Grubs Poems

Place in the Sun

to relive this place
the perfection of summer
absolute blue skies
crickets cheering bel cantos
spark birds plugging for lawn grubs
remain in warm suns
obedient girasols
leave darkness behind

Gardening

Dandelions have seeded the lawn,
butterflies come.

Hosts of weeds
have invaded the cabbage patch.
The earth is enriched.

Dog poop in the unkept grass
nourishes the plowing worms
and grubs.

Doing nothing,
I have achieved Zen.

Fire

a   r~a~g~i~n~g  beast that  r~o~a~r~e~d  loud through dry grasslands
e~m~b~l~a~z~o~n~e~d just like sunlight rays in forested  ~s~e~a~s~
   a glowing friend who radiates love's embrace
         a relentless enemy that rides on a wild horse

a beacon of hope that beams brilliant stories
                   for darkness to gleam and for b.r.i.g.h.t.n.e.s.s to awaken
a fierce warrior who pierces the dark night unscathed
yet still consumes the trees whole

in its vastness, water bows
the golden orange-red glove worn by darkness
when sojourning through a borderless furnace
yet b~u~r~n~i~n~g—like blue b.l.a.z.e.s

it still cooks the meals
        that kitchens conjure
              and still b~u~r~n~s grubs to a-s-h-e-s
when eyes s~l~e~e~p and noses go on vacation

we kneel for it to conflagrate better as a friend
than to stir with eyes as s.c.a.r.y as being trapped in a dark tunnel—
but in life's sojourn,
we can't but still welcome its f.i.e.r.y flavors...

Honey Bunch

a nectar
the garnered spit of worker bees

drops of undistilled wine
hive-mulled
dripped through the dropper
of hair-lipped lips

plants
dig themselves out
of a dry earth
to sup an opiate of life or death
fostering a flowering

manna delivers green
to the pale fat caterpillars

grubs fly away
to enrich
the open mouths
of graves

the thirsty wombs of
ants
hummingbirds
elephants

Safe and sound'

If you can help yourself.? And yet not harm another, you're doing real  well (dear sister dear brother!) If you can resist the pressure.? For it seems always to come.?? It sort of pops
Right up.' Then it's slander' And to spare..Also advice on how you might be missing out? Then some' and its
Because of the selfish..The cooker;  larrakin' or lout.? And who got hurt?? Well many roundabout..!!
 All normal people (the type who'd?) Well give it a go.' Ya know, that seems like me.?
Or even you.' Not evil just mis-guided.' When we think it through?? And so? who got rich? And
Like honoured and such? grubs like  joyce, Andrews, adern, mcgowan..Thats rough.) Yet wer're clever enough don't worry bout that, the real Aussies' ll sort it,  and that makes me feel glad' i reckon ten million; are now wide awake.' Bet they're fuming at that joke in 2020.?
Yeah it wasn't that great.' So now clear your minds, help the injured, protect young minds it's
A Billy a brewing,  you can almost taste the outpour, just keep working untill the cavalcades
Roar.' Thank God, He is patient

The Badger

The badger was digging all out, 
In search of some grubs, no doubt. 
With dirt flying high, 
He let out a sigh, 
And left quite a mess all about!

The old apple tree

It was pruned in Autumn  
now we can see new growth, 
New buds replacing old ones
Its too early for it to flower yet.

For the time being it will grow
and form new spurs to bear apples.
Leaves will appear in brilliant green
hiding from sight the robins nest.

There will be baby robins once more
with their blue breasts at first.
Gobbling up grubs hungrily
also fat balls and seeds.

Now the apple blossom spring's into life
delicate sprays of high perfume.
Vibrant colours decorate branches
once more life has come back.

The old tree will bear abundant fruits
in September fat large apples 
will be ready to harvest and
the old brambly tree has fulfilled expectations

Cicada Dreaming: Where have the cicadas gone? 2021

Cicada Dreaming was told to Roland Robinson in 1965 by Julia Charles of the Yoocum Yoocum clans from the area around Wollumbin in the headwaters of the Tweed River, Northern NSW and is used with permission. 

Tiny Dreamtime children, imprisoned in the earth, 
pierce the little tree roots to sip sap beneath the dirt. 

For seven years, cicada grubs, as they scratch and dig, 
keep getting so much bigger that they pop off their skins.

The final time they’re off and up: up a fence, up a trunk, up a shed.
Kids collect the shells they leave, stuck with claws on curling feet.

Buzz, buzz, buzz: cicada wings brush past my nose.
Their raucous chorus is a non-stop drone.

A thousand bodies cling on sticks and twigs and leaves.
Above my ringing ears their yellow wee rains down me.

Every year they deafen us. The noise is really bad -
crying for their mothers, screaming for their dads.

But, this year there are - none. 
I’m surprised that I feel sad.
Where have the mad things gone?

Yellow Mondays, Green Grocers,
Black Princes, Cherry Noses -

Much as they annoy me,
I hope that they’ll be back.

The Unbegun

The unbegun poem
is a tree root,
clinging to a whirlwind.

A stag hides,
in a thicket of hunters.

Nothing speaks,
where memory leaves no footprint.

The buried must uncover
a spade.

Grubs must sing with angels,
both are needed,
to denude the already naked.

In time,
if you give time freely away,
as if to a homeless hermit crab,
the unbegun will arrive,
in the jumbled wardrobe of mind,
seeking to be dressed
in any garments you have
previously rescued
from a dust storm.

Late Poems

The apples are old
only good for smelling.
They will rot
returning to the earth
via the city dump.
For now they fill the kitchen
with Autumnal tones
and woodland tints.

The rot of this season
abides in its ripe fruit.
Such edible fruits
that tempt the mouth only to deceive.
The berries and apples are too sumptuous;
so quickly on the tongue
do they decay.

In the waste pits
fat white grubs burst their pale skins
releasing all the ailing redolence
of the Fall,
a scent and fodder
for the sinking clumps and tuffets,
for all the mossy corpses
with their damp and lusterless
rags of mist.

Numbers

How many have died,
does anyone count?
Wars erupt, guts spill.
Under the churning soil
broken flesh turns to fodder.
Grubs grow fat
but who's counting?

My Lawn

My Lawn

My lawn is my garden it’s weeds you see.
In times of famine, it is food for me.
Grass may be pretty, so shiny and nice.
But it is only food to grubs and mice.

By
Josehf Lloyd Murchison

The Neighborhood Hoodlums

Crazy rabbits chomping on my lettuce
Deer eating the flowers right down to their nubs
Woodpeckers drilling right through the siding
Armadillos rooting in search of grubs

Squirrels trying to climb down the chimney
Possums and racoon dumping out the trash
Coyotes yip yapping all through the evening
Groundhogs under the shed hoarding their stash

Most times the back yard smells just like a skunk
The cat keeps bringing dead birds to my door
The neighborhood dogs bark when the wind blows
That’s country life in all of its splendor.

The Sunny Side of Skunks

After I thunk and I thunk and I thunk
      I thought of something good about skunks
    They eat grubs which ruin your yard

    'Course, the skunks dig your lawn up first
      Never mind ~ Kindly disregard

Jolly Holly, the Fisher Lady

* * * NOT HEADED FOR A CONTEST * * *


Jolly Holly wanted nothing more than to fish
In her entire life, she had made only one wish
All I need is a boat
One that will stay afloat
She had never been described as a sexy dish

Holly had other attributes. She sure could cook
And no one else was better at baiting a hook
With minnows and grubs
She stayed out of pubs
Because most men never gave her a second look

There was an air about her... not a pleasant one
It was a fishy smell that fellers liked to shun
Then one day she met Gus
A man, big as a bus!
He looked at Holly and said, "Take me fishin, hon."

Wasn't long, 'fore Gus moved in with Jolly Holly
The fished all day and made love each night, by golly
He married that lil lass
On a boat, catchin' bass
Got a collie and twin girls, Molly and Polly

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