A Prairie Home Companion from American Public Media: Spring Lyric Contest

In addition to the finalists, GK and company read these poems on the air March 31, 2007 as part of the Spring Lyric Contest.

"La canción de la rana/The Frog Song" by Lucy Howard of Darlington, MD
(a bilingual song celebrating spring "peepers" in the U.S. and Guatemala)

Bajo la luna,
entre las ramas,
canta la rana su rapsodia plateada.
y las nubes tan altas
se bajan del cielo
encantadas por su canción.

Rana hermosa,
rana del bosque,
guardas el secreto de nuestra Tierra.
Eres un regalo.
Por eso, eres sagrada
como todo lo que Dios ha creado.

Under the moon,
among the branches,
sings the frog her silver rhapsody.
And the clouds so high
come down from heaven
enchanted by her song.

Beautiful frog,
frog of the forest,
you guard the secret of our Earth.
You are a gift.
and that's why you're sacred
like all that God has created.

"The Garden Froze Again" by Justin O'Quinn of Spring Hill, TN
(To tune of Willie Nelson's "On the Road Again")

The garden froze again
Springtime is here the garden froze again
The life I love is puttin' plants into the ground
But I can't wait 'n the garden froze again
The garden froze again
Bein' the same way that I've always been
Weather channel warns me time and time again
But I can't wait 'n the garden froze again
The garden froze again
Like a band of junkies we run to the home store
Buy more plants again
Insisting that a freeze won't happen no more
But once more
The garden froze again
Springtime is here the garden froze again
The life I love is puttin' plants into the ground
But I can't wait 'n the garden froze again
Garden froze again
Like a band of junkies we run to the home store
Buy more plants again
Insisting that a freeze won't happen no more
But once more
Garden froze again
Springtime is here the garden froze again
The life I love is puttin' plants into the ground
But I can't wait 'n the garden froze again
But I can't wait 'n the garden froze again

"Nature Poem" by Barbara Reiher-Meyers of Ronkonkoma, NY
(This can be sung to the tune of "Ta Ra Ra Boom- De-Ay" if that's legal. If not, you can thank me for planting the tune in your head, to resound for the next few days.)

It's poison ivy time;
get out the calamine.
It's not my favorite vine.
See how the blisters shine.

I'm itchy and forlorn.
It grows upon my lawn
from dusk to early dawn.
How I wish it was gone.

Three very shiny leaves
each Spring are my pet peeve.
The presents I receive
just spread and will not leave.

It makes my temper rise
when blisters grow in size.
I fight it as it tries
to creep up on my thighs.

"kudzu" by Kim Bertucci of Gretna, LA

i love you like kudzu come new in spring
blanketing everything in morning dew
when the bud's new
the doves coo
this bud's for you
for you thrill my eyes
like fireflys flashing their surprise
crashing into sunrise

i want to hug you like ground cover
smother you in love
grown like april vine
entwine your fine body
in purple flowers oozing koolaid wine
hide you from the frying sun
from prying everyone
make you mine while I die
nourish your spirit
in the rich mulch
of my vernal ambition

i love you like kudzu
i want to hug you
i want to cover you
i want to smother you
feel your depth
steal your breath
i want to bathe you
in koolaid dew
to fool you
block the sun
hide you from everyone
in the tangle of my love

i love you like the mud do the weed
i love you like the bud do the seed
i love you like kudzu do
mississippi pine trees

Untitled poem by Peter French of New Castle, VA

Winter's away.
The cold winds pass.
The outhouse seat's warm
On the old man's ass.

Spring arrives.
No more huffs and burrs.
Hard nipples gone
and I don't mean hers).

We stare at the stars,
Listen to the tree frog sing,
Smell the blossoms on air,
And share the thoughts they bring.

Look to the forest.
The sap rises in the tree.
A pinch and a pat
And the sap rises in me!

"Water Table (South Dakota Yellow Mud on Velcro Shoes)" by Suzanne Scholten of St Paul, MN

V1
The water table is high.
It's a bad spring to die.
Your ashes'll mix with the mud and the hogs feet
or you'll float right out of your grave like Bill did.

The water table is high.

V2
It's hard to keep from playing
out where the fish are dead in the field.
Stay near on the gravel road.
Don't loose your shoes in the gumbo.

Don't loose your shoes
in the gumbo.

V3
When Sweetheart's mom used to walk down Main Street
all the cars'd start bumping up on the curb.
She'd wear her clothes so tight.
Her red hair'd start em fighting.

Her red hair
made the minister's face pink.

V4
Put a lot of butter on your plate.
You get your coffee weak. That's how they make it.
And you get all the cream and sugar you want.
Don't waste your money on a piece of pie.

It's just as sweet
as a piece of pie.

V5
And you can smell the rabbits out in the ditch.
You can put red in the eyes of the bad neighbor kid.
Sneak into his backyard
and steal his christmas toys.

He don't use em.

V6
The road is wet and dark honey brown.
Everybody else is talking to folks out in town.
But you beat your dog to the mailbox with your bare feet.
One hand on your hat
and the other on the leash.

You're faster
than your dog.

V7
Keep the fire on me.
Keep my skin dry.
I don't want to feel that i'm sweating.
I don't want to feel the rain
that got in my eyes.

Don't you kick sand in the fire.
Don't you kick sand in the fire.

The water table is high.

The water table is high.

"When Spring Has Sprung" by Scott Willis of Murfreesboro, TN

When Spring has sprung my allergies
Try and get the best of me
Those histamines begin to rise
And start to irritate my eyes

My nose, my sinuses and such
Affect my breathing very much
The headache and the pressure mount
This problem I just can't surmount

I love the Spring don't get me wrong
Flowers bloom with birds' sweet song
The winter chill just fades away
But I know soon I'll have to pay

Prescriptions seem to help a bit
But allergens they never quit
My body must be like a sponge
It soaks it up when Spring has sprung

Untitled poem by Kris Fedro of Bozeman, MT

I sit in the corner of my front porch, where it captures and holds the sun.
The sky is Italian Renaissance blue, with a scatter of brilliant clouds.
Last autumn's aspen leaves skitter about in a swirl of cool breeze.
My Barbie pink bike waits in the sun
at the base of the porch stairs.
Her black vinyl comfort seat self-heats
on days like today.
We recall foolhardy winter spins, careful tires navigating frozen ruts.
But today, it's spring, and we will ride fast and reckless along the creek through the perfume of budding cottonwoods.

"A Bed of Roses from St Paul" by Jay Nuckols of Bellvue, CO

I want first to tell you why
Humble as my poem my be
A new bed for my love and I
Means everything to me

It was in days of autumn time
The year two thousand five
That my true love did say to me
No longer yours am I

She gave her self to another man
A charlatan for sure
And thru the dark of winter time
My heart did sorely mourne

But now the spring awakeneth
And like the phoenix past
As wildflowers raised from prairie fire
Our souls back home at last

She laid him in the bed 'twas ours
And there in lies the catch
That while my love is with her still
I dare not lie there twice

So if it be thy will O Lord
Let this your answer be
A Bed of Roses from St Paul
Will cleanse this stain from me

"Rocky Mountain Spring" by Teresa Williams of Texas Creek, CO

Spring has sprung
The cows are full of dung
The flowers are so much wiser
Waiting, still, for the last snow in fertilizer
The robins have arrived at the bird feeder
To have their great feast
You'd think they'd get full
But their feeding never has ceased

Last winter's grizzly bear whose hug was feared by all
Is now a huge hanging on the wall
Squirrels that were bundled up in their pine nest
Are now aerobic clowns, wild and free

So tired of layers of cloths and heavy boots
Barefoot in the grass with a light breeze
that sounds like fluttering wings
Time to leave and fallow the deer
To see if I can find the antlers they drop this time of year
Rocky Mountain spring is a time of such fun
To plant,
And play,
And soak up the sun
Once again, it has begun

Untitled poem by Rose Lundblad of Huntington Beach, CA

Poets will muse about the coming rebirth
Gardeners will rejoice in tilling the earth
For me, Spring is when I stand up and shout
It's time for cookies, find me a girl scout

Red robins reappear after a long time away
Daffodils bloom to brighten the day
The crocus, the lily, they all stretch toward the sun
I can't stop eating Thin Mints until the box is done

Streams flow again breaking through months of ice
My winter coat I abandon without thinking twice
The days become longer with more time to see
That Samoas and Tagalongs mean way too much to me

Trees that were once bare are now covered in green
The snow has disappeared as if it were all just a dream
Spring is for new life and extends to us hope
But it's dozens of Do-Si-Dos that help me to cope

I haven't a chance to control, you see
This craving, this hunger, this necessity
Winter keep your Twinkie, your Ho-ho and Ding-dong
Loving Spring's Peanut Butter Patties can never be wrong

Untitled poem by Lorna Tinoco of Superior, WI

Here I sit, scratching my head,
It's 3 a.m, and I'm trying to write a poem to win a bed

Spring is arriving, and I have fear,
My little Grandkids will be coming and there's no bed here

The smell of spring flowers and fresh scent of rain,
used to bring joy, but now brings pain

Cause my back is aching and I'm starting to slouch,
Since I don't have a bed, but only the couch

Spring means hope and all things new,
I've tried not to give up, but it's hard to do

I've prayed for money all winter until I am red,
Just so I can buy a queen size bed

Maybe God doesn't hear me, the world's chaos is shrill,
But I'm so hoping The Prairie Home Companion, will

Untitled poem by Kristin Dennis of Louisville, KY

Spring has sprung
The bees ain't swarmin'
I wonder if it's global warmin'

"Odor to Joy: The Outhouse" by David Hoffman of Danville, VA

As spring arrives, the thoughts of winter's past
Long venture down the snowy path to "ply
My business" are long lost. For now, at last,
The path is clear when nature's call draws neigh.

In winter, late at night, a person tries
To wait 'til morn to walk that path of snow.
By 10 the outside temps reach milder highs;
The dial reads 5 degrees, not 10 below.

When spring the outhouse is a brighter place,
This question lurks deep in the path lad's soul:
"What creatures lurk in that dark putrid space
Beneath my flesh, beneath that rounded hole?"

While walking down the path the mind will parse
The odds that something there will bite my arse.

"My Favorite Things" by Ken Mogren of Winona, MN

Lilacs and yard sales and baseball and fishin'
All Winter long it's for these we've been wishin'
Tulips in bloom and the colors they bring,
These are a few of the joys that are Spring.

Temperatures rising and days getting longer,
Cute baby robins eat worms and grow stronger,
Crews that fix potholes out doing their thing,
These are a few of the joys that are Spring.

When the cold bites. When the sleet stings. When my toes are numb.
I simply remember the joys that are Spring,
And then I don't feel so glum.

Grass turning greener and dandelions growing,
Soon twice a week all our lawns will need mowing,
Tadpoles that croak and the songs the birds sing,
These are a few of the joys that are spring.

Picnics with hot dogs and beer and Doritos,
Without still unhatched blood-thirsty mosquitos,
Manure covered fields and the fragrance they bring,
These are a few of the joys that are Spring.

When the cold bites, When the sleet stings. When my toes are numb.
I simply remember the joys that are Spring.
And then I don't feel so glum.

Untitled poem by Donna Coleman of Northbridge, MA

Saturday morning
walking with the dog.
Cold skimming my cheeks,
inhabiting my lungs.

I marvel.
I am alive.
I am in forward motion.

Another week in corporate America
has been managed.
One of foolish mandates, urgencies,
and deadlines.

A week like most others,
sucking in my soul each Monday,
spitting it out Friday evening.

Now, amid budding tendrils,
squawking blackbirds,
silent gliding mallards,
greenidescent,
the frenzy of career is dissipated,
a vapor of the dawn.

Spring has survived too.
Yes, it can be a fickle lover.
Warm breezes caressing a neck;
back turned in coldness.

I embrace it all,
a balm for my existence.

Ahead
the trees and swamp
are my friends, constant and forgiving.

Nurtured,
I may be able to face the week, again.

"The Winter's Back is Broken or: Ode to Spring (song)" by Molly Lewis of Portland,OR

This original song was composed by my grandpa, Ed Heyde, many many years ago and sung doggedly by the entire family right around the first glimmers of spring. We continue to add verses year after year.

Chorus:
The winter's back is broken, the snow and ice are past. This warm rain doth betoken that winter cannot last.

Verses:
I saw some buds upon a tree,
They winked and smiled and said to me...

(chorus)

The bugs and beetles too are here,
I heard them say, "the coast is clear."

(chorus)

A man got out his garden tools,
But as you know men are such fools...

(chorus)

The kids are going without their boots,
They'll soon be having runny snoots...

(chorus)

It's still too wet for me to mow,
Despite this fact the lawn will grow...

(chorus)

The slugs are leaving trails of slime,
They'll eat those blossoms in no time...

(chorus)

The daphne's blooming look and see,
I hope it's not a trick on me...

(chorus)

It must be spring I see the plants,
Into the kitchen march the ants...

(chorus)

There are more verses to this song,
But even now it's far too long...

(chorus)

"Third Month Abroad" by Jeff Crandall of Seattle, WA

This morning as the sun rips wide
the mists in the valley and flings
its heat across every building face,
the pigeons in their pigeonholes
are cooing and moaning
in that loud, obscene way pigeons do.

I break open the bedroom window
shocked by the blow of vivid Tuscan air,
by the scent of newly budding leaves,
dazzled by the finches' aerial interplay,
the chitter and chirp of all the unseen
peepers in the trees below.

All night long two cats howled.
When I walk through the noon town
and school has just let out, everywhere
on the low edges of the city walls
the fair-skinned couples sit, murmuring
in the most obvious of frontal embrace.

All I want to do is press back
the pouring sunlight
firmly, with both hands.
The bedroom fills with a confluence
of pollen. The crocus, the violets, the wild
iris in the spring fields all purple.

With a stick I knock at the terra-cotta sill
violently, "Get out of here!" The pigeons
scatter into the air, the amour
replaced by a flustering confusion.
I cannot endure their reckless, public
passion. And you so far away.

Read about all the Spring Lyric finalists...