Best Worm Poems
Behind a chair
Below a desk
with my bare feet on a wall, in my flannel pajama or a wet swimming suit,
With my hands on my peanut butter and jelly toast,
marmalade, not cherry or anything else
Next to an ocean, ignoring the smell,
Lying in a hammock or in the grass, even on a sandy gritty beach towel.
Listening to children’s giggles, being dripped on
by wet swimming suits running past
I can devour a pile of books.
History, science, animal facts, jokes, limericks, Dr. Seuss, Shel Silverstein, Coleridge, Poe.
When one grabs me and throttles me to pay attention I am lost….
I am no longer a mere mortal.
I am in a microscope, under a kitchen floorboard, in a tulip’s leaf,
I am a faery, a T-rex, a Stormtrooper, a police detective.
In a treehouse,
High above my neighbors, not hearing them at all,
Yet subconsciously hearing everything,
I learned to be a book worm, reading Agatha Christie first….
Written 3-08-19
Contest: The Bookworm Poetry Contest Sponsor: Kai Michael Neumann
between pages
of biology book
prankster presses worm
AP: 3rd place 2020
Submitted on March 9, 2019 for contest THE BOOK WORM sponsored by KAI MICHAEL NEUMANN - RANKED 1ST
The distance between us is like a pencil line drawn on a page
like steam in air
like the drop of water that captures in its soul
the light
It is like water in the wash cloth
but also like that one ice cream drip that gets away and falls
Sometimes it is like the cool breeze that flutters the shears in the middle of the night
elusive ...beloved...treasured
like a kiss from the universe itself
it is like the suspended moment...the feeling of our foreheads touching
just before we give in ...to the kiss
You held my hand...listened to my every word
waited years to dance with me...to read to me...to tell me of your injuries
in the rear view mirror we are always surrounded by tiny glittering lights
fairy dust or is it mysticism twilight
our voices are strung up
like streamers across any room we have ever been in together
our foot steps glow and pulse wherever we have passed
the air respectfully swirls around our ghosts
but the distance you ask?
It is 70.1 miles from me to you...a graphite pencil line on a mapquest
but if you reach out you can grasp my hair in your hand and hold my head to yours
through the worm hole in the head of a pen
Velcro ripped and soda fizz
Velvet crushed Moroccan night
Nocturnal buterflies those flickering fireflies
Our winking spies like circling satelites
Coming together , we fissures of light
Delicious refrain we split like pomegranite
Love spinning round the sun and the planets
Mortally chiselled on tombstone of granite
Hark ! Who goes there this Luciferous night
Its only I with my faltering lantern
Dragging behind attached little light
Fallen firefly - slow creeping glow worm
Mid air flight hangs the hateful things we said
Farewell this, heres lookin' at you kid
Apple Worm
Golden Delicious, Red Delicious, Empire, Fuji, Gravenstein, apples
They say an apple a day keeps the Doctor away
But
One worm can destroy a whole bushel of good apples
By: Eve Roper 12/18/2015
Poetry, look!
A free worm* crawls on you hand!
The French always tended to invent
all sorts of nasty things:
freedom, equality, fraternity,
French fries, free verse.
When I was a small and ardent poet,
I worshipped rhymes
and denied a free verse the right to be called
poetry.
With time I grew up and cooled down,
as evidenced by the lack of rhymes herein.
Don't swat! Let it crawl.
Give the worm a chance to turn into
a butterfly.
* “Free verse” is derived from the French “vers libre” which can be translated as “free worm”, (fr.) ver – worm.
14.11.2019
Free Verse Vs Structured Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Line Gauthier
Sunrise, a
lighter shade of gray
replaced a starless black.
Pines stand sketched -
one dimensional and sad,
shrugging - not knowing
if the day is
worthy of a smile.
While a robin adds
another twig to its
tightly woven hopes
as instinct whispers,
Worm hunting is always better
on a rainy morning.
It sees your mind as tempting fruit
So little worm goes in pursuit.
It's been let loose to burrow deep,
While you’re awake or in your sleep.
Your subconscious, it work upon
So you ne’er know it’s been and gone.
With clever seed sown in your mind
Your thought patterns are re-defined.
Subliminal, is this worm’s name.
Manipulation is the game.
the land of the free
except for that ovary~
a ten thousand dollar finders fee
***
Tweet tweet tweet
I hear the birds speak
I wonder what they say
Perhaps it’s a song
Or a prayer strong
To welcome golden day
The sunshine glows
And wouldn’t you know
By their cheerful chirps
Perhaps they’ve learned
To get the early worm
And whistle while you work
I lay here nude
Enjoying their tune
Of rainbow inflections
Tan ceiling fan on
Creating my own song
Sunny disposition suggestion
Good morning soupers
May you all be troupers
As you earn that early worm
May you keep hope
With or without clothes
As the world turns
*Photo I took tonight, but it always comes in blurry here, when I upload it.
Here is the arrival of the worm full moon
Rising in the sky like a big balloon
Peeking through the tree branches above
Spreading brightness from a globe of love
Up in the sky tonight, take a look
Captured in the photo I just took
Heidi Sands
3/9/20
There once was a worm who lived in an Apple,
he lived there, and quite comfortably.
He found dirt deplorable,
but Apples, adorable!
The rent was affordable,
and cheap!
There once was a worm who lived in an Apple,
he lived there and never came out.
"This is my Apple coreable,
nothing I love moreable,
life outside's ignorable!"
he'd pout.
There once was a worm who lived in an Apple,
he lived there and liked it just fine.
Sometimes, rain would pourable,
with great thunderstormables,
and when the wind roarabled,
he'd hide!
There once was a worm who lived in an Apple,
he lived there, but one sunny dawn.
He noticed the floorable,
which looked nice beforeable,
had become deformabled,
with rot!
There once was a worm who lived in an Apple,
he lived there, but was forced to leave.
And how he complained a lot,
till he saw an apricot,
and he did proclaim this thought;
"It is now that I see;
-that he who lives only inside his own head,
finds it is a small world indeed"!
I'm the worm Persephone’s minions found;
Blackbirds drinking from Apollo’s brewery
Warbled their songs into my gloomy bedroom,
For the Feast of Spring.
New verse created 6 April 2015 for Sapphic Stanza #3 contest
Contemporary and vast in imagination is the girl lost in her own world.
Concealed between the paragraphs and ink typed pages of the book.
Remain cross-legged, as if in meditation, toes tickled by grass.
Here the battle of yin and yang, good and evil, is not waged but in balance.
Falling from the tree to rest in her lap is the red apple.
Just like the plot of a book; within and eating it's way to the outside is the worm.
Weaving in and out of the core, consuming the plot, is the worm.
Pulling the reader through the red shiny skin into its world.
Hours could fly by hidden and protected by the apple.
The letters purge into a blur and no longer seen is the book.
Hero, villain, and romance achieve their balance.
Feet sprout roots into the grass.
Becoming immobile with the soft cushion; short bladed grass.
Breaking through one skin and into another goes the worm.
Coursing through the bloodstream, distorting balance.
Eyelids fall as if to be curtains closing out the remaining world.
The key to the gates lay open; the book.
Perched on left knee baring one hole; the apple.
Slipping through the tendrils of a dream riding aboard an apple.
Wings flapping on either side, improvised as grass.
The landing pad looms in front; an open book.
Waving a light for a signal and a hand for hello the worm.
Created solely by the subconscious is this world.
Hitting the pages stumbling from the stem with lost balance.
Skin melting red spilling into the pages; colorless becomes the apple.
Brandishing a pencil, he begins to build a new world.
Kneeling in the grass,
Coloring in the apple purple is the worm.
Dancing in circles around and upon the open book.
When finished, he nods slowly and closes the book.
The scales return to their balance.
Burrowing deep into the apple goes the worm.
Once purple and now red again is the apple.
The roots from feet recede from the grass.
Opening eyes back into the already created world.
Reaching complacency within the world of a book.
The grass, a support for balance.
Leaving the door ajar of the purple apple, waving a sad goodbye to the worm.
As frost melts
Revealing green grass
Sparrow finds fat worm