Long Mosquitoes Poems
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Ethereal shadows impress themselves
upon upon stone walls.
Beneath the bridge,
a river rolls upon his journey;
miles of crystal crests,
collecting unpublished stories
he and friends will enjoy.
Among the many stories,
footpath pebbles trod upon by
history’s children;
mostly unknowns living
solitary lives of struggle and heartbreak.
Leaves catch a ride on a wave,
as they flit from their trees
on a engaging afternoon breeze.
A broken tree branch,
with offspring may take a swim today;
if the swifter winds
decide to challenge it.
A few mosquitoes or flies
will hitch a ride on the back of a bullfrog;
trying to enjoy the show.
A doe stops to take a long drink
of this cool, embracing life force;
not fazed by the bridge walkers.
These are Nature’s stories,
whispers only the water hears
as it gathers them for its
ocean-bound anthology;
oh, the wondrous tales marine life
will share when it’s finally read;
sacred.
The Geography of the Void
We never know for certain if it's worth speaking of that gentle exile,
of the secret only we knew, without witnesses and without a word,
we migrate toward warm labyrinths where every groan holds a rare value,
and we make love by calendars gone slightly wrong — at night, by day, toward evening.
Bread bakes, and wounded shoulders are wrapped in rough, clean linen,
we walk the boulevards telling each other locust-memories, all withered,
like sheaves of dried reed that rustle and carry an old grief inside them,
we speak a tongue of back-alleys and farmland, stubborn past any road.
Powerful plants grow from the earth, victorious over time itself,
a vegetal world watches us from far off and writes to us without a face,
a timeless heat dries us out like a bed emptied of every dream,
only a canopy above, urban and rural both, keeps us still shut in.
Along those plausible paths you can hear words hatching out of words,
and see hourglasses lost inside their own nostalgia, mindless now,
the iron in you rusting inside them, a ballet girl asleep in a tin can,
while an old man from Alexandria writes his laws on a small matchbox.
And everything is clear, you leaf through the treatise on the great Void,
you walk in a crinoline beside a fence, your hair damp and stiff
like drowned Ophelia's in the mist, while I confess my love into a white amphora,
in a tower with feet as wet as a woman's after the lamps go out,
the evening eaten alive by mosquitoes, under a sky of total transparency,
while a sad parrot gives me lessons in geography, belonging nowhere, leading nowhere.
The Mosquito Squad has been zapped, swatted,
And completely obliterated.
Because they learned the hard way
That they can dish it, but they sure can't take it.
They've planned numerous strategies
And tried every trick in the book;
But everything has backfired
And their goose was already cooked.
Every summer was the same mission:
Find a sexy body and eat it.
It didn't matter if it was a booty, an arm, or a leg:
Alas, the Mosquito Squad has been defeated.
"That's the last straw!" the Squad Leader yelled,
With steam coming out of his ears.
"You've failed me one too many times!
I don't want to see your crocodile tears!
You can't even follow a direct order
And always fall flat on the floor.
Now get out of my sight, you knuckleheads!
The Mosquito Squad is no more!"
The crowd began singing
As the mosquitoes disappear in the sky,
"NA NA NA NA, NA NA NA NA,
HEY HEY HEY! GOOD-BYE!"
Catharsis of a King
Twisted trees, gnarled and warped
by wicked winds, curled in crippling
curling toward faint warming of the sun,
clinging with clutched roots to rocky crags,
overhanging the crashing roar of foam tipped
breakers. Stone face of shear cliff etched by
fine chiseled rivulets, tears shed by dark clouds
pummeling a world below, shaping the prisms
for a future sunrise, deepening the chasms of
canyons, uninhabitable but for their beauty.
Creatures that defy the bounds of “beauty”
yet define the artists form, call us to stare
at simple brush strokes. Explosions, eruptions
of hot, steaming lava, scalding and denuding
mountains, torturously flowing to a
roiling sea. Swirling vortices of
madness, vicious brushstrokes tearing through
the gentle country landscape as if change was
overdue. Humming birds and fireflies,
mosquitoes, gnats, and icky things
one feeding on the other,
the warring and the gnawing that would
discourage even mother. Sunrise in the
jungle, moonlight on city street, church bells
that daily ring, calling us to celebrate
the catharsis of a king.
John G. Lawless
9/18/2014
for Brian Johnston - God's Kind of Poetry contest
I Know that I am suppose to be somewhere but not here
I know that I am supposed to be somewhere far away from here
My tears cannot flow and my body cannot grow, my hands are stiff
My thoughts are exploding and there is no space to contain this wealth of knowledge that is overflowing.
I looked at the tree across the street but there was nothing to eat
Except for a hard star apple clenched tightly to the limb. It has been there from last spring but all the moisture has dried out of it but still it has not fallen into the wretched ditch and the men shaving wood in dusty clothes speaking on top of their voices and uttering strange sounds. They don’t know no how to talk and they don’t know how to walk
And the dull machine sitting on its heel making music at high altitude
If you listen carefully there is a solemn message embedded in the sound
The type of music that would make you wants to frown, you don’t hear
Quite often except for when you are in between two layers of something
And a kind of writhing rhythm is beckoning within.
I look up at the sky and everything was clear and the clouds were
Rolling on making way for the unscripted song; my side was clear but the other side was telling me to be aware. The sun peeps out its eye and disappear underneath the forbidden sky the eagle soar with all its glory and wrapping its wings all around me so I felt secure while destiny waits for me at the door.
I know that I am supposed to be somewhere but not here. I have waited for you for so long to help me complete this unbridled song, I have the lyrics, I have the rhythm but the tune is walking around without shoes.
I don’t know soon I will launch and I have to take my cue from the lark
I know I am supposed to be somewhere because I have so much to share
My spirit is yearning for more and time is knocking on my door
I am deprived of fresh air and this suffocation has been going on for many years. The mosquitoes are feeding on my flesh and I am almost out of breath. It is this downtrodden feeling I get when you are not around
The feeling of emptiness and longingness that is crawling all over my flesh but hope kept smiling at me and dragging me to my destiny.
I know that I am suppose to be somewhere but not here
I know that I am supposed to be somewhere and I am waiting for you to come and take me there.
At last, Summertime is finally here.
It's time to put away our winter gear;
Show some skin and have a little fun
While soaking up the warm summer sun.
But unbeknownst to you and me
Is a treacherous insect far worse than a bee.
The mosquito lurks beneath the shadows,
Waiting to eat people's legs, arms, and toes.
Yes, this critter has dreamt on the very day
That our sexy bodies will be his buffet.
"This year", he declared without being snooty,
"My targets are the ankles, knees, arms, and booty.
But I cannot do this task alone."
So he calls the Mosquito Squad on the phone.
The plans were made as the day turns to night.
A fellow mosquito yells, "Out goes the light!"
Then the leader says, "Now we strike!
Attack that juicy butt with all your might!"
As they fly with lightning speed,
There was one thing that they didn't heed.
It wasn't noxious gas or the Swatter of Doom,
But all the mosquitoes heard was a loud "KABOOM!'
They hit the ground hard with the other dead flies;
For the Invisible Bug Zapper was their demise.
I awake in the stuffy camper living space,
and begin rubbing my hands across my greasy face.
Mosquitoes destined to die fly above, about the neon light.
Friends and family already awake waiting for me outside.
The door opens letting the breeze bring new life to the stuffy room.
Grabbing my white shorts and brown glasses I get up and exit my tomb.
My eyes begin to adjust to spring’s bright gloom.
My brother and childhood friends play by the lake shore,
father is cooking sausage on the little electric grill by the back camper’s door.
I open the fridge door and grab a V8,
while letting the sounds of laughter fill my soul till it aches.
Mom is rocking in her grandmother’s rocking chair,
the smell of pollen and mid-spring flowers fills the air.
I stride past my mom and perch upon the porch rail,
the glistening body of teal takes my breath away without fail
We will laugh, we will play, and be childishly free all day
and wish things would always be this way.
And this my friend is this poet’s ever perfect day.
For fifteen years the peak has sat fallow,
abandoned to time as trees and bushes grow,
driving by always evokes a sigh in me,
long ago this hill was where I learned to ski.
But the industry is not what it once was,
snowmaking and insurance drove up the cost,
this place where families once spent the day,
now sits shuttered, slowly rotting away.
The old lodge has lost half its windows,
its siding faded by the sun's harsh glow,
there’s a giant hole up on top of the roof,
and graffiti sprayed by some drunken youth.
Lifts still stand, but all the chairs are down,
stacked in rows, rusting on the ground,
the cables now vanished into the trees,
paint is peeling, the lift shacks all moldy.
Laying nearby, twisted and half-stacked,
as if subjected to medieval torture racks,
sit piles of broken, old snowmaking pipe,
now simply scrap, glinting in noon-day light.
Saddest of all is the half-visible ski trails,
now covered in saplings, young, health, and hale,
where once me and my sibling fiercely raced,
where more than once I fell flat on my face…
The white swath of beauty clad in snow,
that once adorned this peak’s long slopes,
now grows in like pasture gone to seed,
it's become a place where mosquitoes breed.
It may seem bizarre, to some out there,
mourning for the cold and frozen air,
but this place once meant so much to us,
now given over to saplings and rust…
…sigh…
I wish I had the guts to tell the neighbours how I feel
When little Johny's violin begins to scratch and squeal.
I know it's only early days but really even so
You'd think he would have learnt the skill of tightening the bow.
One day I thought I heard mosquitoes buzzing near my ear
But it was only little Johny getting into gear.
And first thing in the morning when he practises his scales
The will to live deserts me and my 'bon esprit' soon fails.
But as I am a coward I just put up with the din
And greet the neighbours sweetly when I'm putting out the bin!
Rhyme battle contest : Sponsored by: Juli- Michelle
08/11/18
It really gets me going poetry contest : sponsored by Kevin Shaw
We hate the mosquitoes not the butterflies,
We hate slow internet not the internet,
We hate some vegetables not all the meals,
We hate household work not cleanliness,
We hate bad experiences not the good ones,
We hate waking up in mornings not the mornings,
So why do we hate a whole group when only one member has acted wrongly?
Who allowed us to hate on an entire nation for something their leaders has done?
We'll give them hate and they'll give us hate
I don't understand, what comes as an outcome of this cycle?
What does hating give us?
It will be either way,
We'll rather end the hate or it will end us
The choice is ours