"midges" poems
As you plaited the harvest bow
You implicated the mellowed silence in you
In wheat that does not rust
But brightens as it tightens twist by twist
Into a knowable corona,
A throwaway love-knot of straw.
Hands that aged round ashplants and cane sticks
And lapped the spurs on a lifetime of game *****
Harked to their gift and worked with fine intent
Until your fingers moved somnambulant:
I tell and finger it like braille,
Gleaning the unsaid off the palpable,
And if I spy into its golden loops
I see us walk between the railway slopes
Into an evening of long grass and midges,
Blue smoke straight up, old beds and ploughs in hedges,
An auction notice on an outhouse wall--
You with a harvest bow in your lapel,
Me with the fishing rod, already homesick
For the big lift of these evenings, as your stick
Whacking the tips off weeds and bushes
Beats out of time, and beats, but flushes
Nothing: that original townland
Still tongue-tied in the straw tied by your hand.
The end of art is peace
Could be the motto of this frail device
That I have pinned up on our deal dresser--
Like a drawn snare
Slipped lately by the spirit of the corn
Yet burnished by its passage, and still warm.
7.6k
In the divet between mountains
Resides a wooden cabin – ostensibly an amalgamation of the scape
Adroitly - I - quondam female warrior flit
Down massive (ancient) hand-laid, hand-cut carved stone steps
Bounding from contingent step onto the dense pad of turned soil
Tacit compliance between gravity and soil holds footprints bound
A compressed deflating crescendo as pace ignites with bounds
Cadences of protuberant wildflowers and grasses erupt from swollen terra
A winsome chromatic menagerie, dispersed in ecstatic fistfuls
A venerably ancient ritual
My nascent clandestine vocation
Personally meted out - a beatification for my provisional sanctuary
Along glacier-fed stream
Lissome fingers shadow inert stalks –plucking dormant beginnings from their desiccated ligaments
I am austere and unadorned save for a festoon of pyrite flecks trailing my semblance
Residual gilding from my ante-meridian swim taken after requisite gathering of wild blackberries, goose berries, and rhubarb along oft-tamped path
The sun, nestling into its requisite apex endorsed my completion
I reclined into the hassock of soil, feeling the elements settle about with an embossment of my form
Imposing verdure arched subtly as compressed soil beckoned hyperbolic flux
As I lay within the basilica of opulent living columns replete with comestible bounty
Lingering dew honed inflections of sacrosanct petrichor in unison with piquant clover
Wild purple clover buds saccharinely tinted and inundated nestled nerves in mine cribriform plate
Birds pitched and galloped through the frond tips and beyond in the lapis expanse
Frequently snatching damselfly’s and assemblages of midges from their ephemeral drift
Auspicious rays transcended stippled diaphanous gravid clouds
Light inundated ether entered humbly into the cathedral oculus
Pyrite speckled terrain beneath, and my bare gilded form above
Cast a refracted aura about my sanctuary
Precipitously the elusive vaporous embankment distended further
Ashen atmospheric correspondence inaugurated liquescent sustenance to my mountain abode
And I -
Lingered beneath the descending gobbets, curls furled in a puddle
Fresh topsoil cupping my corporal topographic contours
Pressing blackberries into my mouth between smiles
Jan 26, 2014
Jan 26, 2014 at 9:13 PM UTC
Goodbye wasps
Goodbye bees
Goodbye pollen from the trees
Goodbye midges
Goodbye flies
Goodbye scorching cloudless skies
Goodbye seagulls
Goodbye ants
Goodbye sunbathers in tiny pants
Goodbye sunburn
Goodbye oiled skin
Goodbye iced drinks laced with gin
Goodbye tourists
Goodbye throngs
Goodbye men wearing sarongs
Goodbye hosepipe
Goodbye lawn mower
Welcome to the noisy leaf blower
Hello Autumn
Hello cool bright day
Hello rolling around in the hay
Hello harvest
Hello fruits
Hello hiking in hiking boots
Hello warm colours
Hello warm hearts
Good riddance Summer
Autumn starts
Aug 27, 2014
Aug 27, 2014 at 4:07 AM UTC
The Harvest Bow
As you plaited the harvest bow
You implicated the mellowed silence in you
In wheat that does not rust
But brightens as it tightens twist by twist
Into a knowable corona,
A throwaway love-knot of straw.
Hands that aged round ashplants and cane sticks
And lapped the spurs on a lifetime of game *****
Harked to their gift and worked with fine intent
Until your fingers moved somnambulant:
I tell and finger it like braille,
Gleaning the unsaid off the palpable,
And if I spy into its golden loops
I see us walk between the railway slopes
Into an evening of long grass and midges,
Blue smoke straight up, old beds and ploughs in hedges,
An auction notice on an outhouse wall—
You with a harvest bow in your lapel,
Me with the fishing rod, already homesick
For the big lift of these evenings, as your stick
Whacking the tips off weeds and bushes
Beats out of time, and beats, but flushes
Nothing: that original townland
Still tongue-tied in the straw tied by your hand.
The end of art is peace
Could be the motto of this frail device
That I have pinned up on our deal dresser—
Like a drawn snare
Slipped lately by the spirit of the corn
Yet burnished by its passage, and still warm.
by Seamus Heaney
Aug 30, 2013
Aug 30, 2013 at 8:02 PM UTC
There was an old man of Three Bridges,
Whose mind was distracted by midges,
He saate on a wheel,
Eating underdone veal,
Which relieved that old man of Three Bridges.
1.8k
knitted on a dodgy bobble hat
or a favourite chunky jumper
from scandanavia, or yorkshire
untasteful but definitely practical..
smelly and friendly like a wet dog
pliable like warm playdoh...
patulioi oil
will always remind me of you...
'a hippy place in my heart...'
like a beachnut,
no, a beach hut
shelves littered with the flotsam of our throwaway society,
flip flop corner...
19:10
some random hermit crab making his escape from
the dripping bundle of just found fishing net
down through the crack in the floor...
into the sand
and back to the sea.
the moths and midges gravitate towards the fossils and rock shelf
because that's where the gaslamp gently hisses.
suncracked and faded
pieces of
70's buckets and spades flicker in the corner
between the scraps of rope
and the deflated inflatables
and the bottlecap damian hurst
next to sea purse corner,
biological tendrils contrasting the ever stoic rubber ducks
who escaped from the pacific gyre...
panning around, the smartphone registers,
the garish tatty windbreak
and the 90's ghettoblaster
which still has some juice left from those batteries
we bought at the gift shop...
last year...
for our imaginary beach hut....
in the outer hebrides...?
you take the camping gaz from the cupboard
and put the kettle on...
the beach is desert island white
the sea azure like a gaudy 70's postcard
the wind tugging relentless through our hair.
but the pub is warm and friendly
where grizzled fishermen philosophise
hardily. by the fire.
between warming shots of smokey single malt.
Jul 6, 2015
Jul 6, 2015 at 6:47 PM UTC
Days like this, clouds twist
round languid trysts and linger
through each billow -
how a breath of smoke forms shadows
or a swarm of midges gather -
growing tangible as tuffets
of pubescent body hair.
If I had studied clouds
and all their undercurrent slip
streams, then my memories
might emulate
their dissipating shrouds.
May 10, 2015
May 10, 2015 at 9:02 AM UTC
Mayflies
by Michael R. Burch
These standing stones have stood the test of time
but who are you
and what are you
and why?
As brief as mist, as transient, as pale ...
Inconsequential mayfly!
Perhaps the thought of love inspired hope?
Do midges love? Do stars bend down to see?
Do gods commend the kindnesses of ants
to aphids? Does one eel impress the sea?
Are mayflies missed by mountains? Do the stars
regret the glowworm’s stellar mimicry
the day it dies? Does not the world go on
as if it’s no great matter, not to be?
Life, to be sure, is nothing much to lose.
And yet somehow you’re everything to me.
Originally published by Clementine Unbound. Keywords/Tags: mayfly, mayflies, time, mist, transient, transience, pale, inconsequential, stars, sea, everything, A. E. Housman quote
Apr 8, 2020
Apr 8, 2020 at 2:06 AM UTC
for Alice
You’ve caught the colour
I don’t care how you did it
Tea the builders’ kind
(not my affected blend)
Tea and rust
It’s the colour of that sand
we stood upon
the first evening there
amongst the midges
when you paddled
like a child in the gentle sea
starfish at your feet
Now they are pictures
on the wall
finely framed
and in these little
books you make
This poem is trying to say
I’d buy them all if I could
but I have to let them go
Yesterday I discovered
how your miniature inscapes
capture a time and place
so precious to me
I had to hide my tears
and leave the room
You see I knew
those bird-like marks
(you’d sewn into paper
with your quiet hand)
were really our footsteps
seen from a distance
a measured dance
in the red sand.
Sep 4, 2012
Sep 4, 2012 at 4:06 AM UTC
Takes ages to get there,
Hours in the car
You wonder what all the fuss is
Going so far.
But
just look at the sea
and then across the sea
to an almost ring of mountains
you will one day be able to name,
one by one,
they’ll trip off your tongue
as they do off your mother's
who’s been coming here
since I don’t when,
and that’s
maybe why
it feels so good,
it's in your blood,
the air so clean and fresh,
the sea so cold but clear,
ok, there are midges,
and it might rain a lot,
and you definitely won’t see any otters . . .
But this can be a place of miracles!
If the wind is right – no midges.
If you sit still long enough – an otter appears.
If you’re really lucky – it won’t rain (too much).
I know. I’ve been there too,
And lost my heart to it all.
Just like you.
Feb 6, 2013
Feb 6, 2013 at 1:55 AM UTC
Mothlet-like owl midges fizzling in and out of the waves
that shuffle the moon's shed reflection,
hovering and imitating like a wettened rorschach--
with disembodied tiny teeth for feet
suckling from the scurvyed gums
where shadows are allowed to be kings.
Kings that observe a godess body that spans the whole sky with ******* made of crinkled ash dripping latex that falls
then cuts into the grass to
spread life--perfection spares no time for the impatient.
Glistening stream,mucky dewlap of the mountain carving a caricature of someone praying for rain and dreaming of a metamorphoses into ice.
With the night comes tide. Comes time. Comes death. Comes life.
If you were to sit down in one spot
anywhere in the world and not move
for another second of your life
from there on in--
you would see so much beauty and pain
You'd wonder what you ever did to be
as lucky as you had been.
Oct 17, 2020
Oct 17, 2020 at 2:17 PM UTC
Hanging in the summer silence....
Nothing.
A tiny mouse of the sky passes by.
Snatching midges in full flight.
The presence of a late summer night.
Bonfire crackling.
The aura of brightness.
Dead wood redressed.
The fire dances.
A little like an evening witch.
Wearing melting nets.
Chunks of old wood.
No use anymore.
Burning to perfection.
Ashes.
Eyelashes of dead-end wood.
Heart of the evening.
All well.
It's good.
The fire dies.
The bat retreats.
See you again tiny chap.
Same time.
Same place.
Maybe next week.
(c)Livvi
Jul 26, 2015
Jul 26, 2015 at 4:05 PM UTC
Run and hide from the summers eve thrill, while the sun's going down, Mrs Midge has her fill.
She gets in your hair as she buzzes in air, waiting to sup up your blood.
Um.
She leaves a strokes of hormone an invite to all her fuzzing friends,
Hey she screams come see me, these guys make for yummy feeds.
****** midges...bloody women, they leave their men at home!
(C) Livvi
Mar 29, 2014
Mar 29, 2014 at 6:37 AM UTC
he last thing, i saw
the plane fly over. busy day.
they only fly when fine,
we had some words on that
and laughed.
i pointed out the
unusual insect on his shirt,
smiled about those midges
stuck in skin so soft, which worked.
the horse watched, swayed
went down to roll.
i sewed the buttons back on.
sbm.
Jun 18, 2013
Jun 18, 2013 at 1:08 AM UTC
How to live
is how not to live alone.
To conquer the troll
beneath the bridges you are burning
on the funeral pyre
of your abject hope. To float -
amid the midges and day-flies
of a meadow, most sane.
So, to live -
is to embark on a errand of light
and return home, with dragon's teeth
in your knickers
and a ball of string for a fallen star
to stitch the world with.
To suture the oblivions
where they gape
and applaud the angels
that sent you there
to heal yourself
with nothing more
than a tongue in your head
and a heart on your
sleeve.
and no map.
Feb 15, 2017
Feb 15, 2017 at 5:32 PM UTC
there is a dead sheep in the lane.
pushed to one side away from
the passing.
traffic may have hit it, or it went
natural?
we walked on up near the copper
mine , a darker place yet
the forest came light.
sbm.
Jun 14, 2016
Jun 14, 2016 at 1:46 AM UTC
deep shadow in the valley,
gives rise to pink, gold down the estuary.
summer now, they come with midges,
breathe fire on the bridge, do not see
us for imagining to live here.
as we did once. now settled in boxes,
we grin and grow.
longer days are
shorter days.
if you opened the lid, i think
you will love them too.
their faces.
sbm.
Jun 21, 2014
Jun 21, 2014 at 12:18 AM UTC
deep shadow in the valley,
gives rise to pink, gold down the estuary.
summer now, they come with midges,
breathe fire on the bridge, do not see
us for imagining to live here.
as we did once. now settled in boxes,
we grin and grow.
longer days are
shorter days.
if you opened the lid, i think
you will love them too.
their faces.
sbm.
Jun 9, 2013
Jun 9, 2013 at 12:41 AM UTC
The leaf-nosed bats are in a hurry
All’s set for the nightly party
Today the feast starts at six thirty
Come as you are, no need for jewelry
Fresh mossies for dinner are ready
Sprinkles of midges, aren’t they yummy?
With swings and swoops, feeding in frenzy.
Bigger bats and flying foxes are also busy
As nectar and fruits are not quite many
Were it not for figs they’ll sure go hungry
For they can’t gate crash for the mushi sushi
In their upside down world, there is mutuality
Respect for each niche and common territory
Services are coincident, not obligatory.
The lives of bats are quite simple but happy
Much maligned, as humans look only
At whitish images, icons of perceived angelicity
But if we learn to look at the larger picture, we’ll see
A great range of diversity, earth’s own art gallery
And regardless of biased values, there is beauty
For Nature selects and I tell you, no bats, no glory.
May 21, 2019
May 21, 2019 at 7:00 PM UTC
the nights grow long
in summer
in sauk rapids
minnesota
an empty pocket book
put on a corner on main street
she was standing across the street
watching
laughing
smirking
and this is how I met Sarah
a storm of unshed tears
in the stillness of her eyes
but that smile sweet
sweet smile
and you know
you re her only one
and after 4 weeks
in sauk rapids
we knew each others secrets
the midges danced
above the field of wheat
"just say that you love me," she says.
and she began unbuttoning her red flannel shirt
and after
we climbed the town water tower naked
and howled with the wolves
captured in that moment
of sunlight fading
she taught me
all I'd ever need to know...
...I see you sitting beneath the dog wood tree,
waiting for me.
whispering leaves
falling all around you
and you are humming softly
the chiming of church bells is calling
we ll meet again at the end of time
my love
and walk across the sun
Jul 1, 2022
Jul 1, 2022 at 10:56 PM UTC
When you walk amongst the flower and trees,
Do you take note of the insects and bees?
Making their homes in the branches and leaves.
Some no bigger than a speck of dirt.
Bees hovering amongst the roses, cowslip, and milkwort.
Pollinating the buds of new flowers, preparing for Spring to arrive.
The treasure they desire is nectar; to be drunk by the Queen of their beehive.
Show your admiration for nature at work.
Beetles, crickets, flies of all kinds, can be found.
Amongst the stem and leaves closer to the ground.
The crickets emit a shrill chirp, the flies hum as they quickly flap their wings.
Listen closely as nature sings.
Popping up their heads from their hole in the ground.
Wild rabbits, take a look around you, hundreds abound.
Squirrels running up their trees.
Escaping predators, storing their tea.
Watch closely as nature plays.
Down by the canal amongst the reeds, dragonflies of a beautiful bright blue.
Flap their wings very quickly, look closely, do you see one close-by?
Be quick they will be gone in the blink of an eye.
Wonder at the swiftness of nature.
Gnats and midges in their hordes,
Creating havoc and discord.
Swatting a huge band of them with your hand; wondering what is their place?
As they make a nuisance of themselves, getting in your face.
Wonder at the swiftness of nature.
Ducks swans, geese sharing the river, swimming atop; Fishes swimming below.
Birds make nests for the young in the safest bushes beneath the largest willow.
Admire the protective side of nature.
When you walk...with an open mind.
You will be delighted at the many forms of nature you find.
Feb 25, 2021
Feb 25, 2021 at 3:13 PM UTC
on the lake, anonymous swans honk droll in golden sun
dappling on the surface of their planet of waves
sparkling with silver midges, darting amid shards of twilight
creeping over a hill like a vagrant sage
begging for a purple coin.
other birds, flock to wet stones in deep thought. mindful of nothing but the wave.
pecking through to wet sand, mottled with earth tones and shattered glass
from a campsite, 3 leagues upriver. the air moves like a shy bride.
over rose petals blushing scarlet in the shadow of a sleepy star
nodding off the horizon...
just carnival lights in a cornfield.
and your eyes.
all night.
May 6, 2018
May 6, 2018 at 3:04 PM UTC
Through the eyelids
All yellow and hazy and warm
The sun gently creeps in
A freshness blows
As the birds sing
Signalling the day is to begin
Dust particles dance in the air
Like midges near a river
The weary eyes feel wet
A yawn is stifled
Arms stretched up
What mysteries await me yet
Snuggled under cotton
Wrapped like a mummy
The chill is creeping around
No work today
A weekend release
Loafing is duly abound
May 9, 2021
May 9, 2021 at 7:27 PM UTC
It has come to this -
I am dead
In my busyness
Droning about
A wasp in a stoppered jar.
Once I loved words
Midges on my tongue
I spat them into shapes
Over paper
Too busy chasing jam now
To write much.
And you
I think if I had you
I wouldn't have to run
From my loneliness.
Feb 5, 2017
Feb 5, 2017 at 12:43 AM UTC
We pity those mortals
who have tasks at hand,
who, if they turn the leaflet,
must do so within the lap of an hour.
For the gods who abode in wilderness
attain the aspects of midges,
and fruit that strikes the barren floor
must return by way of mold,
And the idyllic breath of trees
is tainted by those of spiders,
who pass the day by hanging web
and small talking with their cohort.
Water, which does run its course
in magnificent reprisal
of the solidity of dust and mornings
that come crashing down on morrow,
Must take its penitence in life,
locked by pen and reed,
in its return trip to the sea, it meets
all possibility.
All foolery turns to error
when sung within a hymn,
we mistake that grave thing, Time
amidst the company of ghosts.
Jul 19, 2023
Jul 19, 2023 at 6:47 AM UTC