"gnat" poems
1331
Wonder—is not precisely Knowing
And not precisely Knowing not—
A beautiful but bleak condition
He has not lived who has not felt—
Suspense—is his maturer Sister—
Whether Adult Delight is Pain
Or of itself a new misgiving—
This is the Gnat that mangles men—
24k
a gnat, oh my!
what can I spy
hiding inside
this tiny fly?
an atom, or three!
sprawling effortlessly
into eyes & wings
that set it free
to bug the hell outta me—
a ton of flesh
to its molecular mesh,
but nonetheless,
this gnat & me
both orbit 'round
anatomy.
Mar 8, 2011
Mar 8, 2011 at 8:48 AM UTC
583
A Toad, can die of Light—
Death is the Common Right
Of Toads and Men—
Of Earl and Midge
The privilege—
Why swagger, then?
The Gnat’s supremacy is large as Thine—
Life—is a different Thing—
So measure Wine—
Naked of Flask—Naked of Cask—
Bare Rhine—
Which Ruby’s mine?
4.9k
I'm facing the horizon, reclining in the cool grass, staring deeply into the pink and purple sky.
It is an exemplary evening and I am enticed by its extravagance. I contemplate existence.
I contemplate all our lives:
The gnat licking sweat of my brow,
You,
Me,
That tree across the street,
Your dead friends, my ancestors, that hot Latina chick that works at Panara (not that I really eat at Panara).
The undercover cop that won't stop eyeing me.
I watch the pink fade into purple fade into nothing at all. The clouds disperse, becoming nothing more than disconnected particles of dirt and water suspended in midair, and the sun goes down.
I **** the gnat and go home.
Jun 17, 2012
Jun 17, 2012 at 5:10 PM UTC
The spider Queen, aloofly vain!
She rules a silent ruthless reign,
with black-bead eyes like pearls of rain
that damp the depths of her demesne.
.
.
.
A spider spins, with nimble feet,
a sticky web of grim deceit
that drapes the corners, dark, discreet,
in catacombs of her retreat.
Her jointed legs (in number, eight)
traverse the threads with stilted gait,
but often more she'll lie in wait
within the hub of her estate.
Shy spiders live their lives alone
ensconced within a silky throne;
unless a transient guest comes flown,
their lives bide empty, monotone.
.
.
Well, now and then, a sullen breeze
may twitch the toils, begin to tease –
yet nothing's caught and nothing pleas,
so patience's bid at times like these.
But then again, when stars ignite,
may maunder by a gnat, by night,
be taught a dance, a writhing rite,
within a lace of death, wrapped tight.
Sometimes a spider's in the mood
and waits awhile, whilst being wooed –
and then, to later feed her brood,
the widow slays her mate for food.
In time a spider dies, 'tis true,
bequeathing but a residue
entwined, devoid of retinue,
in fibers decked in silver dew.
.
.
.
One asks "What purpose serves the GNAT –
to feed and make the spider fat?
Well, 'tis perchance just naught but that
within a mindless habitat.
.
.
"Yet, what's the aim?” you may inquire,
“at the heart of MAN's desire.
To which goals should WE aspire
reaching high and reaching higher?"
We've, through the ages, left the mire,
trundling wheels and taming fire,
doing deeds that must inspire,
nursing needy, calming crier, …
Such things as these, most may admire:
- placid dove and war defier
(some are bolder, some are shyer)
- patience (mess-up mollifier);
- humankind (Life's justifier)
- charity (charmed self-denier)
- tolerance (proud pacifier )
- love of Life (folk unifier).
What more could we, as flesh, require?
Needless kneeling neath the spire?
Childish chanting in the choir?
Preaching hell's impending pyre?
No, Death's the only rectifier,
comes the instant we expire,
nothing after, sentience prior.
So, treasure Life and don't deny Her.
Oct 6, 2014
Oct 6, 2014 at 1:29 PM UTC
Cottony smoke curled under my nails, on hands too clean, clearly, for the task that would send them one day to bones. Perhaps without the cinders and ash burning peacefully away at the underside of my tongue, I’d find the strength to understand. Though in the darkness, one little gnat of color was a world of fascination. My mind withered in the fire and ignited in that small, red-black glow, wrapping into its strings. Wishing I could burn away too, and burn away everything.
It is no wonder, that….
Being toasty in frosty air, unable to feel my toes, and quite unable to care.
Nov 17, 2014
Nov 17, 2014 at 4:52 AM UTC
612
It would have starved a Gnat—
To live so small as I—
And yet I was a living Child—
With Food’s necessity
Upon me—like a Claw—
I could no more remove
Than I could coax a Leech away—
Or make a Dragon—move—
Not like the Gnat—had I—
The privilege to fly
And seek a Dinner for myself—
How mightier He—than I—
Nor like Himself—the Art
Upon the Window Pane
To gad my little Being out—
And not begin—again—
3.3k
i killed a gnat on my shirt today
and now he sits there dead
next to a hole
which is starting to look
more and more
like his twin brother.
both black spots reminding me
of the ***** dishes and laundry
and the difference between dogs
in the city and country.
Mar 27, 2015
Mar 27, 2015 at 11:27 PM UTC
534
We see—Comparatively—
The Thing so towering high
We could not grasp its segment
Unaided—Yesterday—
This Morning’s finer Verdict—
Makes scarcely worth the toil—
A furrow—Our Cordillera—
Our Apennine—a Knoll—
Perhaps ’tis kindly—done us—
The Anguish—and the loss—
The wrenching—for His Firmament
The Thing belonged to us—
To spare these Striding Spirits
Some Morning of Chagrin—
The waking in a Gnat’s—embrace—
Our Giants—further on—
3.1k
when me an Gnat split
we kept our eyes open,
cause we could close them,
behind blindness,
and I could take her soul
for nothing,
and I could keep it forever,
so now what we do,
is set fire to those
in the same situation,
we put their hearts
on our grills,
and tell them to wait
until they have regained
the fire,
so then,
society wasn't ready
for the realest ****** alive,
becuase by then
society
had told them
that ******
emos,
true-ass emos,
them *************
could just drop
everything
to keep you on the low-low,
and they were the realest
I ever knew.
Mar 1, 2012
Mar 1, 2012 at 10:04 PM UTC
You go up the long track
That will take a car, but is best walked
On slow foot, noting the lichen
That writes history on the page
Of the grey rock. Trees are about you
At first, but yield to the green bracken,
The nightjars house: you can hear it spin
On warm evenings; it is still now
In the noonday heat, only the lesser
Voices sound, blue-fly and gnat
And the stream's whisper. As the road climbs,
You will pause for breath and the far sea's
Signal will flash, till you turn again
To the steep track, buttressed with cloud.
And there at the top that old woman,
Born almost a century back
In that stone farm, awaits your coming;
Waits for the news of the lost village
She thinks she knows, a place that exists
In her memory only.
You bring her greeting
And praise for having lasted so long
With time's knife shaving the bone.
Yet no bridge joins her own
World with yours, all you can do
Is lean kindly across the abyss
To hear words that were once wise.
2.7k
days crawl by
and humidity stills the air.
the black flies are late this season,
though around here, most things are.
below the gnat line, girls like me
seldom get to die easily,
perfumed powders
masking the scent of illness,
flushed cheeks and damp foreheads donned
as our feeble bodies recline on fainting couches
to delicately languish away. we know that
there’s a certain beauty to decomposition,
to fungus gnats invading potted soil,
to fruit flies nesting in sink drains. we know that
rotting is a clock that never stops,
tallying each unflinching, humid second while the
days crawl by.
Jun 22, 2023
Jun 22, 2023 at 8:04 PM UTC
She spits fire
Stands strong
Feet planted:
No mercy
Unyielding
She is belladonna
She is the femme fatale
She is unattainable
And she revels it that.
Solitude lends itself to sweet dreams and optimism
Without the threat of slowing down
Without the weight of children's bodies
Without the teeth and claws of responsibility
Sinking soul-shudderingly deep
Into her body
Or so she tells herself
When faced with her
Swarms of unhappy thoughts
Gnat-like they flutter
Around her head
But she will not let them in
Because that is vulnerability
That is admitting weakness
That is being human
And she will never admit her hamartia
Aug 27, 2014
Aug 27, 2014 at 3:13 PM UTC
372
I know lives, I could miss
Without a Misery—
Others—whose instant’s wanting—
Would be Eternity—
The last—a scanty Number—
’Twould scarcely fill a Two—
The first—a Gnat’s Horizon
Could easily outgrow—
2.2k
*Inspiration pretty much finds you
even when you walk outside
to await the newspaper.*
A summer poem for a winter's day.
___
morning slow sleep walking,
reviewing my
evening sleep attire,
am I appropriately dressed,
to publicly receive
the somber weekend
Wall Street Journal?
which is hopefully waiting for
my rational embrace
where
the driveway meets the road.
as I walk, I note the:
seamed stitching
on my shirt,
a series of
crisscrossed stitches,
pattern of acute angles
stitched in Thailand,
or perhaps Bangladesh,
and when machined,
did the seamstress dream that
with a single blink,
dream metamorphosis
stitches become
crisscrossed out entries
in the diary,
that I don't keep,
the notations naked and rendered,
I don't want you
to know about,
so scratched into oblivion
but in a orderly fashion
before spilling them freely
to any misfortunate innocent Joe,
nice enough to ask me,
how ya doing...
impatiently waiting on a country road
for recycled newsprint
impressed into the service of the
Canadian Pulp Navy
a paper mache arrival overdue
via a technology of delivery
some what quaint, a photo dated
impish young boy
upon bicycle,
with angel wings
who when he passes,
winks at me, seeing my impatience,
(his cheek delighting my cheeks!)
and with robust throw, salutes,
Mission Accomplished.
as I wait
the muses attack,
a formation of
no-see-ums insects bite
ruminations brain-inserted
war correspondents now embedded,
a fifth column
to betray me
and I wonder about:
newspaper printed words
stale seconds before
they are writ,
which makes think
about time,
about making plans,
to do lists,
about how fast my coffee cools,
about how slow my skin colors,
About the first time I put words
about doubt & certainty
on paper
summoning up the courage
to look foolish and
how great it felt,
at the time.
**I fresh slap realize
these "poems"
are my diary,**
so for the record,
let it be duly recorded,
the paperboy delivers to me
the New York Times,
in error,
a cosmic sign
that this is where this
deuce minute walk
into the mind of a gnat,
should randomly end,
and be
crisscrossed into
oblivion.
summer 2012
Jan 21, 2014
Jan 21, 2014 at 12:16 PM UTC
The bar was deserted
But for The Captain and me
I was tending the bar
He was watching the sea
The North Wind was 'a howlin'
As the door opened wide
It was The North Wind just checkin'
To see who's inside
The Captain, was quiet looking out at the sea
He said on days like today, that is no place to be
She'll swallow you whole
Take your ship in one gulp
Crush all your riggings
And make the rest into pulp
When she opens her maw
The Sea don't care who
Is there for the taking
It's just what she do
I ventured on over
A fresh glass, with some ice
He said "what took you?"
I said ..."now, be nice"
"With weather like this"
"There's leaks front and back"
"And if I don't mop them up"
"Then I will get the sack"
He smiled as he drank up
One gulp and all done
He used to come here
With his grandson and son
But, that story is longer
And a good one to know
But, today, t'was just him
And he was rarin' to go
"The Sea is a monster, you can be sure of that"
"That's a fact I am saying, as sure as I'm sat"
"She'll swat you down hard, like a little old gnat"
"And to her it'll be nothing more than a pat"
"To Davy Jones Locker, she'll take you today"
"And once you are down there, in the locker you'll stay"
"A witch like the Ocean, she doesn't half play"
"When the water starts talking....you hear what she say!!!"
He swirled round the cubes
Made a noise, looked my way
I was already pouring
His fifth of the day
"Barkeep, be wary"
"The wind is the start"
"It's the voice of the water"
"It'll sure break your heart"
"She'll take what you give her"
"And she'll return you squat"
"Like a big old hard game"
"Of 'x's and noughts"
"She's a powerful mistress"
"And fickle as well"
"But, be on her today"
"And she'll take you to hell"
We sat watching closely
As the storm rattled glass
We both were quite nervous
And we hoped it would pass
The storm came in early
Two weeks 'fore the season
And we knew out today
That the water'd be freezin'
The Captain dozed off
Facing out to the sea
There was now just the storm
A sleeping Captain....and me.
Jun 24, 2013
Jun 24, 2013 at 11:45 PM UTC
Jigsaw puzzle of greenery, the trees
Nestle next to each in the
slicing sideways light of sunset.
The yard in the back is filled with it,
Filled with the late late summer side slant
of sun,
The plastic Adirondack chairs, left, as we left them,
Me, looking at you, maybe my feet
in your lap...
No, it wasn’t us that set them ajar.
The one time we sat there, your discomfort
Grated on my tranquil storybook
Vision, of us sitting
in the sun,
Drinking,
The Wine,
so we went inside.
Now I see them, those pretend plastic,
Pale blue, light blue to match
The house,
chairs of ease,
One chair looking at the other, while
the other stares off into
Space.
We meant to build a fire that
Summer, a fire pit
evening of
Romance.
But, I saw your dis-ease.
Was it the heat? The drone
of the bugs?
The chance of a gnat,
Landing in your
drink?
Or was it,…something
Different.
Something not found
in the sideways slant of
cooling air.
Was it, something
else, off
in that horizon,
Blocked
by the pale blue, the light
Blue house.
Something,
cutting your sight
Off
from the road.
It must have been, because, you said
Goodbye, several times
That summer. A nod, a
kiss, and you were
Off,
in your mind,
because you never
left, but sat in your uncomfortable
Sadness of not
Belonging here, or
Where you thought;
Wistful plans set, a
Blaze, not by
Midnight cords of wood
in a pile among the
Rocks,
Set ablaze by whimsy,
A promise, not
Promise.
So, we sat that summer,
and watched the flowers in the
pots bloom,
and the rains carry one
away,
And the gnats gnatting
as gnats do,
Cannon balling into pinot,
taking up
Residence, in that
Pale blue, light blue
house
With plastic mountain
Chairs
On the lawn.
Those chairs,
Those, Adirondack chairs
Still sit, still sit askew, still
sit, in the slanting light,
Still sit, waiting,
as I do,
For a time
Things, will be right
with the
World.
We must get, to
the other side, of
That Summer.
Let the snow pile high,
on those Chairs,
Get to, the whimsy, and
the Promise.
Watch down the
road, for a time to
travel, and not sit,
in uncomfortable
Sadness,
Askew in plastic
Chairs.
Feb 23, 2021
Feb 23, 2021 at 2:28 PM UTC
A gnat did fly up my nose,
on purpose, I must suppose.
He set off a pet peeve,
as his wings made me sneeze
and I pee'd into my clothes.
Aug 4, 2010
Aug 4, 2010 at 1:10 PM UTC
Soon, the weight of independence
will swat me from my day-dream
like a gnat from the sky.
For the life in the great beyond
is hell for the naive
and I am but a fledgling
in a lake of swans.
What have I learned about being human
and what must I still learn
before I am ******
into the void of 9-5
and ''car-pooling"?
I still dance beside the river
and swing in the park.
I still stay up to late
and sing too loud
to old songs from Disney.
And now society demands
that all of my future endeavors
will be decide by
some letters
that don't evaluate my worth
as a human being.
My entire life, present and future
have become rooted in knowledge
that contributes nothing
to my personality,
morality,
my goals as a
person.
(or is that no longer a relevant term?)
Freedom, Independence,
The American Dream.
And when I lay in my coffin
and reminisce
on the adventure that was life,
and how I touched lives
and solved personal issues,
rescued friends
from normality.
How I fought for the betterment
of a minority,
I will be glad I learned
Pythagorean Theorem,
Newton's Law.
I will smile coldly in my grave.
I shall thank the Lord
I went to college.
Sep 18, 2013
Sep 18, 2013 at 2:34 AM UTC
the attention deficit hyperactivity disorder
poem
is a strange animal
with lines
monosyllabically
short
and then
perilously freakishly faulknerically
long
but not to worry
the trick is to ***** around
with the readers' heads a bit
let them wonder
what's going on
get them used to
obnoxious departures
sudden jolts
of expression
devious detours into
obscenity, indecency
these are the
tourette's moments
of a poet's creative life:
a move to keep those with the
attention span of an infant gnat
awake alive responsive
some may expect poetry
to take them down
safe bland routes:
a snowfall enhanced by red robins
perched on a rustic fence
a lake with canoeing lovers cooing
in a shimmering moment
heartfelt elegies
quaint quatrains
hip haikus
but can these images
really keep you entranced?
well, can they?
it isn't like i didn't warn you
or the horse you rode in on
Jul 15, 2015
Jul 15, 2015 at 12:21 PM UTC
It really was a great time,
me an Gnat went to the planetarium,
and watched the stars
swimming above us
in the Olympiad of useless love,
we had calzones
across the street
after,
and laughed at each other's jokes
out of politeness.
I took her back home
blowing a Djarum out the window,
when she asked for one.
I wanted to ****
she wanted to ****
So we ****** on the fouton,
truly bored with each other,
but having nowhere else to go,
no other ***** or *******
on the horizon
and comrades in our loneliness.
But it was good and tight,
and I ate her out,
because I'd always loved the maple syrup
of her ******
and I don't think
her
or me
coming
was out of lovelessness,
I think the rawness
of her and my *********
was pure.
Feb 29, 2012
Feb 29, 2012 at 8:54 PM UTC
422
More Life—went out—when He went
Than Ordinary Breath—
Lit with a finer Phosphor—
Requiring in the Quench—
A Power of Renowned Cold,
The Climate of the Grave
A Temperature just adequate
So Anthracite, to live—
For some—an Ampler Zero—
A Frost more needle keen
Is necessary, to reduce
The Ethiop within.
Others—extinguish easier—
A Gnat’s minutest Fan
Sufficient to obliterate
A Tract of Citizen—
Whose Peat lift—amply vivid—
Ignores the solemn News
That Popocatapel exists—
Or Etna’s Scarlets, Choose—
1.8k
641
Size circumscribes—it has no room
For petty furniture—
The Giant tolerates no Gnat
For Ease of Gianture—
Repudiates it, all the more—
Because intrinsic size
Ignores the possibility
Of Calumnies—or Flies.
1.8k
the shadow cabinet of a cultural marxist
government is filled with them,
these spewing neuro-science pop
zeitgeist, whatever you want to call them,
these culutral darwinists: annoying
as either gnat or **** depends...
depends if there's an evangelical member
of the lord of mosquitos cult,
you know the one... based in the vatican;
p.s. nope... i just got bored of the ****** argument,
these cultural darwinists are like theologians,
sneaky ************* they're just like
theologians: they use the lion and the pigeon
in terms of competing for animals,
like the theologians use the spider and
the spiderweb for their "creator"...
the only problem with this comparison
of man to animal...
well... there's that problem of domesticated
animals... castrating pedigree breeds of cats...
and then the harem of pigs and cows...
how young bulls are slaughtered,
and only one is left to breed with the other
*******
see where cultural darwinism is
heading?
why would i compete for sloppy
seconds... when i ********** like
a woman menstrautes... once a month?
p.p.s. i'm not too good at hebrew,
but if there's anyone out there to provide
the new name for jesus "christ",
please make him the ******* brother of
beelzebub, i.e. the lord of mosquitos.
p.p.p.s. does fine art equal ****
i mean... i ****** off looking at
agnolo bronzino's
venus, cupid, folly & time... um...
maybe i just have refined tastes.
Aug 10, 2017
Aug 10, 2017 at 11:29 AM UTC
A year has gone by
and all that is lost,
is crazy Aunt Beth
buried in thoughts.
Her fur coats in summer…
For the one to impress….
Was her dog in a cage,
who was wearing a dress.
His name was Lord Byron,
A title apt for her sense…
Which with all candor,
was not too immense.
She was clad for occasion,
and wore her gloves made of lace,
and her large floppy hat
that covered all of her face.
Her thoughts would be said,
her noises were made.
Her tea must be ready,
but be sure to sashay.
Though a loved one to all,
it was common knowledge that
when she stayed at the house,
there would be one extra gnat.
And though her insanity
drove some out the door,
Aunt Beth will be missed,
and her lunacy more.
Jun 11, 2010
Jun 11, 2010 at 9:14 PM UTC