"lacewings" poems
they stained the back deck today (with a hard to match 7 periwinkle)
400 square feet of knotted pine (in a striking rivet sequence)
red ant drivers (who can forget those little ******
caked fir needles & feather cone
bug hologram & cedar moss
graffiti crack & cut joist
wheel rut & pick
pike stain (s)
sow bugs
electric
blower
purple
fueled
washer
missing
foul bits
and two of
its former pins
somewhere near
the erratic 9th stroke the
side kick (and his sloppy dullard)
fell sadly in a cacophony of sick laughter
anxious peckers, poinsettias, grub box, rail stems
lacewings (ladylike in their task), third door down windows
old ergonomic chairs (so highly touted in the checkout isle at Lowes)
all for not, I guess ~ seems they never reviewed the Homestead Manual on Fine Deck Painting ~
Jan 21, 2017
Jan 21, 2017 at 3:55 PM UTC
flip/switch.
the dark runs to corners:
unswept cobwebs, unmarked
graves of
lacewings.
mirror, mirror.
tessellate:
you
me
you
kaleidoscopic in the seven years’
worth of bad luck.
you come here with new eyes and
brand-new dockers. i
mend the broken siding in my mind’s eye.
prune the wisteria and uproot
ivy in handfuls.
i unconsciously check for
onion peel
underneath the kitchen sink.
the pantry
where one of the pups died.
the disappointment of eyes
bloodshot
but dry.
Oct 26, 2011
Oct 26, 2011 at 7:19 PM UTC
In the dark, restricted corner of the library
Find yourself ‘Moste Potente Potions’
Everything you need you will find in there
The most potent potions
Three measures of fluxweed
Two bundles of knotgrass
Stir thrice, clockwise
Wave your wand
Now let it brew
Not yet, it’s far from over
Proceed with four leeches
Two measures of crushed lacewings
Thirty seconds on low heat
Wave your wand
Now let it brew
Three measures of boomslang skin
One crushed bicorn horn
Twenty seconds on high heat
Wave your wand
Now let it brew
One scoop of lacewings
Stir thrice, anti-clockwise
The dark, muddy potion
Bubbling up, slowly
And now, the final ingredient
A piece of the person
You wish to become
Now notice as it takes the color
And taste of his essence
Wave your wand
Now let it brew
For a month, no less
You have what you need
Now drink up lads!
In one hour, however
You will transform back
Make sure the job is done
And in some other’s skin
And should the need arise
You’ll know what to do
In the dark, restricted corner of the library
Find yourself ‘Moste Potente Potions’
Everything you need you will find in there
The most potent potions
Apr 19, 2016
Apr 19, 2016 at 11:40 AM UTC
Through a vision in my dream, I see her there standing
a smile, unpainted, authentic and real, hopeful
opening the door, I feel a smile emerge, and the butterflies
oh they kick within me, like a life is growing there
a baby in sight, with no bump or pulse, just a gathering
of fluttering wings, that should I rip my chest open
out they would fly, a mélange of colours and shapes
purple swallowtails, adonis blues, lacewings, painted ladies
and finally, my favourite, the Menelaus Blue Morpho
escorted by the Duke of Burgundy, my springtime hero
each flutter, each movement, a collection from the continents
my self, my soul, my body has travelled, wanderlust
keepsakes of beauty and bliss, bordering on extinction safe within me
in a heartbeat they cover my whole self, they move around my body
my legs tremble, barely able to hold, this grown woman upright
a gulp, a gasp, a stare in wonder,
speechless, tongue tied, dazed, dumb, silent
my head empties, no thought passes, the parietal lobe vanishes
adrenaline is racing through my body faster than the light hitting my eyes
moments later I find vocal sound waves breezing past my ears
they are in slow motion, her voice mumbled, incoherent
she touches me and I jump in fright,
my eyes adjust, my heartbeat slows down, my legs steady
"Rachel!"
"Rachel!"
I wake up alone.
© Sia Jane
---
*"In through the window a moonbeam comes,—
Little gold moonbeam with misty wings;
All silently creeping, it asks,
"Is he sleeping— Sleeping and dreaming while mother sings?"*
Eugene Field
Dec 28, 2013
Dec 28, 2013 at 7:02 PM UTC
*Cry o'er this sadness
Refreshing red clay in the guise of granite
With pools of wrigglers , black tadpoles ,
water striders , afternoon of titmouse , bluebird and robin
Of lacewings and locust culled neath
the bounty of spring , lantern fly , mantid ,
field gnats riding turbulent April waves
O'er tin shack , pole barn and smokehouse
Barbecue pit , wood shed and well house
Hour of depression abated , of fragrant treasure
ablated* ...
Feb 7, 2017
Feb 7, 2017 at 6:03 PM UTC
She flutters from bush to tree
laying her oval prodigies
her little offspring's with big appetites
as Aphids are tasty, their favourite delight
So as soon as they hatch
they stalk the steams
looking for sap suckers
minding to eat all of them
Bulbous green eating machines
a greedy army of destruction
yet transparent wings green
will give summer it's blossom
Their a friend to the gardener
a fiend to their foe
so let her lay her eggs
and away they will go.
By Christos Andreas Kourtis aka NeonSolaris
Jan 19, 2014
Jan 19, 2014 at 7:21 AM UTC