Bug Poem


Glossy blue-black wasp,

sharp as a carpet tack,

tapping along in little forays,

assessing the vulnerability

of my wooden eaves.


A rose, rose, rose

by any other name would

taste as sweet -

say the Japanese beetles,

turning red petals to lace,

eating, eating....


As a boy, I squatted above

their metropolis, studied the furious

comings and goings, awed

by the ants' strict decorum,

their single-minded devotion

to labor's intricacies.

When mother called for dinner,

I was oblivious, enthralled

(it's taken me all these years to see)

by the gift of this infinitesimal universe,

by this flickering glimpse of the infinite.


Sitting, lakeside, so still, so long -

the buzzing filled the interstices

in my memory until

I could no longer tell if

the far-off voice was

the bees' or yours.


A gnat no bigger

than this 10-point dotted ``i''

drops onto the vastness of my notebook page.

But I am engaged in writing and,

without a second thought,

the coming line propels the pen,

barges across the white expanse

and banishes the bug

from the bug poem.


Like the June bugs at night

thrumming madly

at the window screen,

wanting in, hungry for the little light -

words too have a mind of their own,

frantic at the wire mesh of the poem,

wanting more than meaning,

wanting to converse with the unbridled dark,

free of my surveillance,

wanting out.

About these ads
Sponsored Content by LockerDome

We want to hear, did we miss an angle we should have covered? Should we come back to this topic? Or just give us a rating for this story. We want to hear from you.




Save for later


Saved ( of items)

This item has been saved to read later from any device.
Access saved items through your user name at the top of the page.

View Saved Items


Failed to save

You reached the limit of 20 saved items.
Please visit following link to manage you saved items.

View Saved Items


Failed to save

You have already saved this item.

View Saved Items