"earthworms" poems
‘We live with forest’ and ‘forest live with us’!
Tallest tree of the forest is the symbol of our hope,
The Python is our messenger of past,
Blossoming flower of grassland are our depiction of smile,
Birds are the our fortune teller,
Earthworms are our marker,
Butterflies are our messenger of worship,
We design our life with them,
They are our image of clan and family,
We can’t live without them,
Our aspiration is tuned with their respiration,
We are cheerful with them!
***
Now, out of the blue, you arrived
and say we are poor!
So, you will build industry for us and give job to us!
But for that,
You occupy our land, our forest, our friends and respiration,
We never thought!
‘You are such a pitiable’
That you can’t build anything without our forest,
But you say, ‘we are poor’!
****
Please, go away from our blessed place
Don’t wipe out our friend!
We are rich and happy with the blessing of our friend
There is no need of your industry,
Please go away
Leave us alone we will design our destination.
Apr 17, 2014
Apr 17, 2014 at 5:30 PM UTC
just when the dust
settles round my lust
and the thud
of despair hits bottom
just as I flail
and swim in this
blood-caked,
soulless earth
soup of the lost
abyss of unbirth
you plunge my wilderness
charred with remains
from hellfire
and we breathe
halos
our bones lighted sticks,
colors rising in
angel arcs
Your rib cage
is open
for my tremulous offering
as my lips imprint
a crimson O
upon the earthquake
of your chest
I am still down with the
earthworms
wrist **** sopped
by soil
arteries, bashed
split to the root
by verbal hurts
in a sliding psyche of oil
yet here you are
suturing wounds
with whiplash kisses
saltlick moans in my throat
You wrap me in gauze
through the imprint of your eyes
turn my cuts
into fresh brook
gaze upon my
deepest darkness
like goddess worship shrine
my **** is a funnel
for your whipped light
sacrifice ****** prayer
skinned to the core
all layers exposed
your lips slick
with the drip
of my bliss,
deep juice of
freshly-caught
jungle hum
all is bared
we stop at nothing
paint our tongues
with tears
adorn the face of death
with ripe guava
and, as you scream
my name into
a blown glass whisper
my soft fruit
falls into
the heat of
your palm
somewhere
in distance
a
moon
explodes
Mar 2, 2019
Mar 2, 2019 at 11:42 AM UTC
Daddy takes me to the greenhouse,
behind our rotted trailer, deep in sovereign backwoods.
Marsh voices, thick like tupelo honey.
The coo of a loon, hiss of a cottonmouth, shiver of a snapping turtle.
The silver of swamp lilies lip the land in wild haze,
a veil of ochre moss tickles my nose like gauzey ginger ale
and soil clings to my ankles like a lonesome hound.
Daddy’s greenhouse is a shed, a haven.
A milieu of magic and fleur-de-cannabis
where pixies pull my curls and gnomes dance
under mushroom parasols.
My hands dip into a hollow of muddy earthworms.
I feel akin to the yellow blood of a butterfly
or pale jade of perplexing geckos.
Daddy is a shaman.
He trims holy blooms that come from spirits
who sing in the wind like the whippoorwill at dusk.
Snipping sticky bushels, he pads tufts into his pipe,
carved in the shape of a sullen armadillo.
I watch him inhale.
His breath
stiff
as a braid of mangroves.
He exhales a ligneous cough.
I don’t mind,
much.
Jan 26, 2015
Jan 26, 2015 at 3:18 PM UTC
i.
She's beautiful. She's an angel. She's everything we asked for. I cried for the hopes and dreams of a future that was never mine. I didn't know any better, so I kept crying.
xiv.
*You can't run around like before anymore. Don't get your knees ***** Elbows off the table. Grow up.* I brushed my hands of the dirt and picked myself up, because ladies weren't supposed to pick earthworms out of the grass. I picked up eyeliner instead.
xvi.
I'm trusting you. Don't get into trouble. Don't do anything dumb. There's something satisfying about hearing the roar of an engine at the start of a July evening. With the wind in your hair, freedom at your finger tips, I could have done anything. But I shut off the car and went inside.
xviii.
You're grown up now. You're an adult. You can't afford to make stupid mistakes anymore. I was composed of keg stands, one night stands, roommates, 2am Taco Bell runs, first dates, caffeine, prayers, tears, insecurities, heart to heart talks, "just try it, it's fun, I swear", friends that turn into bridesmaids, broken promises and broken hearts. I can still hear the train's whistle.
xxi.
I told you not to do anything dumb. I told you not to make stupid mistakes. I don't know what to tell you anymore. Here's a standing ovation to being immortal; hats off to the teary drunken nights and the existential crises. These are the days that we'll look back and wish we never wasted and I'll wonder why I let you wipe your muddy shoes on me.
Jul 27, 2014
Jul 27, 2014 at 2:57 AM UTC
On silken wings and silken strings
the garden doth awake
and from their beds those sleepy heads
their petals gently shake
a snail or two say how are you
as bumblebees take wing
to nectar sweet with sticky feet
as skylarks start to sing
a ladybug sleeps yet so snug
beneath a quilted leaf
her dreams untold as wings unfold
as earthworms crawl beneath
the ants at work refuse to shirk
they have no time to play
and cabbage whites like stars at night
take flight and fly away
the field mouse and wooded louse
attract the watchful eye
of tawny owl and feathered fowl
that own the morning sky
a homeward cat puts pay to that
no bird is fool enough
to try to land where danger stands
All teeth and claws called Fluff
so morrow breaks and nature wakes
and soon enough will we
but until then this land of men
is theirs so naturally
Jul 4, 2013
Jul 4, 2013 at 11:15 PM UTC
It takes courage to be born in a grave
where the earthworms caress
and the night is like day.
But where two or three are gathered
they will burrow deeper yet,
pressing the earth to their faces.
It takes gall to bite the mouth that eats you,
little rocket ships
who never left the ground.
Launch your cultured pungent taste,
for if you must go,
go loudly.
Daikon, Cherry Belle, Easter Egg,
Black Spanish, Red King,
you are conquerers.
Digging away until the sun comes to find you,
blushing in myriad shades
of fearless ambition.
It takes integrity to never leave your roots.
Break bold and crisp,
candied keg of gunpowder.
Apr 14, 2013
Apr 14, 2013 at 10:09 PM UTC
You are not original
You are not unique
There is nothing special about you
You are every step taken
By every sole
Of every shoe
In the history of shoes
You are every vein
On every maple leaf
That has ever fallen
And every one that has
Grown as replacement
Everything
Everything
You are every joke
You are every stroke
Of every painbrush
Every pencil
Every pen
Every primitive crayon
Against a cave wall
You are every sightless
Creature in every cave
You are every speck of dust
Stuck to every speck of dust
In the cosmos
You are every diaphragm
Contraction
Of every laugh ever laughed
You are every
Perverted thought
In every brain,
You are every measurement
Of time
Of weight
Of temperature
Of character
You are every pressure wave
From every pair
Of clapped hands
You are every pigment
In every premature obituary
You are every hair follicle
On every bison
You are every decision
God or bad
Or wise or naive
You are every influence
Every force
Every imagined deity
Every word ever spoken
Every word you are reading
You are every sunset
On every satellite
Of every star
You are every villain
Every success story
Every tragedy
Every spark that has
Birthed a flame
You are every set
Of rolled eyes
Every kernel
On every ear of corn
Every oxidation
Every drop of alcohol
Ever consumed
You are heaven
You are every molecule of water
In every hot spring
Every strum
Of every guitar
Ever played
You are condensation
You are every witch trial
You are every frown
Every school of skipjacks
Every byte of data
On every hard drive
You are every meadowlark
You are every broken arm
From every fall
Off a bicycle
You are the way Autumn smells
The way he looks at you
The way she makes you smile
The way earthworms
Escape the mud
when it rains
You are every passing car
Every glimmer of hope
Every plane crash
Every time math fails
Every swift defeat
You are everything ugly
And everything beautiful
You are nothing
You are everything
Everything you've done
Has been done before you
You are every paradox
You are beautiful when you sleep
You are me
We are nothing.
Everything,
Everything.
We are everything
We're not.
We are nothing we are.
The snow has fallen,
Terrible is the sound.
Sep 3, 2012
Sep 3, 2012 at 10:53 PM UTC
I live at the bottom of a lake
I am a fish
There are gills in my ears
‘Cause there are things my blood needs to hear
I have fins in my mouth and they propel me so far
The only way to stop is to bite down real hard
Sometimes I miss the air, even though I’ve never breathed
I drive around the lake bottom in my little moving machine
I call it a Notcar
I try to find my way to the other side
It’s blue out there or maybe grey
I died at the bottom of a lake today
I ran all out of imaginary air
I fell asleep at the wheel of my Notcar
And drove right into a telephone Notpole
My friends all gathered round my little fish-shaped grave and I learned something
They don’t tell you in books or movies,
That Dead speaks a different language than Alive
So I couldn’t understand a word my fishy friends said
It sounded like this:
I’d always hoped my death would have some meaning
Or that at least my life would
But mostly I just tried to understand things
Like all the different rooms in my brain and why underwater never smelled like rain
I loved a few boy fish, had some very fishy affairs
I loved my friends the most, they were such pretty colors
(Dead sees colors differently than Alive, so now they look like this: )
The day I died was special like every other day which is to say
That it was not Notaverage
And I died in a pretty Notspecial way
And because I can’t hear Alivewords, or see Alivecolors
I’ll never be sure if I left any mark
I live at the bottom of a lake
Most days I think that I’m an alien
On Tuesdays I feel pretty human
The lake I live in died
It left behind little shells in the sand at the playground
And pretty rocks with ripples
It left rings on the mountains but not like rings inside trees
These rings mark a countdown to death, rather than a count out from birth
The lake is a ghost
It sings to me in my sleep, but I don’t speak Dead
At least not yet
And furthermore, I don’t speak lake
I speak a language called Notdeadnotlake
And so do all my friends
Sometimes I wonder why the ocean was so thirsty that it called my lake back home
And I wonder if I’m part of Something Bigger too,
Whether Something Bigger is feeling thirsty
I think I might be part of a big strange creature made out of all the things I sometimes feel like:
Lakesludge and matches and sunshine and fish with sharp little teeth
Notgoods and notbads and spiders and bats
Sadhappys and angryfucks
Starsparkles and earthworms and fairywings and dinosaur bones,
It has really big ears and stubby toes
And all it needs is some alien or Tuesdayhuman to feel complete
Or maybe it’s made of lakeghosts and fishghosts
And wants nothing to do with me
Jan 22, 2013
Jan 22, 2013 at 8:56 PM UTC
It is my sincere pleasure to inform you of the return of the Robins to Hill Country .... Stately , regal birds they are , with a dark gray coat and a breastplate of burnt orange ... Telling tall tales of their Winter quarters ,
blessing my backyard by the veritable hundreds ..
Dining voraciously on earthworms and grasshoppers , sifting through the
grass like diligent window shoppers .. Singing sweet melodies and carrying on conversations , 'tis a great blessing indeed to have them home from vacation ...
Jan 31, 2016
Jan 31, 2016 at 8:53 PM UTC
With a flutter of joy
comes a deep red on her cheeks,
neck and collarbones follow suit.
Our creek and the sky
and the earth
and the birds
give us all the
answers so let us find
other uses for our tongues.
Together in this
quiet and safe
garden we have created,
we will share our secrets
with the flowers
and listen to the stories
of earthworms.
We will give
the soil
small tastes of ourselves
under Luna's smile.
Let us drink deep
from this water
cold and clear
and become one
under the mighty
Cottonwood trees.
May 4, 2013
May 4, 2013 at 3:18 PM UTC
(on a Black Saturday)
Sun beams touch the lustrous shells of
the capiz chime, dazzling the eyes and mind,
the walls on both sides of the big window are
newly painted, immaculately white, so bright,
....the pink blooms of the bougainvillea,
humbly bowed for almost two weeks now,
have turned to a faded brown.......wilting...
the strange nest had fallen, and gone
the young of the yellow green-breasted birds
have grown, flown away...all have found
............other trees to perch on
the sweet sop tree quivers
from its heavy fruits and birds on branches
enjoying their meal of fruits...ripe and juicy,
leaving some for the bats at night
a striped yellow cat rests on a shaded part
of the roof...i patiently wait for daddy long legs
to come out from the gutter...but in vain...
...paint still wet?...scent too strong, maybe?
maybe, the gravel and pebbles on the ground
weigh too much...did i unknowingly bury them?
i am missing the spectacle of an earthworm,
..........emerging from under the soil
big ants are restless...driven out...roaming,
the bricked wall's natural tan-beige shade
has surfaced...concrete wall is too hot...
these bricks, must be repainted white, as well
the ants, the spiders, the earthworms,
the bats, make their own preparations,
why can't we human beings do the same?
we prefer to suffer the consequences, and
deal with the results of unpreparedness:
el nino, earthquakes, unwanted people,
la nina, unexpected decisions, unwanted
changes...and all sorts of crazy "uns,"
townhouses have risen on my street
strange faces of new neighbors
......pass me by...
......as i write...
the worst heat of summer is yet to come...
Sally
Copyright April 15, 2017
Rosalia Rosario A. Bayan
Apr 16, 2017
Apr 16, 2017 at 3:06 AM UTC
my brain is a pile
of writhing pink earthworms
tangled up like confusing spaghetti,
pressing against every crevice of my skull,
forcing open cracks, burrowing through,
chewing out tissue and
crawling through my orifices
-- eyes, ears, nose, mouth --
here i am
spewing earthworms --
sorry i can't be in class,
i'm busy choking on my own brains.
May 26, 2012
May 26, 2012 at 5:17 AM UTC
Evening in her slippered feet
Approaches from the heat of day
Shadows in the molten light
Lengthen as they have their way
Silence in the hovered moment
Stillness in the mote of time,
The glow within a sunbeam's ray
Ensnares the warmth of joy as mine.
Drifting insects float on bye
Suspended in the evening light
Against the lace of silver birch
With gnarled trunk of speckled white.
In the dark blue, far azure
A gosshawk glides on high, aloft
A predator surveying late
For living things in farmer's croft.
A waterfall of children's laughter
Cascades through a field of green,
Overtones of golden shadow
Fills the air with love unseen.
Earthworms in their darkened tombs
Are wriggling for the coming night,
Rabbits stretch and move to grazing
Anxious for the closing light.
The chill night air descends as dew
The picnickers depart the scene,
Starlings flock to perch and roost
Whilst velvet silence hangs serene
Vaulting high above the foothills
Crowned with purple alpenglow
Taranaki's snowclad grandeur
Last to see the day light go.
Contemplation be my friend
For deep within contentment's breast
The joy of living sings it's song
And sooths my happy soul to rest.
Marshalg
Taranaki Evensong
23 October 2010
Oct 27, 2010
Oct 27, 2010 at 1:10 AM UTC
Squirms of red earthworms,
Wriggle out of hot mud, die;
Flood’s queer side effect !
Sep 9, 2018
Sep 9, 2018 at 1:15 PM UTC
I'm one of the ones you call insane,
Because I can't play along with this rigged game.
The odds are stacked, and not in our favor,
But instead for the Bankers with money, they create more.
I look and I see the strife all around,
And know the potential for human life has no bounds.
And when I make a sound,
It's like the words are all drowned,
Or at least lost at sea.
Message in a Bottle from Humanity.
A Human who knows the scale of her insignificance -
While knowing the magnitude of what is at risk -
The disposal of this awesome gift.
I'm one of the ones you call insane,
Because I can't play along with this rigged game.
I know my role, and I know how the story goes.
I should vote in vain and be told my Heroes.
But no, I dance to my own rhythm,
I tell myself it's internally driven,
To improve myself, and the world around,
The world at large, and earthworms in the ground.
So I rejected my spoon-fed medicine,
Of this culture, man-made incentives,
Long before you inject me with antipsychotics.
Internally, Mentally, I chant the mantra of "Stop This."
It can drive a person insane,
Pretending to play this rigged game.
Mar 3, 2015
Mar 3, 2015 at 11:28 PM UTC
At the precipice of sunrise
I might aspire to take a stroll
a bipedal tour of the neighborhood
catching the scent of recently cut grass
feeling the dew on the leaves
low hanging trees
and observe the moisture
drawing earthworms from their shelter
easy pickings for the ravens
whom may aspire to be eagles.
Squirrels approach with a boldness
expecting nourishment from my person
and leave disappointed as they came.
The sun emblazons the horizon
with a will to command the chorus of birds
At this moment I realize our reservations
and selfish preservation have become.
As I smile and throw my arms out wide
a wasp lands and stings the inside of my joint
and I remember
how much of an ******* everything is
and go back inside.
Sep 13, 2014
Sep 13, 2014 at 12:48 PM UTC
moo moo moo
a dozen milky cows squirt
it all over the fields
while the silly earthworms shake their heads
and see round the corner
comes Lulu
eating vindaloo
boo boo boo
the hot-air ghosts
float at ATMs
while the recorded message goes:
*more more more
more easy cash for you*
and see round the corner
comes Lulu
eating vindaloo
baa baa baa
forty sheep
each eat the fields bald;
oink oink oink
the pigs wait for it to rain
and see round the corner
comes Lulu
eating vindaloo
Oct 13, 2010
Oct 13, 2010 at 5:24 PM UTC
She gives us fevers and wraps us in time. She is the newlywed- our metamorphosis. Death clings to her open grave. Her movements are the executions of precarious and docile prejudice, ganged upon, and drenched in oblique misunderstanding and very indirect confusion.
We are all grocery shopping now. Your weapons of delivery are broadcast in takeout, Chinese or Szechuan Broccoli Scenario #96:
Where your mother finds I have taken the Mercedes for morning lemonade stand gallivanting, early Beach Boys mixtape scenarios fulfilled.
Nov 26, 2015
Nov 26, 2015 at 9:15 AM UTC
*sing a song of nonsense
of absolute lack of sense
for people who are
so, so important and busy
they have no time to waste*
he he ha ha
moo moo
moo moo
ma ma
ma ma
da di dum dum
the tree spreads out its arms
and birds come to rest
on the ground;
‘what do you think I am?’
sneers the tree
‘your daddy or mummy
to give you shelter
on hot days?’
and flicks the birds off
with its roots and branches
he he ha ha
moo moo
moo moo
ma ma
ma ma
da di dum dum
the fish come to the hooks
under water
and they flick it up over
with their immense tails;
and the hooks land on the fishermen’s
smooth bald heads
and the fish sing together:
‘Put those hooks up in your noses
and go home to your wives
and tell them
the fish gave you nose-rings
to celebrate this Glorious Day of Hooks’
he he ha ha
moo moo
moo moo
ma ma
ma ma
da di dum dum
under the oceans
Shark got married to Giant Octopus
and on their wedding night
Giant Octopus said:
‘Come baby,
come on in to my embrace’
he he ha ha
moo moo
moo moo
ma ma
ma ma
da di dum dum
and the earthworms
peeped out of the earth
and said:
‘My, how boring the world is up here…’
and the ostrich buried its head under ground
and said: ‘The darkness is vast;
It is infinite…’
he he ha ha
moo moo
moo moo
ma ma
ma ma
da di dum dum
*sing a song of nonsense
of absolute lack of sense
for people who are
so, so important and busy
they have no time to waste*
Oct 3, 2010
Oct 3, 2010 at 10:49 AM UTC
am not kissing you
within five seconds
of seeing your eyes
in shared sunlight,
then the earthworms
will swarm to our
feet and by seven seconds
our tongues will touch
and the universe will
stop holding it’s breath,
knowing our time has begun.
May 12, 2013
May 12, 2013 at 12:12 AM UTC
Earthworms dead on the sidewalk,
Maybe they're lucky--
It's also fishing season.
Jun 16, 2015
Jun 16, 2015 at 10:09 PM UTC
Ancient, dark-glistening
Guardians of the Earth
They pulsate far beneath indifferent feet,
Coil, swirl
Deep swimming in the rich brown-black
Until the rains.
Then
Pulled up
Compelled to
Rise to the surface gasping,
Helplessly
Small
Pale, blind
Writhe between steaming, matted, choking-bright
Grass
As the sun begins its assault
And after,
Fade
To who knows what fates.
May 20, 2012
May 20, 2012 at 10:50 AM UTC
the clouds are mocking me
the stars are bleeding rainbows
the trees are fiery torches
the grass is sharp wet earthworms
the clock on the wall means nothing
the wall is a prickly caterpillar
that will soon emerge as a beautiful speckled butterfly
& it will scoop me up & we will flutter by
the ceiling s leaking paint now
& the couch has disintegrated beneath me
the chandelier is a majestic eagle made of liquid crystals
& my heart is an innocent white rabbit
my arms are two tube socks full of sand
& my feet feel like sleeping
my eyes are just like bowling *****
& my head is bursting with
light & thought & colors & shining metallic dreams
Nov 14, 2011
Nov 14, 2011 at 12:27 PM UTC
I put on mascara today so you would find my corpse perfect
(all that existence is, looking beautiful for earthworms)
then realized that you could not open the tomb –
yes, the worst part of distance, the last person I see will not be you
(and the mortician will not know which dress is my favorite).
Only you, only you know about the burgundy lace
that we said makes me seem like a dwarf princess or psychic –
in it, I could call you from the past even when I am gone
you would be the king of every maggot delivering my messages.
I would eventually ask to be excavated (and if anyone says no,
please do not have mercy upon them, sweetheart –
wish that they catch the measles or chickenpox or insomnia)
so you could see the sallow skin I blanched even more just for you
the palace in my grave did not matter when you weren’t there.
May 6, 2013
May 6, 2013 at 5:14 PM UTC