Frogs Waiting to be Gigged in a North Georgia Pond

Modern poetry modern verse contemporary poetry contemporary verse modern poem contemporary poem

Frogs never sing of beauty, love or youth.

They sing complacently, instead, of death

Although in spring they do not know that.  Truth

Is far from their concern.  A pompous breath

They take comes out as croak.  A hollow lung

Takes in the April air, sings almost cheer,

But then resolves to depths not ever young,

To boredom, pessimism and a jeer

Of tragic burp.  Then finally we note

This state was theirs directly from the start.

The lack of humor in their lips and throat

Was always there, was always dry and tart.

  Frogs never cry out thoughts of afterlife

    Where melancholy spawns with watery wife.

© Phillip Whidden