OHH!!! You Incessant Insect..
You make it hard to direct my energy,
Positively, Peacefully.
Why do you keep pestering me?
Investigating every inch,
Of what you can see.
I'm feeling the pinch,
The sting,
Them little legs Tickling,
In my hairs wiggling.
My hands are waving,
Slapping.
My Nerves are snapping,
I must be over reacting.
They must be attacking,
I'm retracting,
Packing my things.
Through the sound ,
Of buzzing wings.
Emotions are raising,
It's so FRUSTRATING.
Then my Heart Sings,
As Nature brings,
It's smallest and bravest,
Insects, here to test,
The patience of her subjects.
What we reflect,
Through are reflexes.
As my energy progresses,
Through this session.
Present in the sensitivity,
And bravery,
Of the incessant Insects,
Directing me.
In my dream, a wise old man reads my palm and then warns me of
apocalypse, sufficient turbulence to wake me up dizzy with sweat and fear.
God, where is your saving grace? I then notice the clock on my table: 3:45.
Is life worth living, and saving? Countless ideas circle my head, like so many wolves smelling blood. I fall sleep again, only to dream I'm a headless scarecrow in the field waving the vultures away, but only for a moment, and each time they grow bolder, hungrier for my flesh rotting under the sun, until finally I close my eyes and bid farewell to the world, feeling the pinch of vultures' bites, until nothing but bones remain and I'm handed a pen again to write my own obituary, with nice self-fulfilling words like 'courage under fire' and loving husband and father, a true patriot. But, wait the ink is out and I now dip it in my own blood, to venture a word of caution: approach death with blinking light, it might issue you a hefty ticket.
In Pamplona at the Running of the Bulls folks will cheer,
stampeding through the Spanish city as fast as they go.
The great kick some people get running with bulls in the rear
may be a matador’s dream, but it’s one I’ll forego.
In nightmares I’m racing, feeling the pinch of their horns,
I break into night sweats because I fear being trampled
and then I awake feeling like my butt’s stung by thorns.
(It’s not an experience you’d choose to repeat once sampled.)
Few of us have mastered the skills a matador has honed;
many injuries and even deaths have been reported,
so my trip to Spain once planned has now been postponed.
Instead to a Caribbean villa I’ll be transported.
As I lie on a beach holding a pina colada,
I’m sure I’ll catch 40 winks and the dream will repeat.
And I’ll ponder how Spain invaded with their armada
when this centuries old race left some trampled on the street.
*Written February 8, 2012 for Paula’s “Trample” contest
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