
And the ground-mole sinks his well;
How the robin feeds her young,
How the oriole’s nest is hung;
Where the whitest lilies blow,
Where the freshest berries grow,
Where the ground-nut trails its vine,
Where the wood-grape’s clusters shine;
Of the black wasp’s cunning way,
Mason of his walls of clay,
And the architectural plans
Of gray hornet artisans!
For, eschewing books and tasks,
Nature answers all he asks;
Hand in hand with her he walks,
Face to face with her he talks,
Part and parcel of her joy, –
Blessings on the barefoot boy!

Oh for boyhood’s time of June,
Crowding years in one brief moon,
When all things I heard or saw,
Me, their master, waited for.
I was rich in flowers and trees,
Humming-birds and honey-bees;
For my sport the squirrel played,
Plied the snouted mole his spade;
For my taste the blackberry cone
Purpled over hedge and stone;
Laughed the brook for my delight
Through the day and through the night,
Whispering at the garden wall,
Talked with me from fall to fall;
Mine the sand-rimmed pickerel pond,
Mine the walnut slopes beyond,
Mine, on bending orchard trees,
Apples of Hesperides!
Still as my horizon grew,
Larger grew my riches too;
All the world I saw or knew
Seemed a complex Chinese toy,
Fashioned for a barefoot boy!

Oh for festal dainties spread,
Like my bowl of milk and bread;
Pewter spoon and bowl of wood,
On the door-stone, gray and rude!
O’er me, like a regal tent,
Cloudy-ribbed, the sunset bent,
Purple-curtained, fringed with gold,
Looped in many a wind-swung fold;
While for music came the play
Of the pied frogs’ orchestra;
And, to light the noisy choir,
Lit the fly his lamp of fire.
I was monarch: pomp and joy
Waited on the barefoot boy!

Cheerily, then, my little man,
Live and laugh, as boyhood can!
Though the flinty slopes be hard,
Stubble-speared the new-mown sward,
Every morn shall lead thee through
Fresh baptisms of the dew;
Every evening from thy feet
Shall the cool wind kiss the heat:
All too soon these feet must hide
In the prison cells of pride,
Lose the freedom of the sod,
Like a colt’s for work be shod,
Made to tread the mills of toil,
Up and down in ceaseless moil:
Happy if their track be found
Never on forbidden ground;
Happy if they sink not in
Quick and treacherous sands of sin.
Ah! that thou couldst know thy joy,
Ere it passes, barefoot boy!

4. The Frogs

       by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe

A pool was once congeal’d with frost;
The frogs, in its deep waters lost,

No longer dared to croak or spring;
But promised, being half asleep,
If suffer’d to the air to creep,
As very nightingales to sing.

A thaw dissolved the ice so strong,–
They proudly steer’d themselves along,
When landed, squatted on the shore,
And croak’d as loudly as before.

5. The Early Frogs

       by Harry Edward Mills

O, I love to hear the frogs
When they first begin to sing;
How they vocalize the bogs,
And vociferate the Spring.
How they carrol as they croak,
How they mingle jest and joke
With their solemn chant and dirge
On the river’s slimy verge.
O, I love to hear the frogs,
For their monotone uncouth
Is the music of the cogs
Of the mill wheel of my youth.
And I listen half asleep,
And the eyes of mem’ry peep
Through the bars that hold me fast,
From the pleasures of the past.
O, I love to hear the frogs,
For their melody is health
To the heart that worry flogs
With the lash of want or wealth.
And the cares of life take wing,
And its pleasures lose their sting,
And love’s channel way unclogs
In the croaking of the frogs.

6. Goblin Revel

       by Siegfried Sassoon

In gold and grey, with fleering looks of sin,
I watch them come; by two, by three, by four,
Advancing slow, with loutings they begin
Their woven measure, widening from the door;
While music-men behind are straddling in
With flutes to brisk their feet across the floor,?
And jangled dulcimers, and fiddles thin
That taunt the twirling antic through once more.

They pause, and hushed to whispers, steal away.
With cunning glances; silent go their shoon
On creakless stairs; but far away the dogs
Bark at some lonely farm: and haply they
Have clambered back into the dusky moon
That sinks beyond the marshes loud with frogs.

7. The Butterfly’s Ball and The Grasshopper’s Feast

       by William Roscoe

Come take up your Hats, and away let us haste
To the Butterfly’s Ball, and the Grasshopper’s Feast.
The Trumpeter, Gad-fly, has summon’d the Crew,
And the Revels are now only waiting for you.

So said little Robert, and pacing along,
His merry Companions came forth in a Throng.
And on the smooth Grass, by the side of a Wood,
Beneath a broad Oak that for Ages had stood,

Saw the Children of Earth, and the Tenants of Air,
For an Evening’s Amusement together repair.
And there came the Beetle, so blind and so black,
Who carried the Emmet, his Friend, on his Back.

And there was the Gnat and the Dragon-fly too,
With all their Relations, Green, Orange, and Blue.
And there came the Moth, with his Plumage of Down,
And the Hornet in Jacket of Yellow and Brown;

Who with him the Wasp, his Companion, did bring,
But they promis’d, that Evening, to lay by their Sting.
And the sly little Dormouse crept out of his Hole,
And brought to the Feast his blind Brother, the Mole.

And the Snail, with his Horns peeping out of his Shell,
Came from a great Distance, the Length of an Ell.
A Mushroom their Table, and on it was laid
A Water-dock Leaf, which a Table-cloth made.

The Viands were various, to each of their Taste,
And the Bee brought her Honey to crown the Repast.
Then close on his Haunches, so solemn and wise,
The Frog from a Corner, look’d up to the Skies.

And the Squirrel well pleas’d such Diversions to see,
Mounted high over Head, and look’d down from a Tree.
Then out came the Spider, with Finger so fine,
To shew his Dexterity on the tight Line.

From one Branch to another, his Cobwebs he slung,
Then quick as an Arrow he darted along,
But just in the Middle, — Oh! shocking to tell,
From his Rope, in an Instant, poor Harlequin fell.

Yet he touch’d not the Ground, but with Talons outspread,
Hung suspended in Air, at the End of a Thread,
Then the Grasshopper came with a Jerk and a Spring,
Very long was his Leg, though but short was his Wing;

He took but three Leaps, and was soon out of Sight,
Then chirp’d his own Praises the rest of the Night.
With Step so majestic the Snail did advance,
And promis’d the Gazers a Minuet to dance.

But they all laugh’d so loud that he pull’d in his Head,
And went in his own little Chamber to Bed.
Then, as Evening gave Way to the Shadows of Night,
Their Watchman, the Glow-worm, came out with a Light.

Then Home let us hasten, while yet we can see,
For no Watchman is waiting for you and for me.
So said little Robert, and pacing along,
His merry Companions returned in a Throng.

Frog Poems for Kids

Frog poems for preschool or first grades are a great way to introduce children to the world of poetry and literature. In this category, we will present some of the most engaging and age-appropriate frog poems that kids of all ages will enjoy.

1. Enter This Deserted House

       by Sheldon Allan Silverstein

But please walk softly as you do.
Frogs dwell here and crickets too.

Ain’t no ceiling, only blue.
Jays dwell here and sunbeams too.

Floors are flowers – take a few
Ferns grow here and daisies too.

Swoosh, whoosh – too-whit, too-woo
Bats dwell here and hoot owls too.

Ha-ha-ha, hee-hee, hoo-hoooo,
Gnomes dwell here and goblins too.

And my child, I thought you knew
I dwell here… and so do you

2. Little Green Frog

       by Purcy Flaherty

Little green frog
A little green frog is trying to catch my eye!
A little green frog is trying catch my eye!
It’s a tadpole-lite; it’s lily lies,
It’s sticky poison and feminine whiles,
A little green frog is trying to catch my eye!
Hoppity, hoppity, hoppity!)))))))

A little green frog is trying to catch my ear!
A little green frog is trying to catch my ear!
It’s mouth is full of lies and it’s belly’s full of flies.
A little green frog trying to catch my ear!
Hoppity, hoppity, hoppity!)))))))

A little green frog is trying to catch my boat!
A little green frog is trying to catch my boat!
it’s got to knock knees, and two bent legs,
A plastic smile and a crazy head,
A little green frog is trying to catch my boat.

It’s up and down all night long;
splashing about in the water,
A little green frog’s still tryin’ to catch my …
A little green frog’s still tryin’ to catch my…
A little green frog’s tryin’ to catch my boat!

3. Natural Mirror

       by Paul Holmes

Liquid clouds sail by
Floating between green branches
Angler’s face is blurred.

Green frog hops and swims
Stirring the placid picture
Grotesque forms reshape.

Stream now calm and still
Sky reflects countryside scene
Tranquil Man and World.

4. Big Frog, Little Frog

       by Mitus

Big frog, little frog
It’s okay if people don’t love
Big frog, little frog
Don’t frown

Big frog, little frog
It’s okay if parents don’t appreciate
Big frog, little frog
Don’t cry

Big frog, little frog
It’s okay if friends don’t care
Big frog, little frog
Don’t bawl

Big frog, little frog
It’s okay if families don’t want
Big frog, little frog
Don’t weep

Big frog, small frog
You can do it.

5. Men of Verdun

       by Laurence Binyon

There are five men in the moonlight
That by their shadows stand;
Three hobble humped on crutches,
And two lack each a hand.

Frogs somewhere near the roadside
Chorus their chant absorbed:
But a hush breathes out of the dream-light
That far in heaven is orbed.

It is gentle as sleep falling
And wide as thought can span,
The ancient peace and wonder
That brims in the heart of man.

Beyond the hills it shines now
On no peace but the dead,
On reek of trenches thunder-shocked,
Tense fury of wills in wrestle locked,
A chaos of crumbled red.

Haiku Frog Poems

In this category, we will present some of the most beautiful and evocative haiku frog poems that capture the essence of these fascinating creatures in just a few words.

1. Frog

       by Uwe Stroh

The wind of Thor
Drives monsoon rain
To frogs delight.

2. Frog Bellies

       by Warren Doll

rain drops hit still pond
surface ripples spread outward
tickling frog bellies

3. Patience

       by Pandita Siete Santos

breezeless summer day –
motionless on lily pad
frog waits for victim

4. Tree Frog

       by Kim Merryman

a lime green tree frog
clings tightly to a bare branch —
butterfly kisses

5. Spring Rain

       by Deborah Guenther Beachboard

spring rain
ten-thousand frog croaks collapse
a rain-soaked silence

6. Frog Pads

       by Joseph May

Croakers symphony
await the rainy season
a horny toad calls

A burst of thunder
rain coming down in torrents
a mating frenzy

lily pads submerge
fertile eggs slowly sinking
 fish come for the  feast

new generations
await symphonic debut
a raindrop splashes

7. Frog Haiku

       by Andrea Dietrich

my pad or your pad
croons the frog to his lady. . .
prince charming awaits

8. Three Outdoor Scenes

       by Daver Austin

frog pond mallards
on the grassy, shallow bank
watching reflections

table with peanuts
round and round the tree he goes
caw, caw cries high crow

reading by the sea
this boy sitting on a rock
gull catches the breeze

Frog Prince Poems

This category will showcase some of the most enchanting and magical frog prince poems that will transport you to a world of fantasy and wonder.

1. The Frog Prince

       by Stevie Smith

I am a frog
I live under a spell
I live at the bottom
Of a green well

I am happy, I like the life,
Can swim for many a mile
(When I have hopped to the river)
And am forever agile.

But always when I think these thoughts
As I sit in my well
Another thought comes to me and says:
It is part of the spell

To be happy
To work up contentment
To make much of being a frog
To fear disenchantment

Says, It will be heavenly
To be se free,
Cries Heavenly the girl who disenchants
And the royal times, heavenly,
And I think it will be.

Come then, royal girl and royal times,
Come quickly,
I can be happy until you come
But I cannot be heavenly,
Only disenchanted people
Can be heavenly.

2. Frog Prince

       by Misty Sanity

Yesterday I went went walking
and I happened upon a pond.
hearing a small noise, I stopped,
and pushed aside some fronds.
A little bitty frog there sat
and, imagine my surprise,
when upon his head there sat a crown
is what I saw with my very eyes.
He looked up at me and blinked
then he let out a little croak
and before I know it, English words
came out that little throat!
“Pardon me,” said the frog,
“but do you happen to know where I am?
you see, I’m not really a frog
a prince is what I am.”
“I’m afraid I cannot help you,
for New York is where I am.
There will never be, nor has there been before,
a kingdom in this land.”
“That’s quite a dreadful story,”
replied the little bitty frog,
“like a cup without a saucer
or a man without a dog.
And speaking of men,
my little miss,
would you bestow upon me
a little kiss?
That’s the only what that I
will ever be once more a man.
And I really must be getting home
to take over my father’s lands.”
At first I thought this
quite obscure
but I’d never met a talking
frog before.
“Sure thing.” I replied
bending down to the ground
and the frog jumped up
on a little mound.
But I’ll never know if a
kiss would have worked
for near to us
a falcon had lurked.
As the frog jumped up
and into the sky
the falcon ate him…

3. The Frog Prince

       by Anne Sexton

Frau Doktor,
Mama Brundig,
take out your contacts,
remove your wig.
I write for you.
I entertain.
But frogs come out
of the sky like rain.

Frogs arrive
With an ugly fury.
You are my judge.
You are my jury.

My guilts are what
we catalogue.
I’ll take a knife
and chop up frog.

Frog has not nerves.
Frog is as old as a cockroach.
Frog is my father’s genitals.
Frog is a malformed doorknob.
Frog is a soft bag of green.

The moon will not have him.
The sun wants to shut off
like a light bulb.
At the sight of him
the stone washes itself in a tub.
The crow thinks he’s an apple
and drops a worm in.
At the feel of frog
the touch-me-nots explode
like electric slugs.
Slime will have him.
Slime has made him a house.

Mr. Poison
is at my bed.
He wants my sausage.
He wants my bread.

Mama Brundig,
he wants my beer.
He wants my Christ
for a souvenir.

Frog has boil disease
and a bellyful of parasites.
He says: Kiss me. Kiss me.
And the ground soils itself.

should a certain
quite adorable princess
be walking in her garden
at such a time
and toss her golden ball
up like a bubble
and drop it into the well?
It was ordained.
Just as the fates deal out
the plague with a tarot card.
Just as the Supreme Being drills
holes in our skulls to let
the Boston Symphony through.

But I digress.
A loss has taken place.
The ball has sunk like a cast-iron pot
into the bottom of the well.

Lost, she said,
my moon, my butter calf,
my yellow moth, my Hindu hare.
Obviously it was more than a ball.
Balls such as these are not
for sale in Au Bon Marché.
I took the moon, she said,
between my teeth
and now it is gone
and I am lost forever.
A thief had robbed by day.

Suddenly the well grew
thick and boiling
and a frog appeared.
His eyes bulged like two peas
and his body was trussed into place.
Do not be afraid, Princess,
he said, I am not a vagabond,
a cattle farmer, a shepherd,
a doorkeeper, a postman
or a laborer.
I come to you as a tradesman.
I have something to sell.
Your ball, he said,
for just three things.
Let me eat from your plate.
Let me drink from your cup.
Let me sleep in your bed.
She thought, Old Waddler,
those three you will never do,
but she made the promises
with hopes for her ball once more.
He brought it up in his mouth
like a tricky old dog
and she ran back to the castle
leaving the frog quite alone.

That evening at dinner time
a knock was heard on the castle door
and a voice demanded:
King’s youngest daughter,
let me in. You promised;
now open to me.
I have left the skunk cabbage
and the eels to live with you.
The kind then heard her promise
and forced her to comply.

The frog first sat on her lap.
He was as awful as an undertaker.
Next he was at her plate
looking over her bacon
and calves’ liver.
We will eat in tandem,
he said gleefully.
Her fork trembled
as if a small machine
had entered her.
He sat upon the liver
and partook like a gourmet.
The princess choked
as if she were eating a puppy.
From her cup he drank.
It wasn’t exactly hygienic.
From her cup she drank
as if it were Socrates’ hemlock.

Next came the bed.
The silky royal bed.
Ah! The penultimate hour!
There was the pillow
with the princess breathing
and there was the sinuous frog
riding up and down beside her.
I have been lost in a river
of shut doors, he said,
and I have made my way over
the wet stones to live with you.
She woke up aghast.
I suffer for birds and fireflies
but not frogs, she said,
and threw him across the room.

Like a genie coming out of a samovar,
a handsome prince arose in the
corner of her bedroom.
He had kind eyes and hands
and was a friend of sorrow.
Thus they were married.
After all he had compromised her.

He hired a night watchman
so that no one could enter the chamber
and he had the well
boarded over so that
never again would she lose her ball,
that moon, that Krishna hair,
that blind poppy, that innocent globe,
that madonna womb.

4. Frog Princess

       by Bardo

One morning out cleaning drains and gutters around the house, doing manly things
Basically just messing about
Suddenly it hit me, yea! I had a moment of clarity
“There’s still time y’know, Yea, there’s still hope, you could still meet her/ find her
And she’ll kiss you and suddenly your hair will start to grow again
And your eyes, they’ll grow clearer and brighter
And the cherry trees they’ll bloom again in your heart
Your whole world it’ll be transformed…..”
Then as I bent down to do something
Suddenly I jumped back with a start
Something had moved, just there, just then
Something had well…jumped out
Was it a mouse or worse still, a rat
I couldn’t see anything,
As I looked closer though, suddenly there! well camouflaged
There was this big frog
Hell I thought, I hadn’t seen a frog in years
Wasn’t that strange, wasn’t that a coincidence
I was just thinking those thoughts and suddenly this frog he jumps out
Maybe it was an omen
(Probably meant it was gonna rain),
But then I thought wasn’t there a story once
Yea, The Frog Prince
A lovely princess kisses a frog and he turns into this beautiful handsome prince,
I wonder I thought, I wonder could there be such a thing as a Frog Princess
If I were to kiss you would you turn into a lovely beautiful Frog Princess,
So I bent down close to the frog and whispered
“Are you my little Frog Princess”
Suddenly the frog he takes off, starts hopping madly away from me
As if saying “Gotta get away quick from this feckin’ ******”
Don’t go! Please don’t go!! I shouted after him
Come back! Come back to me, you are my destiny!
Finally he hops into a flowerbed full of weeds and is lost forever
Alas! I thought to myself, Adieu, adieu, sweet sweet adieu
Obviously I thought, obviously he must have been a Frog Prince and not a Frog Princess.
Then I thought, y’know at my age and with my luck
And I called after him ‘I would have settled for a Frog Prince!”.

5. The Frog Prince – Part 1

       by David Furlong

A funny frog called Mr Snog,
once lived beside a slimy bog,
he was a most peculiar fellow,
his hat was red, his boots were yellow,
his waistcoat was an olive green,
the strangest sight you’ve ever seen,
no matter where you’ve lived or been.     

This self-same frog, called Mr Snog
had woes of every catalogue.
To move forward he hopped backward,
making life extremely awkward.
His funny face with fretful frown
made him such a comic clown,
for his whole world was upside down.

Now once the frog, named Mr Snog,                          
who lived beside the slimy bog,
had been a very different fellow,                    
his boots then red, his hat was yellow.
A handsome prince of some renown,
upon his head a golden crown,
and nothing then was upside down.

For then his name, was not the same,
around his realm they would proclaim;
‘He is the bold, the great Prince Gons,         
whose fame is sung in many songs.’
In everything he did excel,
gallant, witty, brave as well,
until misfortune him befell.

Alas to say, in early May,
a witch had happened by his way.
She really was a hideous hag,
and nasty things were in her bag.
An eye of newt, a puppy’s tail,
six slimy slugs and half a snail,
some grizzly bits to make you quail.

Prince Gons had rode from his abode,                
to find this witch had blocked his road,         
‘Out of my way you wretched bag,
out of my way you ugly hag.
I am the bold, the great Prince Gons,           
whose fame is sung in many songs,
to whom this land around belongs.’       

With such disdain he did proclaim,
the exalted nature of his name!
He stared, he glared, he leered and peered,
upon that witch that looked so weird,
‘Out of my way, or you’ll pay dear.’
Yet not one word did cause her fear,
for being deaf, she could not hear.

But from his look she umbrage took,
and so that witch resolved to cook,
within her pot a fiendish brew,
to teach that prince a thing or two.
And setting out to cast a spell,
by calling demons out of hell,
she brewed a stew – with ghastly smell.

This stew she threw – it didn’t miss! –
all over Gons. Then with a kiss,
upon his face – oh what a joke –
she vanished in a puff of smoke!
Gons then had a nasty feeling,                      
round and round the sky was wheeling,
sending all his senses reeling.

When he awoke, this self-same bloke,
could only make a feeble croak.
And to his horror he now found,
that everything had turned around,
shrunk to a frog, whose name was Snog,
who sat bemused within a bog,                     
with woes of every catalogue.

Within this bog, there was a log,
and on this log, sat Mr Snog,
gazing mournfully at the sky,
eyeing all that passed him by.
From time to time he’d try to speak,
with feeble croak, so sad, so weak,
his life just then was really bleak.

When meaning ‘Yes’ – as you might guess –
was not the word he did express.          
Instead of ‘Yes’, he would croak ‘No!’
All were confused and all said so,                 
but if, perhaps, you knew him better,                   
you could substitute each letter,
and then it really wouldn’t matter.

Moving backward, never forward,
made his life extremely awkward.
Now who could help him, who could tell
him, how to break that witch’s spell?
He flopped around within the mire,
never growing one inch higher,
until a meeting did transpire.

One sunny day in early May,
a princess chanced to pass that way,
her hair was gold, her figure neat,
she walked upon such dainty feet.
that now squelched in the murky mire,
nearly ruining her attire,
her situation was quite dire.

Just for a laugh, she’d left the path,
to cut her journey quite in half,
she was sure it would be quicker,
she was sure that she was slicker,
than her nasty little brother,
who’d said, ‘Race you home to mother.’
How they hated one another!

While she was stuck within the muck,
bemoaning all her rotten luck,
She then perceived this curious fellow,        
whose hat was red and boots were yellow,
it was our hero Mr Snog,
every inch a funny frog,
sitting gormless on a log.

‘Help, help,’ she cried . ‘I’m terrified
I’m really lost, I need a guide,
to take me from this murky mire,
that’s totally ruined my attire.
Please help me now. I’m sure you know,
how from this place, the way to go.’
But Snog, when meaning ‘Yes’, croaked ‘No!’.

She was confused, she was bemused,
that this odd creature had refused,
to help her in her hour of need.
‘What can I say, how shall I plead?’
She pondered so, then filled with woe,                
wept, ‘Won’t you show the way to go?’
But Snog, whilst thinking ‘Yes’, croaked ‘No!’

‘I implore you, I’ll adore you,
something, anything I’ll do for you.                
just name your price, I know the king,
he’ll give you almost everything.                    
Oh please don’t leave me in distress,
oh please don’t leave me in this mess.’
Alas, our hero just croaked, ‘Yes!’

First she shivered, then she quivered,
then finally, she grew quite livid.
She screamed at this outrageous fellow,
whose hat was red and boots were yellow,
‘You are the most obnoxious frog,
to leave me helpless in this bog,
to wander aimless in the fog.’

Then on a whim, she grabbed a limb,
with all her strength she hurtled him,
high into the silvery sky,
wondering if this frog might fly.
But as she flipped him, her foot tripped,       
upon her back our princess tipped,
into the slimy mire she slipped.

Our hero, Snog, was quite agog,
for being airborne, for a frog,
was a most extraordinary feeling,
sending all his senses reeling.
The sky and earth became a blur;
falling now he did not miss her,
landing on her open kisser!

Now, as she fell, she’d given a yell,
which helped to break that witch’s spell.
For when she kissed the hapless Snog,      
it changed him back from being a frog,
and to a prince he now returned,
who sat there looking unconcerned.
whilst in the slimy mire she squirmed.

Final Thoughts

Frog poems are a delightful way to revisit the joys and memories of childhood while also exploring the rich literary and cultural heritage associated with these fascinating amphibians.

Whether you’re looking for funny, inspirational, short, long, cute, rhyming, kid-friendly, haiku, or frog prince poems, this collection has something for everyone.

We hope these poems have inspired you to take a closer look at the world around you and find beauty and meaning in the simplest things.

We encourage you to leave a comment below and share your own favorite poems for frog that remind you of your childhood memories.

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