Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
r  May 2014
Junebug Days
r May 2014
My sisters thought
we were cruel, us boys,
tying a length of thread
around a Junebug's leg
and having it fly 'round
and 'round and 'round
and 'round above our heads
until Junebug broke free.

Junebugs knew how to
have fun back in the day.
So did lightning bugs. They
made the coolest necklaces.
My sisters didn't like them.
Girls don't know fun from
Junebugs on a summer day.

r ~ 5/29/14
\•/\
   |
  / \
moonrabbit Nov 2020
Junebug June,
gazing at the moon.
Your tail flicks in time
to a silent tune
the stars gently croon.

June Junebug,
the twinkling stars tug
at the strings of your heart
as you gaze in a trance
at the stars in their dance.

Junebug dear,
the night sky so clear,
the melody the moon
whispers in your ear
only you can hear.
For a fiercely independent calico kitten who is now full grown.
Lenna Sep 2010
I stood in the sun
and thought of you
and of my junebug heart.
It clings on, unshakable,
even after it’s death.

And you like that about me,
my junebug heart that is.
You think you have one too.
I know that you don’t.
Yours is fleeting.
Margo May May 2016
recognize the familiar rat-a-tat-tapping on your window,
pull the worn blinds and close the sheer curtains,
extinguish every bright light for the time being,
patiently wait criss-crossed on your bed with book in hand,
listen for the humming to cease (silence),
and return back to normal life
as the junebug survives another night.
Ashley R Prince Jul 2012
One of my favorite
pastimes back when
Spring was Spring,
and not a death sentence
of epic proportions,
was tying a piece of string
to a Junebug's leg.
The hardest part was getting
the restless creature to lie on
its back long enough to
slide the miniature noose
around him in such a way
that when you let go
he would fly around
like Bonnie Blue Butler's
show pony as far as you
allowed his string to take him.

I feel like a Junebug lately.
The process of looping that noose
around my leg has left me
weary and ready for a rest.
My ankle has third degree rope burns
and my wings are getting tired
of flying in exhausting circles.
The child at the end of my rope
is ignorantly unaware of her
imprisonment of my principles.
Or perhaps she knows what she's
been doing all along
and just doesn't have
the heart, guts or brains
to cut the string and let me fly
like the shiny little
Junebug I was born to be.
PK Wakefield  Mar 2011
i4
PK Wakefield Mar 2011
i4
did because i well jeez 10:23 farther steeper i'd was a outside 10:24 a junebug
is creaking on the well like a fine cylinder. it's because steeper or 10:27 clunking
a light of amiable is sort of. at 10:31 a common a cool the. into if.
        a very sorry long is diacriticly loose with the scab of lunging trees
by the barn 10:31:53 is . it's was almost because i did i well jeez
the june is a crimped fine determined juice. did it seem because or and a breif
i s haloed somewhat or creaking a junebug is big for by the stalls shuffling with legs in the sort of barn by the 10:36 it's gabled a bit. or does it seem a because well did i and meyou. pm well it were 10:37 and longest brown is seemingly. otherwise unmarked a phonetic element. by a 10:39PM leafing softly
  the scuttle a. unnerved little scraping. beneath or metatarsaled cadence a the grassed stripping earth went from the basest mouth of timbered certainly to the unskinniest blue. a vanity of wheels or because well did i jeez
Third Eye Candy Oct 2012
a loop of spume immune to fumes of eastern tombs
a burnin‭'; ‬ a  mad flash of candied wrath
and junebug randy newman‭; ‬
what rumbles jest in vestments yet
to loom a knit or pearl two...‭ ‬a ****** crest
of ***** wrecks and rubber necks‭
to view you...‭
‬a nop of lopsy,‭ ‬
fever pitched in thicket rich begonia‭;
‬and roman roads
too golden
kicks
from hydro
in
your hedge
row.

a droop of noon in cool remove
from gypsum dim sum laude.‭
‬a drowning witch on boney creeks
of needles and salami.‭ ‬
untongued.‭ ‬a pool of fringe
rhymes with orange,‭ ‬
yes a door-hinge,‭ ‬
off it's moorings...‭ ‬
off it's Meds

death beds
for trampolines
in petrified forests...‭
a nop of lopsy,‭ ‬frogging Gatsby,‭
‬greatly famished to the Nines‭;
‬an olden toll of wish fits‭
then nothing
comes.

and that's
Life.
JJ Hutton  Jun 2014
The Guardrail
JJ Hutton Jun 2014
When he went through the windshield, amid the shrill fracture of glass and above the curling guardrail, he did not think of Junebug or his mother or his boyhood summers at Lake Tenkiller. He thought only of deep-grooved ritual: get in, turn the key, press power on the radio, turn the air to 1, and buckle in.

He saw the guardrail. He saw the guardrail and knew, or half-knew, what would come next.

He headed straight for it, going sixty, sixty-five.

He used to play a game to break up the monotony of interstate travel, back when he worked the night shift at Wolverine. He'd close his eyes for as long as he could while driving. He began with five seconds then ten, no peeking, eventually making it an entire minute, speeding down I-44 alongside the eighteen-wheelers and the farming crowd. It was around 5 a.m., sure, but a minute still.

Before he cut the ignition he turned off the air and the radio, always. His dad told him it made it easier on a vehicle when you started it. A mechanic later told him that wasn't true. Not even remotely. He still did it.

He saw the guardrail and thought of it in the same realm as driving blind, a game of chicken ending inevitably in forfeit although victory and loss weren't clearly defined, only the edge tangible, the heart rate going mad, the blood rushing through the tributaries of the body.

He thought brake. He even said it out loud, alone in the car. The air was on 1. The radio was on NPR, some story about "hacking" your closet. He saw the guardrail. His foot pressed down on the gas harder. He wondered what it'd be like to fly over the edge then he was flying over the edge.

He glided above the first snag of rocks, small cuts on his cheeks burning against gravity's drag. The car did not. While the engine continued to hum, pieces fell around him, shards of glass and jagged bits of the valance and bumper. The radio played Muzak. They were between segments.

He turned the air to 1. He hit the power button on the radio. Why didn't he buckle the seatbelt?

His screams came out in long monotonal bursts, automatic and not quite human. Turn the ignition, power button, turn **** to 1, click.

He didn't think about what he'd hit first, tree or rock. There was still some fifty feet to fall before that decision was made for him. He didn't wonder if the car would land on top of him. He got in. He turned the key. Radio on. Air to 1. Then he clicked, didn't he?

Marie didn't call tonight. Marie. Her shape started to form in his mind, waiting for him on the couch in that stupid shawl, her face lit, a bright blue, by the glow of the television screen.

A tree, he hit a tree first.

The rough bark tore at his face, chest and arm. He could feel the tree bend then repel him. He took a branch to the rib and continued his fall to the stony earth. He hit the ground and kept falling.
Stu Harley Feb 2017
well
back in the day
when
we
were young
i
lived in the neighbor
and
i
had friends
with
names like
pooky
nay-nay
tooky
junebug
big-baby
stinky
and
jeffery
man
­those were
the
good old days

— The End —