Jonathan ROBIN

Rookie - 274 Points (22 September / London)

Tree's Frog - Parody Joyce Kilmer - Poem by Jonathan ROBIN


I think that I shall never fail
to see with glee a frog full pail
less lovely than a poem which
most must with difficulty stitch.

Who's uninspired by froggy frail
leaves cheeks livid, features pale –
their sale may even make one rich
when cogent rhyme spares metre’s (gl) itch.

Sage frog we sing as holy graal
not trite, - right pristine risqué trail –
write neither tedious nor kitsch
preposterous or piteous pitch.

Wage man in name of culture’s flail
culls brazen female framed with veil,
In time of need none sex may switch -
unlike the frog, who’ll spawn enrich.

When frog finds itchy leg is pressed,
although he’ll jump, he won’t protest,
croak lends itself to joke’s delight
where faced with sore mosquito bite.

A cloud of frogs is treasure chest
most moonlit lovers has impressed,
with warble charming much unlike
officious neighbours swift to strike.

We rummage words which stipulate
fine frog’s resilient verbal gumption,
days, grievance sweeping, meditate
on nightly summer song’s resumption.

The nightingale’s no consolation
except for poets orthodox,
for Frog’s flag flies for every nation
as arcane jumping jack in box.

Against vain heckle we exude
full confidence in frogzster’s mood
whose speckles toad – more lecherous –
looks on with envy, missing bus.

For toad, four toed, can only yammer
in jaded solitary stammer,
Frog, indistructible none unhinge
resilient, when on singing binge.

Frog never 'toady' has been named
while Man, wet blanket, toady tamed
will butter up where button down
should be the rule from toe till crown.

When Froggy would a wooing go
we knows he knows she knows he flows,
when Man his future bride would count
he verifies her bank account
or sperm bank count into account
would take when stakes a large amount,
while Frog this challenge may surmount
in pond no despond - fountain mount.
And so this rhyming stanza shows

Frog more than Man plans libidos
Man more than Frog scans, livid, owes
to Nature much, denies the same,
Frog's glory multiples green fame.
Some make frog wince, say toad is prince
disguised for star eyed poetess
the point's missed since, like instant rinse,
dyed wool's pulled to misguide.
for who frog's kissed sees mist dismissed
mish-mash smashed, swish! - no wish denied.

In frog, amphibia at its best,
leapfrogs both land and sea with zest, -
while poets on a motor-bike
the kill-o'-metres rarely like.

One day of man is man the guest,
the next the same is second guessed,
the hitch – few rich, – most, poor, hitch-hike
whose rents are raised with spiky hike.

When we, once spent the working day,
reflect upon their milky way:
A frog from bog to Sevres china,
nothing, surely, could be finer!

To satisfy the witless diner,
a garlick lick flick feast’s not minor, -
for leafy legs, sauce swimming prey,
some pray to God by night and day.

To Frog Intelligent Designer
bequeaths a liquid underliner, -
through verse liquidity who may
attain who seldom piper pay?

Warm blood, inductive of angina,
cold heart may mask, - love’s underminer –
cold blood rings true to interplay
keyed into others' right of way.

Tree frog absorbs its Summer tail
nor sees his inspiration stale
before imagination’s swim,
advancing with a lithesome limb.

Though poets seek to spread a tale
that may posterity regale, -
free rhymers copyrightful brim,
while publishers production trim.

For one, the croak spells fairy-tale,
for t’other croaking’s bane and bale.
For Man it means the Reaper grim,
for Frog the means to female whim.

Man, spendthrift, steers uneasy sail,
as climate changes lead to gale
brought on himself, - his future dims
despite his egocentric hymns.

Man levers age for pensions fat
Frogs’ leverage won’t jump at that,
Frogs vilify Man’s petty pace
while he glee leapfrog can't replace.

Man's wrong hops make bleary bier
For Frog long hops are but small beer.
Compare, - Frog logs bog, wins hands down,
while Man's blog logs are phished with frown.

And so for Frog we go to town
morass marshmallow, glade and down,
More ass, Man harsh, stays shallow fare,
praise on Frog's ways, phrase none more fair!

Frog through cold Winter hibernates,
Man [s]wells Iran's oily rates;
when 'Summer is a'cumen in'
both Frog and Man hook baited fin.

Though both adore a leafy lane
their motives differ – son of Cain
flees hurry cane as climate's blight,
frogs seize mosquitoes, climb mate light.

Should poem mope it leaves Man’s brain
befuddled, pawned and under strain.
Frog reigns, spawns rannic jelly night
while Man, tyrannic, gelignite,
the difference need we explain.
While Man does little but complain
Frog blows up egg to tadpole bright.

While seldom is the Muses’ strain
extended those who strive for gain,
when need to feed sets greed alight
in speed few fly creative kite.

Man, wingless, often peacock vain.
Frog leaps, keeps faith, with purpose plain,
with vision steady, black and white,
no colour blindness creed indict.
Poems are made by fools who see
too little worth in frog or tree,
who bubble reputation seek -
inflating girth, declining peak.

Tree frogs combine much more than we
on earth can ever (cl) aim to be –
frog frugal realpolitik
to arbor – essence often speak!
No toady, - personality
defined as perspicacity –
strategic geopolitique
proects from foe - fang, crookèd beak.

I think that I shall never see
an outline poem or a tree
which can compare in strength of spring
to tree frogs frolicsome, so sing
their praise, and creativity -
they’ve spawned a date with destiny
when lice and their humanity
will long be spurned by history.
Surviving insects’ swarm or sting
read Frogzster's - green scene Queen - verse ring...

© Jonathan Robin 11 January 2006 and 19 January 2007 - Parody Joyce KILMER - Trees


I think that I shall never see
A poem lovely as a tree.
A tree whose hungry mouth is prest
Against the earth's sweet flowing breast;
A tree that looks at God all day,
And lifts her leafy arms to pray;
A tree that may in Summer wear
A nest of robins in her hair;
Upon whose bosom snow has lain;
Who intimately lives with rain.
Poems are made by fools like me,
But only God can make a tree.

Joyce Kilmer 1888_1918
(For Mrs. Henry Mills Alden)

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Poem Submitted: Saturday, August 5, 2006

Poem Edited: Monday, August 23, 2010

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