A poem
by Chris hibbard

“In Blois, France, in 1851, a flint nodule was opened revealing a live frog, which instantly began to breathe and then jumped away to escape. The workmen, however, managed to catch it and put it back into the nodule and sent it to the Society of Sciences. When the frog was studied, it was found that it liked to be in the dark and would just stay still, but when the room was lighted it would try and run away. When the frog was placed on the edge of the flint nodule, it would always crawl back into the hole of its own accord. It was also noticed that the frog took particular care of of its foot that had been injured during the opening of the nodule. It was found that the cavity fitted the frog like a glove and the frog’s mouth had a permanent indentation in the jaw, caused by resting on a small ledge in the nodule.” (source:

(Author’s note: This is an epic poem inspired by such a strange occurrence.)



I’ve read somewhere
(damned if I can remember where)
that from time to time
they’ve found rocks that when broken
reveal a small green frog
alive inside

I don’t know how the frogs get there
Perhaps they crawl in when young
and then can’t or won’t get out again
How do they eat?
How do they breathe?
Where do they defecate?
I’m really not sure about the facts
It should suffice to say
that it’s just one of nature’s little miracles
that occasionally rocks will be broken open
to reveal small green frogs living inside them

What’s it like, I wonder,
to be a frog living in a rock?
Isolated and solitary
Lonely and disorienting
Or might it be intoxicating
in it’s sensory deprivation
Extravagant in its seclusion?

Think of the power
To be a giant in a universe built around you
When there is nothing more important than you
A god
Everything else swirls and whirls around your gravity
Planets of sand and centuries of dust
Crushed beneath your mighty weight

Oceans of dew
and hordes of insects
are poured eternally
into your accepting body
Surely no emperor or king
has ever has such extravagance
To have every need catered to
and every wish divine reality

What’s it like for a frog
when her rock is removed
and the glorious light of the sun is finally revealed?
Would she be grateful?
Gaze in wonder at this awesome new world?
Or would she want to go back?

Imagine our poor dethroned frog god
Colossal ruler of the universe one moment
One tiny speck
on an atom
on a fleck
of the universe the next.
Would she be angry to have her fantasy stripped away from her?
Forced to face a blinding hot ball of fire
That taunts her
From so far away
Stabs her
with painful rays of truth

She could hide from the sun
if she wanted to
She could try to scurry away
into the safety of shadows
the shroud of night
She could try to force herself back
into another
if she wanted to
She could avold the sun
But could she ever forget about it?

Darkness is not the place for forgetting
Without light, there are only lifetimes of memory
Could she work up the courage
to confront her enemy?
Could she wrestle with the fear?
Could she step out into the dazzling day with trembling legs,
ready to meet the light
Not as feuding gods
but as fellow warriors?

It is nice to think
of this newly awakened frog
ready and willing to hop into a new life
The Unknown
but this time with purpose
To croak the message of this grand new world
to all the other secluded little green frogs
In rocks around the Earth

But even if she did decide
would the other frogs listen?
Be swayed by her message?
Discover newfound strength
in atrophied legs
and break from their prisons?
Or would they shut out her message
call her a pariah
a liar
a harbinger
To curl up asleep in their nice dark heavens?

Imagine a poor frog messiah,
knowing full well the lure of the shadows
yet constantly croaking
to a silent audience of rocks
She knows
But still she’s waiting
Waiting for the day
when the rocks begin to crack
and an army of young frogs
emerge from suspension in shells
and into the day.


~ by Chris Hibbard on October 31, 2008.

One Response to “Frogs”

  1. I love frogs. And I’m glad I’ve finally found a good poem about them. But you know, this could fit into a lot of other situations too. Like with diaries. They’re the rocks, and there are people who hide in them because it’s safe. But to really make a difference, you need to let all those ideas and reflections out and expose them to the world, which is just waiting to go at all that concentrated essence of self with a sledgehammer. And then you have to stand in front and protect it, all the while choosing what to accept from all the other concentrated essences of self the world is giving you.

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