"earwig" poems
The gardener*
This is my garden; my apple tree
has over-reached itself. The branches,
weighed down with fruit, threaten to break.
If I had read the signs, thinned out when it was time,
the crop would be less heavy, the fruit less small.
And what there is, is damaged. If it’s not birds
it’s caterpillar, wasp, or earwig.
It will all be rotten soon. I don’t know why I bother.*
The blackbird*
This is my garden; this tree I sat in
and proclaimed my own when it was full of blossom
with war-cry love-call song.
Then mating, nesting, bringing up the brood.
The days were scarcely long enough, but that
was long ago. My children gone,
there’s time now for myself, time for a treat.
My yellow chisel bill breaks in the flesh
of these fine apples. Delicious. This is the life.*
The wasps*
This is our garden – insects do not have time
for individuality. We built the colony, us lads,
chewed wood to make our paper nest, and now
we work to feed the grubs.
“Lads”, that is, using the word loosely – for us
gender is not important; that’s for the queen,
and, as it may be, the ones who service her,
none of our business.
But we need food too,
and if sustenance gives pleasure,
so much the better. When we find a fruit
where blackbird’s chisel bill has broken in,
we eat our way inside, till only skin and core
encase our private eating/drinking den.
So what if it’s fermenting? If we get tiddly,
and roll about, and buzz a drunken hum,
then who’s to care? And if they do, we’ll sting ’em*.
Jul 26, 2016
Jul 26, 2016 at 12:38 PM UTC
Home to rinse my knuckles, wipe at the oil spots on the counter, warm up canned beans and hot sauce. Powdered milk in my coffee
navy through the window. Everywhere scraps of life restricted – slime mold on the litter under the porch, the earwig who still can’t find her way out of the sink.
Jul 26, 2010
Jul 26, 2010 at 1:13 PM UTC
rickety minutes twitch in wood stained cabinets;
mittens in a bin . birch tones postpone in mauve
twilight... an unfinished diorama.
clandestine. a small glitch in a good rain... cabbages
smitten in mist. a thirst groaning; long bones caw
fully reclined... as timeless Brahmans.
old beams of light stack like gold bricks in a humidor;
mittens in a bin. black birds comb rogue stones then.... [ pause ]
triffids... blemish barnacles.
crystalline. a ball of lint in a storm drain... vanishes -
bitten out of sight. at first, toning old gongs... wind
chimes... earth's most wanted.
Jan 25, 2013
Jan 25, 2013 at 5:05 PM UTC
If only I could keep it locked outside of me
If only it could cease to exist
If only I didn't have to scratch that
1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6
itch
If only I could swallow it
Dissolve it in my stomach
If only I could
KNOW for sure if I would or wouldn't
It is like an earwig
Creeping through my brain
I know my actions fuel it
But, oh, it drives me insane
If only I had control
If only I could see
That control is the only thing
That gives it power over me
Dec 19, 2018
Dec 19, 2018 at 11:54 PM UTC
The snow drops keep coming
Insisting their way
Through the matted detritus
of memories;
A dolls arm with a biroed tattoo
& flattened empty
colour points
Of crisp packets fading,
Wind-blown papers
& plastic ragged shamblings
Decorating the hedges
Sprawling with thorns and freedom
& the snow drops keep coming
The snow drops keep coming
Placating the gardener
Now sitting benignly
Tending own life
& net curtains blur the sepia view
Of the children once playing
Of the beer cans and bricks
& the solitary shoe nest
& the apple tree still giving
Now casting wasp grass cocktails,
& the clichéd swinging gate
Warns of a dog dead before Lennon
& the milk bottle earwig crèche
Sits quiet beside the snow drops
lamenting
Feb 12, 2011
Feb 12, 2011 at 2:38 AM UTC
"Run down the list, if you please."
"OK. Doc, let's start with these:
An earwig with shin splints,
a worm with heartburn,
A cockroach with a cold-"
"He should have wrapped up like he was told!"
"-A bee with hay-fever."
"She never listens either..."
"A centipede with a migraine,
A fly with wing sprain
And a woodlouse with suspected vertigo."
"Is that them all?"
"Well, no. There's an elderly spider with a blister on his *** He can't spin a web to build a trap or home.
There is a grub with possible depression,
A slug with a stomach bug
And a ladybird with gout."
"Too many greenflies, no doubt."
"There's a butterfly with signs of hypochondria due to a swollen antennae,
no matter what I say he's certain he is going to die.
Now, the last is a delicate imposition: the Queen ant wants birth control,
Because she is sick of her pregnant condition."
Aug 12, 2014
Aug 12, 2014 at 7:39 PM UTC
pear leaves strum the high wire
fern roots claw a sun drenched bank
creep vines mount the hedgerow
sow bugs jump a grated worn step
picket wall stain on cedar
mountain stream brisk at lush green pass
four legs down the foot path
biscuit brown trailers fill the pipe
spiders march on dew web
knots and rivets cut hard at the seam
maples cover the forest floor
sap ***** ping the front gate
dandelions drift on west breeze
blue berries plump at shepherds grove
wood sill holds a stained glass
letter box lined above the scrub
delft ware on the mantle
(with petals and script for a promised guest!)
junior poised with mouth agape
birds and squirrels whistle jovial tunes
goldfinch darts the sea ranch
tabby cat rests in a white wicker chair
a crafters window in the alpine
follies await the summer task!
queen bee on the flutter
airedale set on a woven grey mat
watchmen of the hollow (+ earwig and mite!)
scurry, under rustled moist leaves
frogs leap at trickle creek
shutter bugs mount on gryphons lair
still water ripples in the shaded pool
folding fingers on corner bridge
foragers cut the high shelf
silver fish come to life
whiskey jack sings on indian green
elijah and xavier pause...
at a long days end
Apr 28, 2017
Apr 28, 2017 at 9:39 AM UTC
always thought his word was an earwig,
never thought I could get stepped on like a twig
under his feet
don't need to be from the street
to know what it's like to write rhymes in the back seat.
cop car cruisin'
make a call with cuffs on
seeing me struggle gives the officer a hard on.
Jan 24, 2013
Jan 24, 2013 at 3:15 PM UTC
one afternoon I was relaxing in bed
when I came out,
a tarantula jumped out of the cupboard
after Mum killed it with fright
There was an earwig
Mum thought it was a
cockroach but it was an earwig
scary stuff frightens me but I
don't mind
Mar 31, 2015
Mar 31, 2015 at 7:03 AM UTC
Through the telephone wire (remember those?)
crawled in an earwig, such a talented insect. He
would take over, chew and choose the words,
words heard or not, from time after, a stranger
called to tell me you were dead. This bug in my ear,
sent by a stranger to allow a coping mechanism in.
That voracious little beetle heard everything since.
What he does not spit out, relayed through pinchers
immutably clamped upon my right eardrum. This
strange and pleasing tic of mine, my earwig
is evolutionary. Something I consider gifted from
Late Triassic period, a time I refuse to remember.
A transmitter and editing device, only letting in
what is endurable, so I need not wrestle with rest.
My happy parasite, working so hard to eliminate
pain of many deaths that came after first one,
all the lovers lost. Pestilence still vibrates
through a tuning fork on back end of bug.
Chaw and discharge, seeping out my ear can
no longer be ignored. No longer holds on.
Dec 21, 2015
Dec 21, 2015 at 4:14 PM UTC
I read a story once
About a bug that crawls into people's ears and lays eggs in their brains
Ever since then I have to cover my ears to fall asleep
It's funny that people think that way
That they matter
That a story WILL happen to them
Because at the end of the day
It might
Dec 2, 2018
Dec 2, 2018 at 9:48 AM UTC