The laughter of leaves
whisper testament
over cool caverns,
ancient moss
the absurdity of clocks
dashed upon rocks
while they dance,
backlit with sunglow,
at the true speed
of life
daring us to defy
the timeless tapestry
in which all are woven
Do stones large and small
not rustle
like leaves
in the eye of the mountain?
and is the leaf not as solid
as stone, to the aphid?
And what lives between
two lover-friends?
It is no brief candle
measured with ticks
on numbered dials
It moves not with the flash
of a single spark
Nor with the slow glow
of dawn
In gentle illumination
it is a soft gentle kiss
drifting on mist,
and it moves
at the speed of love,
with the rhythm of life

Copyright © 2016 K. Rush

Johnny was an aphid,
he liked to hang around
with the rest of the guys in green.
Lost in the crowded silence,
staying safe in the shade beneath,
he would seldom be seen.

But now the year is turning,
spring stands aside for summer,
and the Man comes along.
Tidies away the deadwood,
admires the budding roses,
and sings some old song.

Above the larks are soaring,
sun shines in the sky where
some plane leaves a white paper trail.
Gardener takes his shovel,
removing the war-poisoned bodies
of slugs and shelled snails.

And Johnny stirs uneasy,
for him and the rest of the guys
there can be no reprieve.
Insecticide is painless,
and the last thing he sees through
the spray is a falling green leaf.

Johnny was an aphid,
now his body lies with all his
brothers upon the raked loam.
Man turns for the woodshed
Whistling a tune about
‘Johnny Comes Marching Home’.

An insect.
That crawls upon my body, except I can't quickly swat it away
Without causing attention to myself
and everyone noticing that my
white ******* are pulled
all the way down
to my ankles.

My lips are dry so I bite them.
Knuckles whitening while I hold onto the grip-strap
And I hear his heavy breathing against my neck.
I look at the tunnels, quickly passing by.
'Maybe this will end fast too?'

Naive of me to think so.

Sliding into my flower
Like a toxic, little aphid.
Stuck on my sticky leaves
As petals are parted and

I pour out of the open doors in Shinjuku station,
And run out, wiping a tear on my sleeve.
I tug up my decency
While I run to the ticket booth.
Angry foreigner was yelling at the old man who sits within.
The clock above strikes eight.
I decide that it's not worth it.
I won't tell anyone.
It doesn't matter.
Could be worse.
It's okay.
I'm okay.







I wasn't okay.

The anger I didn't have has Vulcan's hands;
it forms new bonds, breaks the old
dogma of alienation.
Broke from the shield of the one's who
raised me; love bonds and bands.
  
    It was not quite fear,
   Yet not waiting to take the stage.
   More a self-induced cage
   of denial and artificial bliss.

It was a long time coming, but I'm growing up.
I'm starting to reach the heaven,
Nirvana, true bliss
Olympus, I will sit with the gods  
  born of a vain, mortal mother.
And I'm starting to to realize  that
I am alone, and I will be
happy, whether Time will be by my side.

It is time to deal with the hurts,
and struggles,
and mistakes. This time, they'll be
mine to deal with.

Ignorance is not bliss, not for them,
Not for me,
Anymore.

Where was I, when you were alive?
Was I sleeping, dreaming, kicking, screaming,
Staring in wonder at the bright stars a-gleaming?

Where was I when you were crying?
Was I thinking of life after dying,
Seeing as it was, or blind and sighing,
Where was I when you were crying?

When you were born, what was I doing?
Was I speaking, walking, peeking, stalking,
Dancing, singing, laughing, mingling,
Looking, lying, toking, trying?

Where was I when you were on the beach,
Staring out towards the sea?
Perhaps I was taking a ***,
Or sipping my hot cup of tea?

Where was I when you were sleeping?
Perhaps I was in mid-air, leaping,
Or watching as MTV was bleeping swearwords.

Where was I when you fell ill?
Was I parked up on a hill,
Waiting for life to arrive
With a plan it did contrive?

When you were driving,
Or tidying,
Perhaps on a snowboard somewhere, sliding,
Was I alone at home and hiding?
Or on the bike somewhere, and riding?

Maybe I was wide-awake,
Or laughing with my friends, while baked,
Or greasing a pan to bake a cake,
Contemplating what makes a lake.

Or perhaps I was asleep and dreaming,
and lost in my subconscious readings,
With avatars of all my friends,
Buying a Mercedes Benz.

Where was I when you were wasted?
Was I laughing at old hatreds,
Staring at a crawling aphid,
Or in the shower, and stark naked?

Where were you while I was thinking?
Perhaps you were awake and blinking,
All the sleep out of your eyes,
After dreaming of cute Albanian guys?

Where is everyone this second?
I mean, this specific second,
As I write or read this poem,
Perform it for a crowd so wholesome,
Where am I as you read this?
Up on a stage and fighting fears false lisp,
To make sure all of these words are crisp,
Or eating bread with ham and swiss?

Are you dead, or are you living?
A minion to society's bidding,
Or policing streets and finally ridding
Pavement of the hobos twitching out of crystal ****?

Perhaps you're firing a gun,
Or you've found the only 'one,'
To love through thick and thin, till death;
Or thinking, "Wow, poor old MacBeth."

In this moment, is it all;
So listen to the moments call,
And cancel all your texting plans,
And use those thumbs to grasp the hand,
Of a loved one next to you;
"The day before" was never true,
So there's no better time for you,
To look for some more love to brew.

So get up, and go do.
Go do it.

There lived, beneath a hanging leaf
A Ladybird called Annie
Who hated being female
And daily, cursed her *****
Her voice was deep and baleful
Her shoulders, broad and strong
By right, she was a Boybird
Just her genitals were wrong

Her family rejected her
She alive alone, ashamed
Until she met a Dragonfly
‘Salvation’ she proclaimed
For every bug and critter
When feeling below par
Would visit Doctor Dragonfly
In his empty pickle jar

Just maybe he could help her
With snip, a tuck and stitch
She’d not be Annie any more
Tomorrow, she’d be Mitch
She lay down on the table
And a beetle knocked her out
The doctor took his knife in hand
And bustled all about

With suture made of thistledown
And sap of pine for glue
He reassigned her gender
But the best that he could do
Was not a lady, not a man
But somewhere in between
And, as he used some aphid parts
The ***** were small and green

Annie never changed her name
It didn’t seem quite right
Her family still shunned her
She slept alone at night
The only insect in the field
With *****, ***** and *****
Even hungry birds avoided
Ladyboybird Annie

Call it
Instinct
Animal instinct
I need
Something from you
Then you can have
Whatever's left of me
Then rip my head off
Then try to keep it down
It was always burning
Anyways

i have inherited pandora's careless melancholy, her tiny box of regrets, her white-washed, quiet horrors and terrible decisions — staining like a memory passed down from her reckless hands to my old, ***** claws, digging for something raw, something parasitic, something miserable, something always goes wrong beneath my ribs. it wants out, like a beast, a misplace fragment, an aphid. and these days turn their heads away — blur themselves blind before my many blunders.

before the wrath of a false god, will my bones ever learn the art of being unapologetic?

(I.)
        Only a fool would try, in line by line
        Of fair assessment honestly expressed,
        To paint with words the finest of the fine
Beauties of which you solely are possessed.
        No elegance would not seem spread too thin;
        And he who'd try would never be believed,
        For none would see as truth the truth therein,
But think it all a lover's eyes deceived.
        So candid pics and videos must record
        What speech could never adequately limn,
        And would be doubted elsewise word for word,—
The evidence being hearsay and far too slim.
        Yet, all of these leave much too much to doubt:—
        All flaws would seem, no doubt, photoshopped out.

(II.)
        Like two caves spun with dusty cobweb-snares
        Guarding a cache of emeralds is your nose.
        Your globby eyes find shade 'neath oxen hairs.
Like two thin frowning mustaches are your brows.
        With microscopic mites your shiny skin
        Glints, like a hanging fruit's with aphid flies
        Flitting around about and out and in,
Or a hot, oil-glistened frenchèd fry's.
        Like hard, mini marshmallows are your teeth.
        Your lips, like jellied dextromethorphan.
        Oh! oh! to be that rubber soul beneath
Those knobby tubers made for kicking a can!              
        But here again the painting is askew:
        It lacks that certain something that's in you.

Yes, rubber soul.

It started as small engine,
Buzzing,
Of the insect wings.
The ballet between the stem,
And the seducer.
The blossom to be violated,
With the natural lust,
Of flight.
The swelling tummy,
And promise of peace,
Of fulfillment and joy.
And gods own
Breath upon the skin.
Hope that fights,
Against an early frost,
Hides from the aphid's teeth,
And swallows beak.
Proud mother glowing from Color,
Of a slow ripening fruit,
Upon the branches.
Basking in the sun and moon,
And growing bolder still.
Praying for the moment of release,
Never turning to watch the tears,
Left in it's place.
Walking,
Running,
Tumbling,
Falling,
Wanting, yet
Knowing never,
To be collected.
Left here,
Upon the cold
Dead leaves of ancestors.
Eaten away with decay,
Taken by the disease,
Of this earth.
As tears fall from high,
Only to shatter
Against the frozen ground.

“Hey there, Mr. Slug! Why do you like my cymbidiums?
Why don’t you dine on the dandelions that so abundantly grow?”
“Well, Mr. Bob, your cymbidiums are so delicious,
And your weeds are not so agreeable. I feel you ought to know.”
 
“Hey there, Mr. Termite! Why do you like my house?
Why can’t you chomp on the neighbors’—the one with such beautiful wood.”
“Well, Mr. Bob, your house is so nutritious;
Your neighbors’ house has been treated, and it doesn’t taste so good.”
 
“Hey there, Mrs. Whitefly! Do you have to **** my hibiscus?
What’s wrong with the morning glories that cover the neighbors’ fence.”
“Well, Mister Bob, hibiscus plants are enticing;
If I feasted on the others, I’d lack some common sense.”
 
“Hey there, Mr. Aphid! Do you have to devour my roses?
Why can’t you gorge on the grasses that grow in yonder field?”
“Well, Mr. Bob, not a thing in that field has
The lure of the genus Rosa, but I’ll keep my eyes peeled.”
 
“Hey there, Mrs. Fly! Do you have to buzz into MY house?
What is wrong with the neighbors’—the one with the door open wide?”
“Well, Mr. Bob, we love the smell of your cookies
And cakes and blueberry cobblers. We’re dying to get inside!”
 
“Well, so much for asking! At least I made an attempt
To deal with you pesky visitors; to bid you all adieu.”
“Sorry, Mr. Bob. We don’t feel very welcome;
But perhaps you’ve forgotten something: WE were here long before YOU.”

- by Bob B

Teeny tiny beetle
in your designer carapace.

Busy bodying,
up and down the flowerstems ,
harvesting, juice of aphid.

Teeny tiny beetle wings
a flutter,
launching tiny little you, homeward bound.

A speck of enameled beauty, contemptuous of the ground.

Up and away with you,
you miniscule marvel
of god's mayhem.

They sprouted more than flew, and
there were quite a few, possibly dozens —
though, looking back, I always do
tend to exaggerate such incidents.

Anyway, this aphid swarm of grassy
greens decided to make me home,
and my chest crawled with specks, while
I waited for a bus to St. Peter's.

They could have been splattered "as if's"
spat from the mouths of hungry sparrows,
taken mid-swallow with a guffaw at
this tourist dressed in DayGlo.

I might've gotten the omen, but
intuition wouldn't surrender its clues
how to shoo insect guests attracted
by a coincidental cloth.

Perhaps they were meant as subtle hints —
an eternal city keeps its own agenda.

I’m lying  beneath a rowan tree,
relaxing, reading my book
Sometimes distracted by spiralling down leaves
which remind  me of our passing thoughts
only some of which do we give life to
A spider alights on top of my book
perhaps attracted by the white
Two money spider  sized spiders
fight the folds on my trousers and win
A  bright yellow aphid gets lost in the labyrinth
of my arm hair
Then just when I think it is stranded
It jumps on my blue  t-shirt
What I don’t understand
Is that these creatures are not scared
of an animal a million times larger than them,
Surely they must feel the life in my body
it is like if we climbed up on a dinosaur
a hundred times bigger than a Brontosaurus

Cool air undermines
the aphid’s loud assertion
Summer will not end.

I lie facedown on the tallest tree branch, hair bleeding into greenish-brown wood that tastes like dark rain. I reach my hand up and curl it, ring finger to thumb, just within my sightline. My fingers feel soft against each other, slick with moss and the places between the bark that glisten with last night’s rain. The circle I form with my hand fits perfectly around the edge of sunlight melting over the horizon and I stare until my eyes begin to burn.
My grandmother once told me that the cure for anything could always be found somewhere in the world. “It might not be five minutes away,” she had said, pinching tea into bags that had gentle embroidery along the edges. “But it’s out there. Be careful what you give away to find it.”
I close my eyes. Open them. Smile at an aphid making a home for itself on a twig near the sun between my fingers. I like this silence before my house and my friends wake and take away the light. I like the cadence to the world, the light between my fingers, the water against my cheek and the rhythm of my heart slowing down. I put down roots with the old oak tree, drinking in the medicine of the mineral rain.

I guess it is a relief to see you
Again, my old friend. Cloaked, your head of blue,
You wander among the graves like fireflies,
Absolute darkness, jittering night skies.  
It never seems to fail to startle my
Child-like sensation of life passing by.
Orderly rows, rigid cartridge paper,
Ink and tax reports, functions to cater.
Misanthropic, naïve, idealistic
Degenerative and narcissistic,
Paranoid, poisonous, parasitic
Fear giver. Fear receiver. Entropic
Skeleton, dancing in caustic acid,
Looking on. A quiet, forlorn Aphid.

Unlikely color of the fall,
Surviving drought and aphid bite,
Cold nights, strong wind, the harvest blade,
Protected by a wreath of thorns.

An old man bends beside you now,
Pulls close the collar of his coat,
Considering the steps and rail,
The fading light of liberty.

When it first happened
Everything in sight
Taller than I
Seduced me
Urged me
To flee the earth

Western red cedar
Sooty brick chimneys
Rainier caps
You.

I could climb and clutter and choke and caress and cling
Oh to have a moment of solitude
With the blue
If I was vertical enough
Would the fever fade?

I could mutate into molecule
A drift of snow
An aphid eaten leaf
A maroon berry
Caught in a sparrow's beak
Would I be alleviated by elevation?
If I get close enough to God would I be washed of my sins?
I vow never to touch soil again
Tree limbs would be my salvation

Meet me there.

Roses are red and baby, my eyes are too;
we’re wilting in a world that knew
It’s not easy to be good and kind and true,
selfless and gentle in all the things we do.

Between germination to fallen tree,
there's so little time for us just to be,
To find the earth to set our roots
To reach the light towards which we shoot

Instead we grow the only way we know
and this bed we’re borne is lined with thorns;

The daisy doesn't wish for chains
The cactus still savours the taste of rain
The violet didn't choose her blues;
but it's no excuse to be abused.

Turn sharp to break up hardened ground
Grow tendrils to search for simpler ways round
Build traps so we could have our way
with those who’d steal our leaves away

For lilies can't weep their mustard tears for those who sleep their endless years.

These Storms and Droughts our days receive
reveal an innate thirsty greed,
Prune us back down to seeds
To appreciate the garden as the aphid sees,
To learn the shapes of Autumn's breeze.

It's no wonder we forget to seize
Our Fevers; and be the forest for our trees.

“Ambrosial Aqueous”

A lonely waterway where the waves await,
You reunify the lives of the seas conflagration,
Everything pulls away from me here in the cusp.
My somber heart seeks you always I love your anatomy,

Cavorting flames of desire that climbs to my heart,
Caliginous sweet aphid fervent as the glowing sun,
Your agile heart and soul draws me to you,
Oh those celestial given lips of a somber smile,

With your happy body and your luminous eyes,
Earthly passionate vapors of silence appear amid,
As the silence of the World befalls upon us,
You hold out your beautiful arms before me,

I now have no choice as my ensuing fervor ascendancy,
As the crapulence of waves my arms embrace her,  
The cruor of my body waken in vigilance morass,
Our fervor ends like waves have risen to the empyrean,

Succumbed to a flowery scented ambrosial aqueous”
    BY AG 06/19/2018 ©

In tired spirals we graph our days
In colored stains we speak our shaky hands
Rubbing white shirts on the chalk board to
make tie dye tees

Two sets of teeth licking molars
smelling their breath over
half smoked
cigarettes

The feeling of being caught in the rain
with nowhere
to go

I once saw a field so green it could be an aphid
I once saw a sky so blue it could be a puddle
ink stains sit and blur and muddle
together again

Words pressed out of a pomegranite
it could be any
but they turned out to be
yours

Monitoring her golden
Who was having stomach
Troubles and leaving
Sticky brown puddles
Drying in the sun
With shiny green
Bloated flys swarming
I walked through the
Backyard with him

On the side of her
Shed a blanket of
Aphid pockmarked
Bushes hugged the
Plastic siding

And a single
Spindly branch
Covered in thorns
Protruded from their
Wilted clutches
And presented
One pink flower
Layered with satin
Petals to the sun
Bobbing contently in
The late morning wind

Even though she is inside
On the couch
Here
She is also with me

The breeze that ripples
through the clematis vine;

shakes the aphid cloak
glutting on its purple pendants.

Cicadas softly sing their lullabye
The breeze begins to dance with the trees
A train whistle howls into the night
As stars begin to appear in the soft twilight
An engine roars far away revving closer
As a dog calls out for attention
My presence is quiet and calm
I feel chills brush over my body
Then an aphid lands on my arm
I allow it to linger
I am happy

Fictional account related
courtesy one pink flamingo.

Aves lusting for verboten tweet
reed lubricious sin after giving
Twiggy another peck on the cheek.

Whenever this birdman
alone with his thoughts
(as they metaphorically
worm their way to my nest
of quintessentially straggly,
and uncombed matted hair),
I doth twitter tomb
eye self unbeknownst that
a flock of seagulls fly
like an eagle twittering

morning mister magpie
while dipping and diving
on peregrine wings fluttering
at the speed of sound owls
watching without giving hoot
unless aware someone maliciously
poisoning pigeons in the park,
(one doubting thomas - leering)
perhaps a lunatic ranting and raven
whooping crane like, whooshing

to rise like a Phoenix, yet grudgingly
accepting fate as a stool pigeon,
even settling with destiny
as the cutty wren, a lark
ascending, pontification asper
observations of a crow keeping beak
clamped shut surreptitiously scrutinizing
the ostrich (with her/ his head
buried in the sand), or noticing
how the sparrow looks up

at the machine, which appears
to by an audio device issuing
the thieving magpie overture
alight with such braggadocio
and effecting a birds eye view
of determining contrasted
with the ugly duckling left friendless
and instantly bringing to mind
that somber tune when doves cry
setting the impossible to shake off

feeling emotionally caged,
though with utmost exertion muster
humming when the red red robin
comes bob bob bobbin along eager
to join a whir thee claws such
as when the swallows come back
from Capistrano (with an un spa
beak able aromatic deliciously
decadent Reuben manwich –
an American hot sandwich
composed of corned beef, Swiss cheese,

sauerkraut, and Russian dressing,
grilled between slices of rye bread)
interestingly enough the vicinity
wheresoever eagles gather
all the while wondering
if woody woodpecker, now a free bird
(after aphid david imbroglio) –
an accusation where plaintiff
accused of feathering the nest -
did tern out favorable, or whether

the filed aphid dove hid –
juiced when the believed
by this American avocet and done,
an unexpected eggs add jure
rated claim fed the media,
and seedy shenanigans
Toucan entire troops of Archaeopteryx
to placate all parties concern,
that **** er end
finally delivered peace plover.

But the power outages in Heaven,
or the concentrated sulphuric rage of a dog
that's denied it's pom-pom meal,
or the grit showed by a crown that faced a big blue bug,
or the achievements of the fallen cookie;
there must be room for the rusted prostitution
of God's vestigial hobbies,
for the matte personality trying to find a way
to not be a pococurante,
for the truth value of a fiscal year to be decided
over a game of arm-hair ripping,
for the civil gauze to allow its memory clot
to mature into a functioning worker;
not done with the perjuring aphid,
the bundled and slouching rose,
the anaphoric destitution of history,
the tiger's salivating mouth;
don't even bring up Count Chocula,
the tide of blinding, burning magnesium
that suits the ******,
the twine chairs and the feet rested on their heads
as they wait;
what's mizzling here, I haven't got protection!
Bad, bad son, running to the dust,
to the accounting that's hurt,
mesmerized by the cult of burnt meat,
holding up.

Crinkled leaves tell a tale
Of attack of aphid bug
As their honeydew leads a trail
Of ants to feed upon their drug

The curled foliage a dilemma
the quandary of a bind
presents itself as their gemma
is ravished 'n slowly mined

as all their sap, their life juices,
feed blackfly while unaware
of their damage and abuses
'midst symbiotic love-affair

Now do i quash the bugs whilst feeding
squash 'em 'twixt my thumb 'n finger
stop the pests from further breeding
or do i let them live and linger

Why should i have more ruth 'n mercy
on the senseless vegetation
are the greenfly more unworthy
that i be cause of their cessation

Why should I be a feared colleague
of grim-reaper in his quest
my act proclaim i am in league
with unwelcome saturnine guest?

a scent of roses fill this room
giving clues to summer's bloom
magnified through water's lens
thorns belie our velvet friends

a mouse once helped a lion's paw
who bawled to heaven with his pall
Hawthorn trees, appropriate name
sharp hawed lion with kingly mane

healing beauty eased its pain
as pity brooked the mouse's brain
a greater beast brought down to serve
the lesser mouse with velvet fur

a moral seems to lend its fragrance
as nature builds eternal rings
take this leaf, humbly snipped
as aphid clings to flower's hip

-cec