Photo by C. John Edwards his blogs are -
http://scriptorsenex.blogspot.com/
http://cjeinexeter.blogspot.com/
http://cjehebrides.blogspot.com/
http://pensbyetal.blogspot.com/
and website -
http://www.johnsbooks.org/galleries/gallery%201.htm
http://scriptorsenex.blogspot.com/
http://cjeinexeter.blogspot.com/
http://cjehebrides.blogspot.com/
http://pensbyetal.blogspot.com/
and website -
http://www.johnsbooks.org/galleries/gallery%201.htm
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Suggested prompt...
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Suggested prompt...
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I is for Insect
A bit of writing celebrating all things creepy & crawly.
Ode to a lady bug... story of an inchworm... poem for a centipede,
be creative and open to many legged possibilities.
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Butterflies
Flutterbies
Birds better beware
Sun blockers
Shadow makers
On grass and on smooth shiny hair
Monarchs to moths
Have wings that are soft
And fall like gold dust in the air.
Flying machines
And pretty colored things
Real and fantastic and fair.
~ I.N.Kwell
One week after the photo or picture is posted I will pick one offering to put beneath the image. This is a way of celebrating exceptional creativity. Any and all posts are available for your creative mind to make an offering at any time (even ones where a writing has been placed on the front page like this one). If you are new here and want to offer to every image here, feel free. We are writers, WRITE!If this is your exceptional writing posted here on the Front Page Pictures, Poetry & Prose invites you to include the Exceptional Writing Award Button on your blog. Visit the Exceptional Writing Award post for the details and the button to download.
12 comments:
There are more of me than you. Yet you ‘rule the planet’ and I run and hide. I’m just trying to live my life but you see no place for me in your grand scheme of things. You spray me, you crush me, you catch me. It’s my world as well, you know. All I want is a quiet life. Please leave me alone to get on with it.
Ode to a Stinkbug....
Oh wretched visitor to my abode
Presence is announced before arrival
Odor of a Jelly Belly Pear
Your enemies cringe at your aura
Your true vocation should be
Homeland Security
I tried, really, I tried, but the only thing I could come up with was written by someone else:
"Insects make me scream and shout
They don't know what life's about
They don't have blood
They've got too many legs
They don't have brains in their heads
They know they'll rule the world some day
They bite and sting me anyway"
This is an excerpt from "Insects" by Oingo Boingo http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Oingo_Boingo
Alas, others often say it better
The Fly's Lament.
I feel
I am hated
Indiscriminately.
Isn't that unfair?
Incidentally, when
I try to make fly,
Inter-weaving air and ether
Into the movement of angels,
Irritatingly, many of you
Interpret this as the signal to attack my
Indestructible wings. Which break.
A visual version of the poem is available at: http://snipurl.com/9sxs7
Are termites insects? Picture this - we're splitting wood for our woodstove with which we heat our small mountaint home. Specifically, we're splitting oak, which is heavy, dense, and burns great in a woodstove. As the splitter bites down into a somewhat mushy piece - spongy in the center - it hits a nest of termites, busily chewing and digesting that spongy oak core. They spill out, racing for cover, at least as quickly as termites can race. I grab the can of pesticide and begin pumping the oily mixture over them as my husband steps away to take a sip of water from his bottle sitting on a nearby log. It takes a long time for the creepy-crawlies to stop moving.
Now, before you "insect huggers" get yourselves all worked into a frenzy about us murdering poor, innocent bugs - termites, specifically - picture this. You're opening a doorway between two rooms in your home and as your saw bites into an old stud, it hits a nest of termites and they come racing out. If there's one nest in one stud, how many more? And, where did they come from? And, should we just leave them there to live their innocent lives as bugs? And, if we do, how long can we expect to continue living in our old house before it falls down around us from the chewing and digesting of the termites?
I'm icky
I'm picky
and I'm definitely slicky!
Now, come touch my booty
I'll even rattle it off for you
If your venom kills Mr. Peeny
You can touch body too!
Let's face it they're strange.
Come on now they're weird.
I guess that for their lives
amazingly well geared.
That feeling of fear
At the sight of just one
Brings a run for the shelf
Of the Raid sure to come.
Sorry little bug
I know you got rights
But either fly now or run
Or I'll put out your lights.
Butterflies
Flutterbies
Birds better beware
Sun blockers
Shadow makers
On grass and on smooth shiny hair
Monarchs to moths
Have wings that are soft
And fall like gold dust in the air.
Flying machines
And pretty colored things
Real and fantastic and fair.
As I lay me down to sleep,
I pray the Lord my room to keep
Free of the insidious buzz
Of the creature covered in fuzz
They call mosquito,
But I christen a winged Danny DeVito.
Your voice tortures my ear,
Just when sleep is most near;
So I lie awake waiting,
My teeth I am grating,
Watching for my chance
To end this one sided romance.
Irwin Inchworm
inched his way to the park
to meet his pal Eddie Firefly
who could glow in the dark.
“Hey Eddie, I’m here,”
Irwin called to his friend.
Eddie waved hello
then blinked twice at the end.
The two friends played catch,
then Over-the-Line.
They called it a tie
when the score was nine-nine.
“I’ll see you tomorrow,”
Irwin said to his chum.
“I’ll be here at noon.
Do you promise you’ll come?”
“Of course I will be here,”
Eddie said with a grin,
“Who knows, maybe next time
I might let you win.”
For home the two headed,
one east and one west.
Best pals the two were,
neither cared who was best.
(There are more stanza to this bit of silly, but I will leave it at that... still laughing at myself for having an inchworm poem.)
Laura Jane, very cute!
Can you pick your writing as 'Exceptional writing'? I think you deserve it. :)
The Wasting Moth
“The wasting moth ne'er spoiled my best array;
the cause was this, I wore it every day”
– Alexander Pope
If there’s an insect that earns my wrath
It is the mindless, little wasting moth
They usually appear late at nights
Flitting aimlessly around my lights
But what it is that earns my loathing
Is: it’s not me they love, it is my clothing
On sight, inside, I feel something snapping
And chase them ‘round the room, clapping
And if I catch the blighter, it is mushed
Ashes go to ashes, moths go to dust
But late at night, when I’m rhyming letters
Little mothlings are eating my sweaters.
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