"mosquitos" poems
She's a powerful and strong princess,
With magical super powers.
She thinks of time's past,
She thinks of times yet to come.
She loves to travel through Europe,
But her dreams are of Japan,
And singing under Sakura trees in the springtime of Japan.
I notice the way she thinks about Japan always with a smile,
She likes to use words like 'Sakura flowers' and 'Yukata Kimono from Japan.'
She likes to hang out with Monica, Dad and Grandma,
But when left alone,
Her mind turns straight to Sakura flowers in
The springtime of Japan.
She hates mosquitos and cold,
But she just thinks back to springtime in Japan,
And she's happy once again...
© 2014 Ronald J Chapman All Rights Reserved.
Dec 2, 2014
Dec 2, 2014 at 7:00 AM UTC
Compound eyes
Astonishing spectacles
Clairvoyant views from above
Wings glistening in the light of the sun
Buzzing long bodied mystical stories
Dragon's breath of spiritual eloquence
Releasing the bugs eating away at conscience
Skeletal spine of an egoless monk
whispering harmoniously the simple remedies
of cleansing thought
My snake doctor
Quick witted unmasker
your view 360 degrees
Focusing on the movement
and pesky mosquitos that feast
That leave us scratching our heads
I look on so enviously
at Lady Dragonfly
as she hovers angelically
In an eternal sky
It saddens me that the great one's lives are
always cut too short
but her legend lives on timelessly
Dating way back to Permian period
Dec 18, 2012
Dec 18, 2012 at 1:34 AM UTC
The lights are out for almost an hour now,
sitting on the edge of my bed,
still thinking of you somehow.
Staring blankly on my window with the reflection of the moon;
hoping to forget you, not now, but maybe soon.
The sound of my heavy breathing is the only thing i could hear.
Ignoring the mosquitos bites and their buzz's on my ear.
Right here, right now it's only you i think about,
inside this dark room, no more hiding and no more doubt.
The cool breeze entered from my window this time,
i closed my eyes as it gives me shiver through my spine.
A liquid substance fell through my cheeks down to my chin.
A realization hit me, now i know what a fool I've been.
I told myself many times before to not cry for you again,
but how am i going to end this? still wondering when.
The moon that reflects through my window seems like staring at me;
saying "everything will be fine, set your heart free".
Maybe i was just too dumb to not realize things,
all the pain, the tears, those sleepless nights and the heartache he brings.
Maybe i was just blinded by his captivating words.
I let him ruin my heart and everyday it hurts.
Tonight as i looked at the moonlit with tears on my cheeks,
i promise to forget him, but why does it makes me weak?
As the stars looked at me in return, the moon started to dim.
Woke up in the middle of the night,
now everything was just a dream.
Dec 9, 2020
Dec 9, 2020 at 1:07 AM UTC
Tail turned to red sunset on a juniper crown a lone magpie cawks.
Mad at Oryoki in the shrine-room -- Thistles blossomed late afternoon.
Put on my shirt and took it off in the sun walking the path to lunch.
A dandelion seed floats above the marsh grass with the mosquitos.
At 4 A.M. the two middleaged men sleeping together holding hands.
In the half-light of dawn a few birds warble under the Pleiades.
Sky reddens behind fir trees, larks twitter, sparrows cheep cheep cheep
cheep cheep.
July 1983
Caught shoplifting ran out the department store at sunrise and woke up.
August 1983
4.2k
the green grove a magnet to my eye
on these sun baked plains
I enter the glade to take shade with the cicadas
and vampire mosquitos
then I see it, Eden’s villain, coiled and rattling,
red ready to strike
I raise my staff, I too programmed to survive, do to what millennia
have taught
still we are in this staring standoff—silent save its rattle, deaf
I am to the chorus of insects
neither of us moves for an eternity of seconds, until the snake lunges at my feet
where its fangs find a field mouse, and devour it while I watch, an unwitting witness to expiry other than my own
I leave the copse, whole, content another creature has, for today, taken my place in the bloodletting
Aug 19, 2018
Aug 19, 2018 at 5:37 PM UTC
Candle flicker
Keeps mosquitos away
The wind is picking up
No sound to be heard but paper crumpling rustle of aspens
A **** seagull squaks; only here
This is desert living
Desert loving
We have a porch
It kind of feels like heaven
Just the moon and lamplights
And pajamas with no undergarments
Citronella smell
Dry breeze
Skin no longer chapped
Weathered from my initiation
During the apex of summer when I read outside at midnight
Jul 14, 2014
Jul 14, 2014 at 2:21 AM UTC
I imagine sitting on a porch somewhere humid and calm,
a tall tree, full of hand fruits, providing shade to foot traffic.
In this imagining, the lemonade is almost too sweet but doesn't stick to the table when it dries, and the mesh lining of the patio denies mosquitos all entry.
Their buzzing is drowned by the sound of ice being crushed three or four times with margarita mix and my favorite sin. Here, life has halted so dearly in a way I've always wanted, and in this, there is peace.
My parents would have kept a container of peanuts nearby to have with their Pepsis for days like this--
days where sound and warmth and humidity mingle, and fanning yourself with an old church pamphlet was better than being
bored, comfortable, and air-conditioned.
Apr 15, 2023
Apr 15, 2023 at 12:04 AM UTC
Two of my Zen friends
who, at the time,
I thought were some kind
of Zen enemies,
seemed to condemn me
to a soap opera
of eternal cookies
and the sound of lawnmowers,
and it took me
forty-some years
to understand this koan,
and the suburban heaven
that I was condemned to,
where instead of a life
in the forest
with snakes and mosquitos,
or a life in the city
with rats and roaches,
I was given
a life in this quiet, rich suburb
with an air-conditioned summer
and a toasty warm winter,
so that surrealistic understanding
of cookie and lawnmower hell,
turned into everyday Nirvana.
Oct 6, 2011
Oct 6, 2011 at 2:11 AM UTC
Every year the mosquitos come back to feast.
They make home in spare water and lie eggs.
The mosquitos feast upon our acidic flesh with envy.
Have you ever wondered why the mosquito keeps returning to feast upon us?
Perhaps our flesh is tough and a challenge found enjoyable by the insect.
Maybe the mosquito finds pleasure from our blood.
Maybe we have a unique taste thats mesmerizing.
Perhaps the mosquito returns every year to feast upon us in envious pity, for even the mosquito knows a numb life is a lonely life.
There's comfort in the mosquito, the mosquito has hope.
Unlike the mosquito I dont possess such a thing. I am meaning less & beautiful. A corpse, I am cold and dark.
My blood is as Cold, as the mosquito.
Feb 28, 2014
Feb 28, 2014 at 8:34 AM UTC
thoughts are transmitted
via translucent dragonfly mosquitos
from the angeled mountains of an ancient africa
to the plagued fountains of a new chimerica
miracles of disease and possibility in this
naked play they bear
fruitwords
juicing gifts of malleable meaning clothes for being or
chains, chainings
and so you are
water and messaging
carried all from timelands so distant & vague you are forever a
vague and distant stranger to your self.
when a man or woman is cut
wide, and deep enough
they bleed
despair
and with the desperate drops flows all the
thought force of all the riversrunnininthabellyod'earth.
in these despedrops
the flickerin' reflexions of starbirds turn banal to beauty
meaning
dangerously alive
in them the wombman is mirrored countless
countless times each a
split second in their life a
minute detail in their endless skies.
today i made
upon leaving home
a wish
that an image would come to stand frozen
across my peepholepupil
of what it will not matter;
and that some one, whomever,
a dancer, a ***
would come to stand staring
just intentsly enough
to have this moist unmatter
touch to fill their own eye.
this has all happened, just now, a blink before our ending -
all of it, together, when you told me
ah feigned casualty:
it's the sweetness that kills you
or was it
yr perfect just the way you are.
at the last i followed your passing with my gaze as your wake
the most intensfool one i could ever make
as your backs became horizons i
turned tilting to the old borderline
it stood as ever sealing the sea -
sealing a sea that heeeaved against the
plentyfullpollutionoftheshorelinepowerplantplantation inc smoke sky
beyond a wind oh
my window, ours
the wind wowed with that old border time
i saw the blue behemeoth
spotted four white dots in crescent form
and you see, looking through thus windowed i simply could not say
were they sailboats, fallenserapheathers
or reflexions of those electricpearlights upon waxfloressence
from the waning walls of the halls you just walked
out of
time
all around me
wail the waking walls of a maze my hazedazedgaze
your never.
Sep 21, 2009
Sep 21, 2009 at 12:39 AM UTC
Underneath the window to the galaxy we sat,
Basking in the warm red glow of the fire that burned brightly before us.
Swarms of Mosquitos nipping at whatever piece of skin they could sink their spouts into.
The wind roared, causing hot flare ups of the firewood sending us swinging backward batting away embers which had taken flight.
Sipping our drinks, smiling too widely, laughing with our friends.
Sharing unforgettable moments and making priceless memories;
All while the sky unfolded it's beauty above,
Holding each of us in our little places in the universe, so completely.
Pondering the vastness of it all.
Sitting under the Milky Way,
Making new friends and growing closer to the ones you've always known.
This is the magic of Hecla;
Hecla is part of us, forever.
Jul 20, 2015
Jul 20, 2015 at 1:02 AM UTC
Planned a long road trip
In the name of friendship
Seven hundred miles that day
Home and bed five miles away
Midnight sky with fireworks high
Red “H” on engine gauge much closer by
The sight was quite a fright
No longer feeling such delight
Pulling to the side
My time to bide
Until a tow appears
To relieve my fears
Mosquitos delight
They win the fight
On the interstate highway
Above their lakeside byway
Vibrations move the car
While passing trucks go far
E.T.A. at 1 am
Police set flares at 2 am
2:20 rolled around
At last the car was found
Speedy hookup
Not another hiccup
Left car at garage
Free ride home removed my rage
Doubled the driver’s tip
Reduced the bother to a blip
3am can go to bed
Yet so wired in my head
It takes an hour to mellow out
In four more, the sun from bed will rout
Was it worth it in the end?
Any day, I’d do it for my friend.
Jul 10, 2018
Jul 10, 2018 at 7:05 AM UTC
let me take a break from all of this for awhile
ii’m much too sad to read you a story from my diary
i miss kissing you
i want to kiss you under the sun
i want to kiss you on the sun
i want to handcuff you and kiss you
i want to know how to kiss you
i want to write a book about kissing you
kissing you is a full time job
let me kiss you agian
i am so sorry
i died kissing you
and i don’t regret it
i am losing my mind and i don’t want to find it
i"m reall sorry i will pay for the damages
wow can we stop loving each other so much already
i am so inlove with you right now i could make all the spelliung mistokos in the
world and you would still understand me and i you could close our eyes and still
see how much love we have for each other anad i don’t even mind if it seems like
i’m not payinga ateetion because maybe this is the way things are supposed to
be and i can’t make anything perfect for you because i am not but if you know
then i bet you can we ever
maybe this is right
everything is amazing and it will all be destroyed
this is the most memorable moment i’ve had today
let’s walk through the water with our shoes on
i want to feel the mud between my toes
i’m trying to catch all the mosquitos i can find
people say i’m not saying anything but i am actually saying everything and if you
paid close attention you would notice that i am actually made of different flowers
i’m so cute when i kiss you because you make
me feel reall cute u are so cute and kissing you should be an olympic sport
because i would win a gold medal in kissing you for sure!
how about we talk for a minute
Aug 15, 2015
Aug 15, 2015 at 2:29 AM UTC
When I was younger
I slept in the top bunk
over my older brother
- Pretty soon we’re all going to die -
he was fond of saying
while we listened to Credence
Clearwater Revival on an old turntable
with a penny he taped to the arm
to make it sound like a $100
Pretty soon he got me saying the same
words, like moon, mosquitos and darkness
were in his ear, he’d have dreams of
naked women washing his feet
and sparrows looking out of his eyes
He hollered at old man death
when he was wanting some shuteye
- Nobody on earth is like me -
he’d wake up shouting not meaning
to disturb my sleep
He said - I am the white piano
they threw off the bridge -
- the snake bed and the shade tree -
- I am something, yes-sir-eee -
- I’m something not everybody wants
to believe - he’d say sipping on whiskey
bought from a woman up the holler
He told death to - kiss his white *** -
then holler at me to get out of bed
and go trim the grass around the stone
angels planted up in the high pasture.
Dec 1, 2018
Dec 1, 2018 at 10:21 PM UTC
She came into my life
a karmic explosion
over a pristine
midnight blue
upstate New York
lake,
its breath
damp and warm
and sweet.
Gasping,
labored efforts
expelled a preganant breath,
a prelude to
life.
Blackflies engaged in rutualistic seance.
Lethagic mosquitos emerged
from the evening's sweet mist.
But then raged into frantic spirals,
squealing out futile messages.
Timid pines,
guardians of the ancient site,
loosed their rigid stance,
Prickly spines shivered to the ground.
Anxiously, they awaited rumors
that would quell the fetal dread
that flowed through veins,
invading their bliss.
A bulky mass stirred from somnolent state
in that mud-lined basin,
releasing brown ribbons of agitation,
and inciting a ravenous hunger.
Friendly galaxies,
former guides in his dream state,
abandoned his cause,
flickering a vague adieu.
Having cradled him for so long,
the slick muddy floor now sent him flailing to and fro,
an ungainly dance,
embarassing to watch.
Where once he thrived,
he now gasped for air.
Sep 10, 2012
Sep 10, 2012 at 12:10 AM UTC
What is the point in
Poignancy?
*Fragment,
you tell me.
Another one in paragraph three.*
What do words matter?
I have spelled love with Lilacs instead of an “L”
I have drawn the curve of my “O” with the chill of a
Sweeping breeze.
A “V” can only appear as the violet of a
sparkling sky, or I will be unable to read it,
and every “E” will amount to nothing more than
emptiness if the voice it has been given
does not epitomize song.
*Comma-splice,
Replace it with a semicolon.*
I am trying live freely.
I want to breathe in color,
to inhale an orange Savannah sky
And exhale green which
shows through the translucent dew
of grass.
*Unnecessary use of description.
Limit it, Lidiah. Limit it.*
My fingers itch with the ferocity of
A vengeful army.
They are waiting to trample pages with
The lead of my pencil, the bayonet
of a Revolutionary-War-era rifle.
The word limit sounds like tragedy.
A single word that can somehow act as
a precursor,
To the death of passion.
Your words have put you in a box.
People always say
“Actions speak louder than words.”
In a way that is true.
But I also know it to be
a tremendous piece of fiction.
*Lidiah,
Please watch your run-ons.*
Why can our words and our actions
not be the same thing?
Isn’t the act of speaking,
the act of raising your voice,
the act of being heard,
isn’t that an action?
*Lidiah,
how many times do I have to remind you?
Clarification throughout.*
Why have we decided that our words
Mean nothing more than
stepping stones on the road to action?
When did we decide that our voices
which rise like clarion calls,
forever instilling our promises,
are to be left on silent?
Precious jewels set into rings.
Poison in a water tank.
*Lidiah,
what you say is irrelevant
if your MLA bibliography isn’t in
alphabetical order.*
Our words are our actions.
They mean the same.
Words are the distinctions of our beliefs
Illustrations of our personas
They are not mosquitos to be slapped away
and forgotten.
*Lidiah,
paragraph five is too long.
Stop rambling.
Be concise.*
Please tell me,
what is the point of being concise?
*Lidiah,
stop rambling.*
Why do we let justification
equate to useless rambling?
*Lidiah,
you have to detach yourself from the narrative.*
Feelings mean more
than a couple of sentences.
More than a good or a bad.
A mad or a sad.
Comma-splice
What about ferocity?
Never end with a preposition.
What about passion?
Replace this with a conjunctive adverb.
What about the discernable strife
that follows even indifference?
What about that?
*Lidiah,
what is the point of
Poignancy?*
What are we without it?
What does the human soul matter
if we have forsaken the parts of ourselves that
remind us of what a soul is for?
*Lidiah,
you will never be heard
if you do not learn to follow the rules*.
Mar 4, 2018
Mar 4, 2018 at 1:04 AM UTC
Me and couple of my buddies tailgate of our trucks,
sipping moonshine from coffee cups.
Swatting at mosquitos and telling lies,
getting further from the truth with every sip of the Shine.
Dont be a stranger when you pull up,
yonder is the jug and some extra cups.
Now some folk cannot handle the sip then the bite,
leaves more for others, quite all right.
Here comes another stretch of the truth,
now keep on passing the jug once you're through.
Jul 19, 2012
Jul 19, 2012 at 7:25 PM UTC
********* sycophants
Obsequious mosquitos
Blatant fuckery
Apr 16, 2015
Apr 16, 2015 at 6:58 PM UTC
What rhymes with love?
Can I **** and say dove?
then you say a word "Camera",
Now I'm thinking to ride a Chimera!
Common is the guitar,
now you want to play a Sitar,
as you watch movies with subs,
cute anime overdubs,
Up early as three in the morning,
you notice mosquitos are roaming,
with last night's hangover,
walked clumsy like a moon rover!
I am a person of rhymes,
until you ring those chimes,
Until you hear an angry gerbil,
I love you much ar
Jan 7, 2011
Jan 7, 2011 at 4:41 AM UTC
I miss the look on your face when you saw me
I miss the smell on of the smoke on your skin
I miss the small, silver camera you held in your hand
I missed you the moment you'd taken me in
I miss the long drives past rolling corn feilds
I miss the tissue crumpled in my hand
I miss the trailer sat 10 feet from your porch light
I missed you the moment that I knew I can
I miss the family that I'd never known there
I miss my neices blue eyes, curly hair
I miss when Aunt Nikkie painted my nails green
It started chipping, but I didn't care
I miss the fireflies that I couldn't catch
I miss the movies you forced me to watch
I miss the ashtrays all over the house
I missed the jokes I continue to botch
I miss the grapes that you stuck by my bedside
I miss the feel of my neice on my lap
I miss my cousins attempting to drown me
I even miss Tristan, whom I wanted to slap
I miss the day that they took me out shopping
I miss watching movies with them late at night
I miss winning money on Grampa's 10 slot machines
I miss how hard those mosquitos would bite
I miss the day that you bought me a pizza
I miss the way that smoked everyday
I miss the drive to the airport that morning
I miss your face, as you drove away
May 25, 2013
May 25, 2013 at 12:31 AM UTC
people -- blue jeans -- t-shirts -- volleyball -- sparklers -- *** its -- stone bridge -- pine trees -- new trees -- old trees -- fireworks -- grass -- sonic boom -- picnic chairs -- bicycles -- oak trees -- bare neck -- tickles -- sneezing -- bless you -- slight chill -- cloud cover -- police cars -- policemen -- uniforms -- night sticks -- sweat pants -- baby strollers -- skull & crossbones -- muscle shirt -- sweat shirt -- baseball caps -- fountains of sparks -- greenery -- dandelions -- yellow weeds -- wafting smoke -- black man in white shirt -- white man in black shirt -- SUV -- Boxer dog -- red wagon -- smoke stacks -- asian couple -- running shorts -- acrid smoke -- ice cream truck -- double trees -- pony tail -- mosquitos -- fishing hat -- yellow truck -- handlebar mustache -- bad *** attitude -- shaved head -- balloon -- barbeque -- sunset -- affro -- tennis shoes -- multi-colored hair -- canoe -- golden purse -- playing band -- American flag -- folding chair -- name badge -- red, white, & blue -- skipping rocks -- cargo shorts -- matching couple -- bike path -- hippie hair -- low rider -- peace sign -- golden chains -- waning moon -- waxed legs -- hoodies -- striped shirt -- victory dance -- short shorts -- cigar smoke -- watermelon -- Viking's bag -- leopard skin jacket -- skooter -- digital camera -- creepy stalker dude -- tent building -- horeshoes -- personal space invaders -- glow sticks -- picnic basket -- cooler -- smoke bombs -- plaid skirt -- 77 sweats -- interracial couples -- motorcycle -- orange vest -- plastic ball -- face paint -- cops in two different uniforms -- split tree -- pregnant lady -- trash talking horeshoe player -- street lamps -- playing tag -- large blue cooler -- bright green pants -- humorless boy
Oct 27, 2014
Oct 27, 2014 at 5:40 PM UTC
Returning son, his daughter at his side,
imagines now the men who once amassed
the limestone locks to straddle the canal,
an obsolete image from an eldritch past.
On a ritual hour of summer dusk,
if you should know precisely where to stand
that ghost of Syracuse can still be seen,
a rotting timber craft trapped deep in sand.
Mosquitos drone their hungry mother song.
The two upon the towpath, side by side,
survey this stagnant waterway where once
their ancestors lived and worked and died.
The silt entombs the boat’s untimely end –
how many years before the blasts of steam
sent veins of iron shooting ‘cross the land
did this canal boat capsize like a dream?
May 18, 2013
May 18, 2013 at 3:36 AM UTC
I hear the sounds of the city I the distance.
Cars, truck and auto rickshaws screaming for space on the bypass.
Far from my terrace they seem to be
Yet they are close to enough that the breeze brings their fumes.
A shawl is spread beneath me
To keep my clothes from the dust that is not washed away up here.
Up here, where my eyes can barely see the treetops.
Up here, where the sun is strong and browning my fair skin.
Up here, where I am exposed and unseen.
The worries of all my differences are erased when I alight the steps to my rooftop.
It doesn't matter that I don't speak Bengali .
It doesn't matter that I'm sick of Dal and the Baigan Bharta is too spicy.
It doesn't matter that I am a foreigner and always will be.
I am celebrated by the the crows and mosquitos that find solace above Kolkata.
In turn, I can celebrate the fact that I've found a corner where my foreignness is not offensive nor inviting.
It just is, and I'm just me; far above the dusty streets and the stray dogs that keep me up a night with their howls.
Feb 20, 2013
Feb 20, 2013 at 10:23 AM UTC
I wake at sunrise
And watch the world around me wake aswell
The frosted tree tops remind me of the cold winter to come
The colorful leaves half fallen into the front yard
Reminding me to take in Autumn while I can
Because soon the snow that is falling will stick
Soon the remaining leaves in the trees will fall too
The cloudy skies with a bright pink background remind me that soon there will be no sun detected as the grey clouds will cover my little town for 4 months
The pesty mosquitos from humid summer nights have all died out
Beaches are closed for the winter
And those **** frosty tree tops reminding me of a long cold winter to come
In the beginning the new change will be blissful
But like everything else after time
It gets old
Oct 24, 2013
Oct 24, 2013 at 10:31 PM UTC