Long Caterpillars Poems
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ME LADY THE SPIDER
There was once an arachnid, a colorful spider,
Who climbed up and down a ladder,
Her name was “Me Lady”,
Whose affection for males was somewhat shady.
Spinning her web for her babies, no doubt,
Hundreds and thousands of eggs she lay,
Moving sideways, spinning in and out all day.
“Me Lady” spun the most awesome webs,
Like an ocean – a tide comes in, then ebbs,
The envy of all the spiders in the woods
Magnificent colors, long spindly legs,
She enjoyed displaying these goods.
Their pantry needed filling, “Me Lady” alert,
A fly no had no chance, “Me Lady”would divert
Herself from the sticky place in the web,
But ants, moths, caterpillars, and the like,
Doomed, being a mother needed tenacity,
And required loads of energetic capacity.
Naturally, her specialty and choice, a cobweb.
Out of thousands of eggs, maybe a 100 survived,
To go off into the world and follow mom’s rules,
Out-living thousands of siblings was not for fools.
It's Monday
The day of the dead leaves and fresh flowers
The dry and wet hours
Like the other days
Of life and death
The desert and the lake
Thousands of the little ponds
The debris waiting for the mansion
Farmers stacking the hay
The trains that run every day
It's Monday
It's raining
As it rained last Friday too
The leaves whisper
With the caterpillars
The rivers playing football
The children of water
The toad is in laughter
The breezes leave rustles in the blades
The larks look on
The flood has robbed a family of life
The relatives weep
The rains stop a little and smile
The window down under my heart
Calls me
It was on a Monday too
Only yesterday as it were
Do you remember?
Your permanent shadow
Arrived on my canvas
The dream painting I am still doing
The rain got jealous
It came down on the shadows heavily
The time got flooded
As the water receded
A little plant raised its head
Got blended with my butter and bread
Moon-flower in the dream
The sunbeams woke me up
Whenever Monday is accompanied
By the rains
The pains of the window
Call me to you
With the windows holding the flowery hues
I look for the brushes
To pick the colour
For the shadows of the rustles
Slowly and softly
The gladioli
_____________________________
February 21, 2018
Rainy Days And Mondays - Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Silent One
two points of a straight line
birth and death needing a kiss
after plunging depths
dissolved scars, rock burns
drawings in mud or deserts
falling through dream arcs
crossing grids
ferocious or mundane —
the line between life’s breath
and cremated dust mutates
neutered circle wise
a revolution, all of life’s charms
arose then passed
pop goes weasel !
how to metamorphose is choice
as cave shadowed is lit
d e t a c h e d
Heart glorious rest ——
b l i s s ed
cares not that holy scripts are opaqued
misinterpreted or
pencil coloured rewrit
knew caterpillars are programmed to fly
babes destined to crawl, toddle, skip
somersault into tigers or
ascend as eagles from eggs
cracked, purified
ignorance limped before experience
patterns faded, disintegrated
or turned pages no more
sigils torn
as Spirit whispering lacy touched
quivering strings
thunder throating
our slumber shakes summoned
leaps of faith sweetly om om Oommm —-
lightning peeled
every covering
quilts discarded
wounds or weeping curled
feathers float luminous
settle at a nest
wide Love for all and ONE
undressed forever
w a r m e d
——————————-
sponsor : Unseeking Seeker
PREMIER CONTEST
placed 8th 2025
Summer is here - how I love this time of year! My garden’s filled with sweet scented wallflowers and pretty pansies. Vibrant butterflies are flitting from flower to flower and bees are busy buzzing, pollinating the xanthic melon and courgette flowers. Purple and pink petunias are cascading like a colourful waterfall from two wall baskets. I grab my gardening gloves and set to work with my red watering can giving the parched flowers a much needed drink. Using my garden kneeler is a blessing as I find weeding the fruit and vegetable patches is such backbreaking work!. As I'm weeding I listen to a blackbird singing sweetly as she bathes in the bird bath. I can't help smiling as a friendly robin redbreast flutters down next to me, pecking at caterpillars which are chomping away at the foliage. The summer sun is beating down and I am feeling exhausted, so it's time to sit in a deckchair and relax with a cooling drink, enjoying the natural beauty that surrounds me.
scarlet strawberries
ripe and ready for picking
scarecrow waves straw arms
Haibun contest
Sponsored by Mick Talbot
Entered into Favourite Poem of June 2018
Sponsored by Dear heart a.k.a Broken Wings
There is a good deal of poetic licence in the poem!
6/8/18
The basement is now a walk-down bistro.
I was told about the new use.
I dream now of yellow caterpillars on green leaves,
and green caterpillars on yellow leaves,
of the flake of flock wallpaper peeling in the night
the walls rustling with indwellers.
There are shadows rats, they molt
then by the dim light of dawn
are only bones under my mattress.
I wonder about that Bistro
does it close at 2 or 3 in the morning,
does it then rattle unseen
with the echoes of an asthmatic angst,
does it bloom with the bilious foliage
of wheezing lungs?
I can imagine its catchpenny lights,
its frontage blinking
with blue and yellow neon,
an electric fizz spitting statically.
I am at the table near the restroom
ready to run into the mold riddled closet
to shiver away hours of candle lit
psychosomatic creeps.
The patrons seem to be laughing
loudly at nothing at all,
my parents are screaming louder
just to be heard
they smash their words through slamming doors.
One shouts about never returning
but we all did, just at different times
when the clocks were changed to heartbeats.
I look out of the window,
there is no window - was no window
not to look out of
not to see clearly through
when the dank dark crawled forward
on its hundred and one legs.
Summer is a season of warmth and light,
imbued with color and sensual scents.
Green overshadows everything in sight,
when overjoyed campers start pitching tents.
Caterpillars morph into butterflies,
while the Brown-eyed Susans sway to and fro.
And cottony clouds polka-dot blue skies,
as soft breezes stir the treetops below.
Sounds of children laughing tickle the air,
as flashing fireflies set twilight aglow.
And sweet songbirds are chipping everywhere,
while rosebuds bloom and the hydrangeas show.
The subtle glow of Nature, in Her prime,
is the reason that Summer feels sublime.
Far out to sea in the great expanse of water an island lies
Shaped like a crescent or bulls horns called the islands of the moon.
White sands blown by gentle winds and washed by azure sea
Lush forests filled with abundant shrubs and every fruiting tree.
Animals roar and squeak some crawl and slither by
The cool thermal air with everything that can fly.
The outer ridge is like a sheer cliff wall where gannets dive,
While within the crescent is calm and peace as gentle breakers roll.
Clear green water with no weed clog shelter exquisite reef
Where turtles come ashore at night to lay their precious eggs.
Sea maids stretch out on the sands and sing their wandering song
And passing whales reply with notes ponderous and long.
Butterflies in glorious colour, cloud and gather in flittery throng
While hummingbirds buzz and sup sweet nectar juice all day long.
Caterpillars smoking hooka pipes sending smoky tendrils high,
Moths both small and mighty trying to be the best in the sky.
Within the central island a lough spreads and expands,
Where waterfowl of everykind swim with nests close at hand.
There is a mountain tall that towers over them all,
Caring and protecting from stormy weather squall.
His name is not known to mortals like you and I.
His children alone know to pronounce it you would die.
The islands of the Moon lie far out in the great sea,
Tales alone are all we know as no eye has ever seen.
Sailors, pirates and all who sail the mighty seas of the world,
Under darken sky and myriad star all tell of something odd
When on a misty night as the doldrums have taken hold,
Sometimes can be heard the song of sea maids bold.
To search all the seas would take a lifetime or more,
Better to be safe asleep in hammock till ye snore.
(C) Andrew Mcintyre
It was a lovely summer
the garden was filled with butterflies.
Whammy the caterpillar was full of joy.
He climbed the tallest stalk in the flower bed.
Maybe he could see the beautiful butterflies.
They might even play with him.
“Hello” he said
as he greeted a very colorful flutter by.
Poor Whammy was in for a huge disappointment.
She laughed at him,
called to all her butterfly friends.
She ridiculed Whammy
she actually called him an ugly crawly thing.
If it was anyone else but Whammy
this story may have had a disastrous ending.
Whammy just slid down
found his other caterpillar friends.
They all wanted to know about the butterflies.
Whammy told his friends that the flutter bys
were even more beautiful from close.
He said he was unfortunate
he met one who was mean and shallow inside.
That night Whammy prayed.
First he prayed that the flyer he met
would find the kindness
that was surely within her.
Then he prayed for other Caterpillars
who might have the same experience.
He knew that at first he felt bad
really bad.
He felt bad for not being
as beautiful as the flyer.
Then Whammy remembered,
beauty is to be appreciated
not envied.
"Besides" Whammy thought
"I'm quite dapper myself"
as he straightened his imaginary tie
and laughed.
He wished that no creature large or small
that no life form would ever feel like less.
“If I was a butterfly I would be kind to everyone,
imagine that me a flutter by” he said out loud.
As our story ends
Whammy falls asleep.
Laughing and content
Just to be happy.
Imagine that - a scary caterpillar
becoming a beautiful butterfly?
Moral Of the story: “Attitude is Everything”.
01~11~2014
Maurice Yvonne
Sponsor: Carol Eastman
Contest Name: Fable to the Rescue
I have not seen a mulberry tree,
only the words that spoke to me.
Now I romance its boughs and shade,
where butterflies in beauty wade.
Beneath the hush of ancient skies,
the mulberry tree in silence sighs,
its roots like veins through earthen skin,
where time and memory begin.
A thousand hands have plucked its fruit,
a crimson stain, a whispered truth—
love once lost, love now found,
a tale in berries, dark and round.
Once, Pyramus and Thisbe fled,
where white mulberries blushed to red,
their love, a river, deep and wide,
a vow that even death defied.
And in its boughs, a silken thread,
where caterpillars weave the dead,
cocoons like prayers in golden light,
waiting to dance with borrowed flight.
From hushed decay, the wings emerge,
a breath reborn, a fleeting surge,
butterflies like spirits glide,
ghosts of silk and time untied.
caterpillars gorge
metamorphosis begins
translucent blue wings
Written 4th August 2020
My favourite butterfly is the Blue Morpho with a wingspan of almost 21centimeters. I love the idea that butterflies are associated with spiritual transformation ~ their exquisite colours and translucent wings give them an almost ethereal persona as if a beautiful soul has been metamorphosed as it majestically soars towards another life…
Contest Traditional Haiku – Nature Themed
Sponsor Tania Kitchin
N/A
Poem Syllable Counter Results
Syllables Per Line: 5 7 5
Total # Syllables: 17
Contest COMPLETELY YOUR CHOICE (4)
Sponsor Brian Strand
N/A