Faint,
spark,
smothered,
frail flicker,
doused by wanton strafe,
of bogus blitz on firefly swarm,
whose sintered flecks luminous once a mint meadow rash,
fetid stench on sombre marsh morgue deathly plummet in wet woodland, squelching plot interred,
winsome wing glow worm surreal,
larval lantern love, a spring twilight trail flash mate signal in mid-flight flare, haphazard helix of red flame,
lightning mimicry from maiden whose passion quest quenched querulous by nightmarish callous earthling hand clamped coffin dull click, twilight yellow, blue ghost, witching hour green tint spectaclenow grave entombment, mourning planet sheds tears
Monarchs, monarchs
in the milkweed,
flitting around
along with bees.
Drinking nectar,
drifting along,
until cold months,
then they’ll be gone.
Brilliant orange,
streaked through with black,
regal flyers,
their name is apt.
Dropping their eggs,
small, larval seed,
on plants in which
they’re young can feed.
See so many
this time of year,
zipping around
rabbits and deer.
Monarchs, monarchs,
thing all their own,
come back next month,
they’ll all have flown.
Larvae of certain Butterflies
exhibiting a real surprise :
eating only mulberry leaves ,
though it is too hard to believe !
Larvae silkworms , that special !
Mulberry trees truly crucial
in their typical life cycle,
necessarily means own style.
Larval stage is caterpillar
chewing leaves, so peculiar !
Metamorphosis on next step
butterfly taking its nice shape !
All butterflies follow this norm.
to attain its full mature form,
chewing leaves as caterpillar
but butterfly sipping nectar.
This is the natural story
but for silk worm category
Mulberry leaves : only selection
They were left no other option.
I know it started skin-deep. Pull! In love I fell.
Charm gave kinetic kick; Unique magical spell!
I don't negate the touches; Tea to refresh!
Did we not rise above our hunger of the flesh?
Did I impose any constrain? Did I demand?
To fulfill my desires, did I ever command?
Did I receive more and gave very miserly?
Did I not bestow you liberty entirely...?
I reserved no gains in you for my egotism,
Offered myself with an absolute altruism;
Flawless perfection was not that in you I sought,
It's toward honest love that I had always fought...!
Your waiting for hours for me to come back to deign,
Waiting on me while ill, midst your physical pain;
Staying close when rich; in penury still closer,
In times of troubles you became poise-composer...!
This is why our love, today, has turned true marvel,
Resurrecting and reviving from stages larval;
Passions, like reservoirs of nectar, brim-filling,
Our life has been tree near streams, in freshness thrilling...!
11 August 2022
Strong Emotions Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Emile Pinet
tadpoles growing in a pond
anxious for the great beyond
decreased numbers, fairly grim
takes too long to grow a limb
hiding from the larger fish
trying not to be a dish
feeding on the larval flies
protein bars in strange disguise
gain a voice before you croak
caught up in a ghastly joke
wishing you could wave a wand
hop out of this brackish pond
finally you climb a log
live your days out as a frog
in the water for a rinse
back on lookout for your prince
Just one more chance to mate.
He flies around the pond,
But now the season's late.
Will females still respond?
He perches on a stem,
To search for females free,
Maybe in nearby swarm.
He's up and off to see.
Then one comes up close by.
He sets off at a pace,
Gives her the eye to eye.
They find secluded place,
And join to form heart-wheel
By pond where eggs will hatch.
Now he makes her fertile.
She starts to lay her batch.
The mating now complete,
They each go their own way.
And others separate.
All back to swarm to play.
The eggs left on their own
Soon turn to larval form,
And then when they're full grown
Take off to join the swarm.
I’m a titch like a detritivous dust-mite,
Yet taller than a boiler-hauled trawler.
Little like the winter mice’ whittling bites,
Brained bigger than a floor-fallen brawler.
I have stories smaller than memoried whales,
More shallow than trills of the trenches they’ve seen.
But my weather is the wind in their tow'ring tails,
And we're tuned by the lies laid by those same submarines.
One day I'll be sea-sized and shaled with loot;
I'll look fond through palm fronds as poor as a pond.
A tale in the gauze jaws of larval brutes,
When lures limped by my eyes too small to respond.
I will be brassy like cows chewing dew,
Strange like your mammalian four-legged desk.
In my dray I feel sometimes I'm not in life's stew,
And I’ll be smaller in there than the lonely drones grown,
by cells of electricity in Battersea's beastly eggs.
Mastered Puppets
Of the voices thrown and never shown their cries travel well
A starving sewn with a bitter bone of their life a quiet quell
With larval lips that are losing grips where echoes only dwell
Their smile drips as they use their fingertips in a yielding yell
Left alone with a grunting groan their silence slaved to seal
Ruling the hunger zone a thirst on throne with a musty meal
Voices held captive and anguish adaptive with souls of steal
Their reality refractive with dreams inactive they still congeal
Mastered and strung with a tangled tongue they begin to pray
A heart hung and death unsung, wounded words they convey
With tears they wash as the sorrows squash their moral display
The sounds that swash in their postured posh soon fade away.
June.18.2018
Ventriloquist Poetry
Sponsored by: Anthony Slausen
The larval stage that insinuates
a protective agony made of silk
Interlaces incipience quilted diametrically
Which twitches against cogitation and reasoning closing in...
The same as guilt
Or what guilt started as.
Unforeseen contingency's photo flash
An illusion based on disappointment.
Crime.
Each searching for a way to Each searching for a way to multiply
Or the beauty to escape life's cocoon
without wings.
Moving without strings guided towards confusion.
The maze made of milk.
So I tell myself, "Everything will be OK."
But why do I feel worthless...
When what I'm getting is good for me?
Surprise! Feelings don't change until you do
Society fakes the facade as usual
And crime stays...
So I use words as wings and fly, fly away.
2/4/2016
These big mother mayflies
spend larval lives in mud
eating detrital crud,
then molt and take to skies
to mate, lay eggs and die
hand on to newer blood.
Freedom's brief days passed
water phase starts anew
next cycle to accrue.
From time's undying past
through eons have they last,
each generation true.
Delectable to trout,
match the hatch or you're out.
Inspired by John Gerrach's Sex, Death and Flyfishing
Mid-spring, skinny, black, blind
eastern tent caterpillars -
Malacosoma americanum -
falling from the cherry tree
leaning, human, over our deck.
Irksome. Mash and kick
them with my feet, continue
practicing or reading.
Three weeks later, reading
late at night. Heavy-bodied
black-eyed, reflexed antennae -
many hundreds of moths
crave the lamplight, some attaining
extinction through cracks
around the window screen. Vexing.
Until next morning, I look
up the name that has eluded me
all spring and early summer.
The single-minded moth and larval colony -
one small monophony.
Go love your rainbow falling from trees
Your spectral forests stripped of leaves
Stark branches fingering the sun's eye
The little deciduous garden waiting to die, and dappled ground appalled
I will praise the days of fainting breeze
The hurricanes swallowed by the fog, my shack at ease
I will praise the days of sea's white gnashing
At the gull swirling above the perilous fish
And the children tumulting in larval greed of freedom
As they come home from school. For dappled days, praise!
Autumn Splendour by David Smalling
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