"grubs" poems
The bees build in the crevices
Of loosening masonry, and there
The mother birds bring grubs and flies.
My wall is loosening; honey-bees,
Come build in the empty house of the stare.
We are closed in, and the key is turned
On our uncertainty; somewhere
A man is killed, or a house burned.
Yet no clear fact to be discerned:
Come build in the empty house of the stare.
A barricade of stone or of wood;
Some fourteen days of civil war:
Last night they trundled down the road
That dead young soldier in his blood:
Come build in the empty house of the stare.
We had fed the heart on fantasies,
The heart's grown brutal from the fare,
More substance in our enmities
Than in our love; O honey-bees,
Come build in the empty house of the stare.
30.9k
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
In the beginning was Scream
Who begat Blood
Who begat Eye
Who begat Fear
Who begat Wing
Who begat Bone
Who begat Granite
Who begat Violet
Who begat Guitar
Who begat Sweat
Who begat Adam
Who begat Mary
Who begat God
Who begat Nothing
Who begat Never
Never Never Never
Who begat Crow
Screaming for Blood
Grubs, crusts
Anything
Trembling featherless elbows in the nest's filth
4.3k
while i was in my garden an hedgehog i did see
he was fast a sleep beside my willow tree
rolled up in a ball tucked up nice and neat
such a lovely chap small and very sweet.
then when he a woke he began to stroll
all around the garden such a lovely soul
looking for some food. insects and some grubs
in and out the flowers in between the shrubs.
when he finished eating. back to my tree once more
then fell fast a sleep like he was before
Sep 18, 2014
Sep 18, 2014 at 7:43 AM UTC
I am The Shoes of Shoes,
which are Solomon’s. Let him polish
me with the oil from his brow, for his gloss
is better than sunshine.
Because of the fragrance of thy ointment buffed
upon me, thy name
is Scent Shine, therefore do the ****** shoes
love thy feet. Stretch me,
with your Shoe-Tree, and I will run
& rejoice with thy feet through
gardens & woods, and across mountains alike.
I am leather, but comely, O ye Daughters
of Shoeshopingham, as The Pile Beneath
the Prophesised Viaduct, and as in the abundant
bottom of The Wardrobe of Solomon.
Look not upon me, because I am leather,
but put me upon thy feet for I
am thy soles.
I am the Rose of Shoe, and the Lilly of The Laces.
As the strong shoes among thorns, so
is my love among The Shod.
As the tongue that tightens to the fruit of the foot, so is
my beloved among The Shod.
His left foot is in my left purse, and his right
foot is my right, tight.
The Polish of My Beloved, behold, cometh
glinting off llyns, he cometh leaping upon
the mountains, with both of me tight on his feet.
Looketh fourth through The Round Window
of Wisdom, through The Lattice see
him shoeing himself with my flesh.
Take us the socked foxes, the little foxes that chew & spoil,
for our shodding is tender.
My Loved Shod’s feet are mine and my leather is his.
Until the day break, and the unshod shadows flee, turn
my Loved Shod, and be thou like the shoe young on the mountains.
Behold, thou art fair, my shoes, behold thou art shoes as fast
as a flock of goats over the Mountain of Shoedon.
Thy laces are like soft strands of moss, which have been spun
& woven in the Workshops of Acorns by The Grubs of Oak.
Thy eyelets are like the sweet slots in which nestle
the seeds of the pomegranate.
Thy tongues are like scarlet leaves fallen from speaking
trees, and thy squeak as I walk in thee is comely.
Thy heal is like the shield that should’ve been
fashioned for Achilles.
Thy two toe caps are as sleek & pert as the twin otters
that fish among the lilies.
How beautiful are thee, shoes for feet, O Goddess’s daughters,
the joints of thy soft foot-slot smooth as the gleam
of jewels, the work of the hands of a cunning cobbler.
O Solomon set me twin shoes as seals
upon thy feet, for Love is as strong
as The Road to Dead we must follow. O
my Loved Shod! for every one
of thy steps you make
in me is my bliss.
Feb 8, 2012
Feb 8, 2012 at 8:25 AM UTC
Venus sighs.
a camera on your own life
a camera in every room
following your daily routines
from dus(t) until Dawn
your apps have cameras
so you can update your day
like you update your software;
you update your Instagram
The noose tightens.
reality Game
no escape from the fly eggs
grubs in your routine
stitches on your day
you can’t look away or put it down
bombardment;
the reality game show re-union special
happens every time you look down
old reality recap episodes on loop in your head,
etc., etc.
Venus died
and you didn't even tweet about it.
Jul 21, 2014
Jul 21, 2014 at 8:32 PM UTC
Father and Mother, and Me,
Sister and Auntie say
All the people like us are We,
And every one else is They.
And They live over the sea,
While We live over the way,
But-would you believe it?—They look upon We
As only a sort of They!
We eat pork and beef
With cow-horn-handled knives.
They who gobble Their rice off a leaf,
Are horrified out of Their lives;
While they who live up a tree,
And feast on grubs and clay,
(Isn’t it scandalous? ) look upon We
As a simply disgusting They!
We shoot birds with a gun.
They stick lions with spears.
Their full-dress is un-.
We dress up to Our ears.
They like Their friends for tea.
We like Our friends to stay;
And, after all that, They look upon We
As an utterly ignorant They!
We eat kitcheny food.
We have doors that latch.
They drink milk or blood,
Under an open thatch.
We have Doctors to fee.
They have Wizards to pay.
And (impudent heathen!) They look upon We
As a quite impossible They!
All good people agree,
And all good people say,
All nice people, like Us, are We
And every one else is They:
But if you cross over the sea,
Instead of over the way,
You may end by (think of it!) looking on We
As only a sort of They!
3.2k
Stardust
Indeed, everything is stardust,
Yes, you and I both,
The chocolate wrapper blowing down the street,
The cat arching its back as I walk by,
The child skipping, and the rope,
The watching dog, licking its paw,
Nonchalant to the whole world.
The tree in the forest,
The axe ending its life,
The startled squirrel escaping
The grubs feeding on its leaves,
(Visible and invisible)
Land ocean and sky,
All are, and forever will be,
Stardust.
© Paul Chafer 2014
Jun 16, 2014
Jun 16, 2014 at 9:51 AM UTC
Upstanding citizen of forest floor.
Tall and proud.
Lowest level.
Tall and strong.
Home to many.
An ancient realm.
Mighty den of bugs and grubs.
Detritus munching in the hole.
A deciduous conifer.
Gets undressed for winter.
Redresses early spring.
Parody of pine tree.
Wood as red as fire.
The itching sky she needs to scratch.
Always reaching upwards.
Until her time is done!
By ladylivvi1
© 2013 ladylivvi1 (All rights reserved)
Nov 3, 2013
Nov 3, 2013 at 10:14 AM UTC
For the angels who inhabit this town,
although their shape constantly changes,
each night we leave some cold potatoes
and a bowl of milk on the windowsill.
Usually they inhabit heaven where,
by the way, no tears are allowed.
They push the moon around like
a boiled yam.
The Milky Way is their hen
with her many children.
When it is night the cows lie down
but the moon, that big bull,
stands up.
However, there is a locked room up there
with an iron door that can't be opened.
It has all your bad dreams in it.
It is hell.
Some say the devil locks the door
from the inside.
Some say the angels lock it from the outside.
The people inside have no water
and are never allowed to touch.
They crack like macadam.
They are mute.
They do not cry help
except inside
where their hearts are covered with grubs.
I would like to unlock that door,
turn the rusty key
and hold each fallen one in my arms
but I cannot, I cannot.
I can only sit here on earth
at my place at the table.
2.6k
...plain, white light of conscious sight
carved with the black of depictions,
stretched imaginations, dance of
curves and shapes, the inner vision
needs a pair of shades, color it
with flames of passion, free flow
of feeling, breeze of dreams
whistling through the meadows
of vibrant forms
...from the dust
this thought was born, to the
dust, the vision fades, in the dust
are the sparks, minerals, elements
of life, fertile fields, sow the seeds
...from the groves, the forms are
reborn, then the critters and grubs
swarm in, eating the scraps, ********
new life into the soil, new sparks
and minerals, eggs and chances,
rhythms for the new generations,
vibrant once more, a matter of
potent renditions, the breath fueling
the black depictions, white light geyser,
grey clouds, tarnished ores,
dirt and dust, all colored with the minerals
of light
...and in that light is solar life,
lunar reflections, Earthly fullfillment of
'son'shine, mother's milk, and dad's
beer brewing in the astro's firmament.
Dancing all through again and again of
swirvy curls, recollection of scattered pearls,
casted and then returned.
Jun 14, 2012
Jun 14, 2012 at 5:13 PM UTC
Drinking Guinness from a wine glass
I watch the beetle on his back
rocking to and fro, frantically jerking his legs.
I imagine his voice, squeaky,
a balloon poodle stretched at the end
and spiked with a shot of helium
“help me, help me! Please I have grubs I should feed”.
I throw out a laugh like a Hammer House villain,
staggering from the sofa I am Nosferatu,
teeth bared in ominous intention,
spilling sticky black froth as I ******* my glass.
Wouldn’t it be good to stick a pin through his middle?
Keep him in a glass box? Whip him out at dinner parties
as a curio example of helplessness,
“yes! Look how he wriggles. Do try the stilton”.
Suddenly I’m aware that I wasn’t laughing.
Dec 16, 2010
Dec 16, 2010 at 12:59 PM UTC
He perches in the slime, inert,
Bedaubed with iridescent dirt.
The oil upon the puddles dries
To colours like a peacock’s eyes,
And half-submerged tomato-cans
Shine scaly, as leviathans
Oozily crawling through the mud.
The ground is here and there bestud
With lumps of only part-burned coal.
His duty is to glean the whole,
To pick them from the filth, each one,
To hoard them for the hidden sun
Which glows within each fiery core
And waits to be made free once more.
Their sharp and glistening edges cut
His stiffened fingers. Through the ****
Gleam red the wounds which will not shut.
Wet through and shivering he kneels
And digs the slippery coals; like eels
They slide about. His force all spent,
He counts his small accomplishment.
A half-a-dozen clinker-coals
Which still have fire in their souls.
Fire! And in his thought there burns
The topaz fire of votive urns.
He sees it fling from hill to hill,
And still consumed, is burning still.
Higher and higher leaps the flame,
The smoke an ever-shifting frame.
He sees a Spanish Castle old,
With silver steps and paths of gold.
From myrtle bowers comes the plash
Of fountains, and the emerald flash
Of parrots in the orange trees,
Whose blossoms pasture humming bees.
He knows he feeds the urns whose smoke
Bears visions, that his master-stroke
Is out of dirt and misery
To light the fire of poesy.
He sees the glory, yet he knows
That others cannot see his shows.
To them his smoke is sightless, black,
His votive vessels but a pack
Of old discarded shards, his fire
A peddler’s; still to him the pyre
Is incensed, an enduring goal!
He sighs and grubs another coal.
Sep 9, 2016
Sep 9, 2016 at 1:24 AM UTC
let’s love the lawn
sweetheart
let’s trim the lawn;
let’s get it cut
and neat and fine;
let’s do the groovy lawn dance
baby
so the neighbors will be
green as nourished grass
let’s feed the lawn
sweetheart
all chemicals and fertilizers;
let’s read the warnings first
baby:
*keep away from eyes
wear a face mask
and spread generously
on lawn*
let’s keep the lawn beautiful
and pleasant
like the ancient fields of Albion,
sweetheart;
it’s time for the weed-killer sprays
and conscientious as we are
we use only enviro-friendly
so let’s read the instructions
baby:
*Keep spray away from drains
and eyes and skin
and do not spray before rain*
Ah, come on
ladies and gentlemen
of our distinguished
blue ribbon suburbs;
out all with your chemicals
and all our pesticides
to **** the grubs and such pests
come all, Old Ken
and newly-weds Lily and Peter
and new-arrivals Tan and Goh
we’ll show you how;
come sweethearts
come let’s dance in the fields of cherished suburbs
and let the earth yield a great big burb
this is the way
we spray chemicals
this is the way we **** our weeds;
this is the way we fertilize our lawns
this is the way we spray pesticides
early morning
every Spring and Summer
this is the way we do it
early morning
every Spring and Summer
so let’s love the lawn
sweetheart
let’s trim the lawn;
let’s get it cut
and neat and fine;
let’s do the groovy lawn dance
baby
so the neighbors will be
green as nourished grass
Oct 12, 2010
Oct 12, 2010 at 2:58 AM UTC
Blood foams out of Mary’s mouth.
Grass on her skirt.
Grubs shift beneath her, trying to breathe.
Pink foam runs down her chin.
Jeremiah hasn’t moved in an hour.
Lying on the grass with his hair rotting.
Bathtub flesh tangled in senescence.
Jesus, where the **** did the time go?
It’s Autumn approaching Winter.
Little nooses run down tree branches and settle round all the leaves.
Hugging them until their necks sever like Isaiah’s.
Eve shakes his shoulder to wake him but his head just rolls further into the gutter.
A dazed expression of absolute revulsion.
Whatever.
I pick up a stick and pierce Eve’s flesh.
Over and over.
Because I’m bored.
And she’s there.
Barely perceiving her own existence.
Shaking the headless body of Isaiah.
While Mary collapses into a black hole.
And Jeremiah sinks into the ground.
Feb 2, 2016
Feb 2, 2016 at 8:58 PM UTC
By T. A. Beale
I was working my garden on a warms summers day,
When a robin flew by, from across the way,
His wings tipped with silver, black brows over his eyes,
His robins red breast, you might have guessed,
but upon his cheek, a dark mark he could not disguise,
I laughed and I smiled as I cried aloud,
"Tis brave Robin Black-Cheek, a bird most renowned!"
He bowed and sang, “Good day to you sir! My chicks need a feeding!"
I nodded and said, "There's food underground, just follow around while I do
the weeding!"
So we set to work, and into each hole that I dug,
Mr Robin flew, and emerged bearing worms or a fat wriggling bug!
Time after time, with a beak full of grubs he'd return to his nest,
As the day grew long, I could not go on, I lay down my shovel, I needed a
rest!
Mr Black-Cheek hopped on my boot, and danced an impatient jig,
He looked at me and sang, "My chicks are still hungry! Why won't you dig?"
"Rest a while, lets take a moment to speak, tell me how you got that black scar on your
cheek!"
"Very well. But I warn you now, 'tis not a tale for the meek!”
I was guarding my garden when a rogue robin rival reproached me and said,
"I shall end your life, then take your wife, she will thank me when you're
dead!"
I swooped down to meet him, I perched on the fence,
I puffed my red breast and angrily sang, “Let battle commence!”
The scoundrel soared up, beak shining like steel in the sunlight, and he sliced my cheek!
Staggered and stunned I spun round, but soon I steadied, stood straight and showed my beak!
“T'was but a slight!” I swung at him, and continued the fight!
We ****** and we pecked, we riposte and we parried,
“Leave while you can! Too long have you tarried!”
We flew and we dashed, and in mid-air we clashed,
In a flurry of feathers we fought, a final fell blow and the foul fiend was fallen,
I sang with glee; for he was forced to flee!
I returned to my tree, now no one would dare challenge me!
He bowed again once his tale was told,
“Now dig me more grubs, afore this day grows old!”
I gladly obliged, for I'd made a new friend,
and we worked all day, until the end.
© Thomas A. Beale
2015
Sep 4, 2015
Sep 4, 2015 at 9:56 AM UTC
Over the geyser,on beds of algae they rest.
A bunch of breeders.
Millions of them.
Bugs and mites that thrive.
Predatory bugs lay scrumptious eggs,
Eggs become grubs, all munch the algae,
Algae is chiselled away, chewed by hungry grubs and mites.
A stream of blistering roasting water, wipes them out again.
The cycle of life resumed!
Mar 29, 2014
Mar 29, 2014 at 5:11 AM UTC
Impoverished money grubs sit and revel in their ***** suds
liking the flavors of darkly bubbled mud.
From lovely earth, life debt owned,
even if some still believe in this crud.
Hunching ancient patriots hang western flags
and live by the credo provided, and die by what mind remains undecided.
Here, there, and everywhere lies man in the bush as hunters slouch
gun, weapon fist-ted in bruised and trembling hand.
Tis no wonder, what geometry pierces the chest,
thought choice as if it were only peril.
A cardinal sings whilst losing that rose-colored scintillating ring
one more Orion slacks his belt, never.
Stubborn and mostly blinded another shell blows through creature,
in and out his ******* head, a demonic act of high treason.
May 14, 2013
May 14, 2013 at 12:53 PM UTC
Not far from the ocean, not far from the town,
the South Beach turkeys roam the hospital grounds.
They serve no purpose, they do as they please,
they preen and they strut in the salty sea breeze.
Sometimes they just stand and look around.
They find tasty grubs in the trees and the ground.
Sometimes they chase, sometimes they cluck;
they do as they please; they don’t give a f***
It’s a bird’s life, on the grounds of South Beach.
Perhaps there’s a lesson that these birds could teach--
no need to hurry, just do what you need.
Fly if you can, or just sit in a tree.
Watch the passersby as they go to and fro.
Or just stand around and watch the grass grow.
Some thought they were pests and wanted them gone;
but to **** them for no reason would just be wrong.
At times I have thought that they might be tasty--
wild birds raised in nativity—with stuffing and gravy.
Surely much better than from the factory farm--
(and it’s a shame that to those birds we cause so much harm).
But shooting a turkey who sits on a lawn
would mean calling the cops, with their guns drawn.
So the turkeys live on, and I sing their song.
I’d miss their feathered glory, if one day they were gone.
Nov 24, 2016
Nov 24, 2016 at 12:59 PM UTC
Watched over by magnificent ancient trees
though perfectly placed to capture the sun
surrounded by walls of multi coloured ivy’s
there lies a paradise second to none.
Bright vivid colours, shades and hues
only add to the general splendour
yellows, pinks, oranges, reds and blues
colours any artist would be challenged to render.
There are lilies, marigolds, roses and petunias
creepers and climbers racing down and up
geraniums, pansies, lavenders and begonias
grass peppered with daisies and buttercups.
All day butterflies, wasps and bumble bees
work tirelessly alongside one another
relentlessly searching for flowers that please
flitting constantly from one to the other.
A wide variety of flowers, plants and shrubs
burst forth from hanging baskets, flower beds and tubs
providing shelter thus becoming teeming hubs
full of worms and snails, insects and grubs.
Birds rear young nesting in trees and bushes
foraging for food amongst the growing throng
blackbirds, finches, pigeons wrens and thrushes
together creating truly melodic birdsong.
A place that transforms long after night fall
when nocturnal creatures have hunting to do
field mice and hedgehogs from the undergrowth crawl
while the odd wary fox occasionally passes through.
Alas for many the garden becomes just another chore
far too busy to see it can offer so much more
never making the most of the opportunity to see
what a wondrous, thriving paradise a garden can be.
Apr 11, 2015
Apr 11, 2015 at 10:14 AM UTC
I hear the clock ticking
Cursing the dead silence
The walls are slowly bleeding
To an eternal sentence.
The fan swings its razor blades
Toward an endless cycle
Singing a requiem that fades
Into a childish cackle.
The vesper in the ceiling
Casts a familiar shadow
A succubus slowly creeping
Down the covers of my window.
The chimes are prancing gladly
To the coming abomination
The wind blows an eerie
Stench of vile intoxication
Voracious grubs of horror
Crawl out from the pillows
Devouring all my vigor
In this crypt of morbid hallows.
Tingling drops of sweat kiss
The melting wooden floor
That crumbles down the abyss
Of hell's scorching core.
My frightened heart withered
To what ungodly sight
I woke up from my slumber
At the twelfth hour of night.
Jun 11, 2013
Jun 11, 2013 at 6:58 AM UTC
A bit of rope
hoists dry wood,
an ark to sail through the seasons.
Dry plank kissed with snow,
you sit quietly awaiting the spring
when children will find you
and laughter abounds.
Until then, sit in the silver silence
of dusted snow,
wind caressing your gnarled wood
as you watch over wood pile beneath you.
Dizzying, the canopy of leaves sways above
as toes touch sky
leaving the ground
far below.
Sun glints off leaves
and filters the new breath of spring’s promise
as grubs burrow deeply
confessing dark secrets to succulent earth.
Wood warms to the syrup of summer sun
twisting through shady pine
the still air weighty in
somnolent afternoon.
Pine needles blanket the scuff
where small feet have
leapt from earth,
trading fear for the promise of freedom .
Cold air bites and nips
as it pulls leaves desultorily
to ground around you.
Days shorten.
Wind sharpens.
Few attempt flight now.
A bit of rope
hoists dry wood,
an ark to sail through the seasons.
Feb 29, 2012
Feb 29, 2012 at 9:41 PM UTC
Long ginger muzzle
eyes burning
through the copse, fixed upon
the snuffling vole eating
grubs in the moonlight,fangs
like stunted darning needles
revealed in its widening jaw.
hunching in the grass
it crawled cautiously forward
and pounced
like a god on an acolyte
quenching blood-lust-
the fox ate again that night.
Aug 19, 2016
Aug 19, 2016 at 5:53 PM UTC