Dirt Daubers

They float in and out all day
long on low interest wings
cramped toes of abodes
accreting like tamped syllables
compressed into lines, bellow
bad things about the mothers of their
fellows from laced lattice work
**** like champs in the bushes
hip sprung and hands free
while I ignore the noise and hunch
over muddy simile, worry
concentric rings of rhythm  
into pages of imperfect tubes
just waiting for habitation.

Pollywogs and dragonflies
Salamander slime
Some are dreamt and summer schemes.

Mud Daubers on the cattails
Catfish on the hook
Crawl daddy in the cranny.

Crickets with backward knees
Buzzing honey bees
Poets of a summer dream.

Martin Hunter

When insects play
Do they hide and seek?
Do they close their eyes
And try not to peek?

Do they count to ten
By an old Oak tree?
Do they "Rally! Rally!
All's in free?"

When Insects play
Do they jump a rope?
Do they ride a sled
Down a snowy *****?

Do they ever play games
Like "Truth or Dare?"
Or run with scissors?
Or cut their own hair?

Do they walk on stilts?
Do they "Kick the Can?"
Do they build little castles
Made out of sand?

Do they play football?
Or fly a kite?
Do they chase fireflies
On a summer night?

Do they play the same
Sort of games we do?
do they go to the park?
Or to the zoo?

In the summer,
Outdoors in the sun,
I've watched the Insects
Have great fun.

I've watched them soaring
In the breeze.
Build tree houses
Made of leaves.

I've seen mud daubers
In the day
Making mud pies
Out of clay.

When at the pond
I've watched with glee
How certain beetles
Can water-ski.

And if you have never,
Ever seen
A young prince ant
Courting a queen,

Then you have missed
A wondrous sight--
As ants with wings
Take off in flight.

I would love to have
Some insect friends.
I would like to join
Their insect games.

And I would teach
Them games I play,
If I could be
As small as they!

The hinges on the door are worn and rusty
Its windows cracked, the floors, faded and dusty
The front porch swing lies crumpled in a pile
With mud daubers claiming the bathroom tile

The fireplace brick cast in impotent disarray
The wallpaper peeling in a mournful display
The stairs and its banister ripped apart in divorce
Time stops for nothing, it's taken its course

Weeds set up residence where roses once grew
The trees bent and broken that the wind blew through
I let my mind drift to a happier time
As I stare at those trees that I used to climb

I put oil on those hinges every Spring and Fall
Mama waxed the floors and I'd skate down the hall
On that front porch swing I stole my first kiss
Who could have known it would end up like this?

I would run up those stairs and slide back down
'Til Mama would shout and scream with a frown
Now broken and battered, just barely a shell
It still paints a picture with stories to tell