It was the rat and the snake that ate each other.
It was the love in them.
It was the buttercup and the lupine that devoured the bees.
It was the insectivore legs that tilled the crumbling fields.
It was the crumbling fields that carried the legless off.
It was the fox that shook its head that sprayed red.
It was the upright shadow that wrote a crooked bible.
It was the moth that ate the angel – the angel with no mouth.
It was the angel with no mouth that spoke the loudest,
It was the love in him.
Categories:
insectivore, poetry,
Form: Free verse
A bat cries differently,
eats fruits,
gliding, hanging insectivore,
Jackal-Kite, living mammal, nursing offspring, pup , quarrelsome, rodent species, terrible, umbrella vampire, winged xebec, yearn zoo .
Categories:
insectivore, 1st grade, 2nd grade,
Form: ABC
Blurry eye balls - up to it close.
Right there
clinging
on the screen door swinging.
Mantis, a big bug come to mind-prey,
or are you praying to come inside?
A plus size Insectivore
at my door
basking in its own eerie light.
A deadly beautiful grin
wants to come in.
We are not alone
green aliens abound,
have been around
clinging to this spinning Earth
for all their worth.
Mantis-like, they have parked
their flying craft in our brains.
My blurry ball of sight - blinks.
I see you!
I see how you burgle my mind
then crunch it up
in your mechanical jaws.
You can't fool me -
I tremble at your stillness,
beat the air with my fist
but
you're always there
until you magically disappear.
Your black eyes bulge
at my fuzziness,
pierce through
my soggy-eyed vision
like it's me,
me that's the weird one!
Categories:
insectivore, poetry,
Form: Free verse
A black fly in midwinter
has burgled the warm air of the kitchen.
It struggles for height,
a brittle-winged air-bender
reaching for plateaus,
higher footstools,
grasping for spice shelves
or the slope of a slick cooker hood.
The splutter
of an over-revved engine,
the bolted clicking of insectivore plates.
Up it lifts again
turning like a wounded helicopter
only to crash-land
on a dish of cooling porridge.
Mired, it scoops gravity out
from a clogged exoskeleton
staggers to a porcelain edge.
Heavy airfoils battle a steam laden air.
Its weight now cannot be sustained.
It falls to the hard kitchen floor
spins disorientated on its back.
A dervish dance.
Sibilant thunder-claps
of a now dismantled buzzing.
Will it try again
to lift its wreckage?
Between the paused silence
of a ticking wall-clock
a burnt-out fuselage trembles.
Nothing disembarks.
Categories:
insectivore, poetry,
Form: Free verse
A winter sun doodles dandy-long legs shadows
over my eyelids.
Closed eyes from the glare, now
an insectivore brush of fine shadow hairs.
Knuckles rub eyeballs until they water.
Sunlight jumps into the day again
plays 'hide and seek' around passing clouds.
A patchy sky dumps a snow flurry
down the back of coat.
Squirm, wet spine, squirm.
Do a little dance with tingling toes.
"A daddy-long-legs is not a spider,
though it is an arachnid
related to the scorpion family."
Later on, mind winces upon reading this.
Sun shadows akin to scorpions,
not a thought to play with
when your back is still damp
and cringing.
Categories:
insectivore, poetry,
Form: Free verse
A winter sun doodles dandy-long legs shadows
over my eyelids.
Closed eyes from the glare, now
an insectivore brush of fine shadow hairs.
Knuckles rub eyeballs until they water.
Sunlight jumps into the day again
plays 'hide and seek' around passing clouds.
A patchy sky dumps a snow flurry
down the back of coat.
Squirm, wet spine, squirm.
Do a little dance with tingling toes.
"A daddy-long-legs is not a spider,
though it is an arachnid
related to the scorpion family."
Later on, mind winces upon reading this.
Sun shadows akin to scorpions,
not a thought to play with
when your back is still damp
and cringing.
Categories:
insectivore, poetry,
Form: Free verse
It has been unusually warm.
The thigh rubbing music
of insectivore prophets
has continued deep into October.
I write in my journal:
now I can shed the flesh
of my animal soul.
Later I draw a doodle
of a hanging man.
In the park
an old woman in a brown coat.
Her hair is sparse.
When she speaks
twigs rattle in her mouth.
She asks
“Have you seen my pretty father?”
What she said to me
(the sound of it),
beats against my breast
like the blows of a child's fist.
Categories:
insectivore, poetry,
Form: Free verse