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Glenn Currier Aug 2021
June bugs crash into screens
mosquitoes whine
to get in by any means
dogs howl, frogs croak
like the bass fiddle
in Lightning Hopkins’ blues.
Sticky moisture from the bayou
envelopes, and soaks through,
permeates still night air
like the sad strains of Claude’s La Mer.

Growing up in southern climes
slowed days, stretched years
put me on the edge of tears
yearning for escape from there
from dominion of church
and Mama’s monarch perch.

Hints of her softness
were so rare and spare
that when she let us smooth her hair
we forgot how parched were we
for a trace of this tender intimacy
on summer nights’ scorch
spent on our homestead porch.
Before the advent of air conditioning families, especially children, spent lots of time on their front porches. This poem is an attempt to describe the experiences there of one little Cajun-French girl. This is the second of the Teche Series of poems inspired by the memoir of my cousin, Melanie Durand Grossman,  "Crossing Bayou Teche."
neth jones Jul 2021
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night drums                
          spousing heat distorts

in tall grasses              
          insects chirr and fling

in moonlight              
a fertile field
Man May 2021
i've laid out a pail
maybe you'll fill
my bucket

from your high-rise
in ivory
do i look like an ant?

i wish i was porcelain
fairer skinned
and richer

i wish had a strength
to stir the world awake
from it's slumber

all those times
we spent shouting
they faded to echoes
Parker Vance Feb 2021
Crow's feathers like
The exoskeleton
Of a long-nose weevil,

The color of
Mom's grease-stained
Pots illuminated in moonlight.

They're a mind
That's gone dark
With a tunnel straight through,

Like a billion
Ants all piled
On- throbbing

Can you hear
Them *******,
Hear them slurping?

Those oily wings
Writhe in air like bodies
Launched from 90-story trade buildings

They close their eyes;
Sleep forever
Bathing in crow's feathers.
Ruth Solnit Feb 2021
Life in the smallest pond
can still give a thrill,
skating on top of
shiny beauty.

Ruth P Solnit, September 2020
neth jones Feb 2021
Retreating from
  weighty day of toil
I settle my slack
  on tailored sprawl of lawn
Compressed soil radiating ;
  tapped battery
  of a day's warmth
Life is raised through my cartridge
  I stretch out
  receiving reptile charge

Aimed shyly
   at the expansive dark bedding of night sky
     speckled
         pierced
     pecked at with pinholes...
each emitting brilliance
firing out fuel
  exhaust from further worlds
                less adulterated than our own

There is a correspondence
  amongst the insects in the grass
  ticking, clicks and tats
  like static amongst laundry
There's a great correspondence out there
  in the night sky

here am
   invulnerable human
    suburban and secure
   belly...

a cross draft
   from the open basement window
              invades me
eggy sulphur burping from the drains
an organic degassing from below my house

: Betrayed ! 

my feeling passes
the stars behave stagnant
       and dismissive of me
; withholding glove oblivion ;
the clouds step in
  like a quick curtain
  over some 'lewd private show'
(must I pay more
                  to see more ?)
My world is kept restrictive
; a muzzling

I bare the weight still
      of the days wetter ill
Better off indoors
        filtered
            of my own dander
and projected upon
        by a feeding screen
homework
Man Jan 2021
i was an insect
on a divine windshield
a speck of dust
on an otherwise stainless garb
when wiper blades swept me down
in my infancy
a young brood
i am guts
i am blood
i am gross things
Man Jan 2021
inside of me a storm rages
inside of me an old man has a stroke
inside the fire blazes
fresh bricks of burning coal

there is emptiness in me
and it fills me up
so much so

i drown everyday
drinking up a cup
of nothing but the old

made of memories
mostly bad, but some good
adding to them each day
naught but rotting wood

and your family
termites
and your friends
pests
and your lover
a lumberer
Man Dec 2020
i am a butterfly
dreaming as a man
i am war's passion
crimson like blood let
and the dove
labored by his own beak;
the last breathed breath

when its later in the day
do our definitions matter,
or how we saw things?
when what we did
is what has been done
and at last
we've run our run
does it matter
who we were
or of us, that had become?

all is forgiven
in the setting sun
Mitch Prax Dec 2020
Imagine us
the size of ants
dancing among the
flowers and the grass,
the bugs and
the bees.
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