Ants Doing Yoga
I was watching ants filing back and forth the other day
When two pulled ovef for a chat; and I wondered how it was
They knew each other seeing they all look alike; and I
Concluded they must have individual features like us:
Hooked noses, for instance, bushy eyebrows, little pot bellies
And carry nicknames like ‘Shorty’, ‘Ginge’ or ‘Spike’
And further ants must have little to say seeing they say it
So quickly, but mostly I wondered where ants are off to
All the time; it is hard to imagine them doing yoga, or chilling
Out at the cricket or at the beach in a deckchair or moshing out
in a mosh pit to Adam and the Ants. So where do ants go?
Like angry black hairs
the ants scatter everywhere
when I discover them
under the hem
of the water drum
They are like
runaway exclamation marks
on their side
the full stops
A year after the gulf war
I stayed with a friend in the states
who suffered a home invasion
of ants .
He sprayed , stamped , stomped
till his house was clean .
That’s what Bush should have done
with Saddam he proclaimed
There are no ants in heaven
a priest explained to us at school .
Some how they got beneath the creator’s gaze
like cockroaches , rats and spiders .
They have no souls .
Kill with impunity
Smidgins of black , dashes.
a black din of limbs
an amokery of midnight slivers
through a crack in our world
they got in
*pic courtesy of pinterest
Perhaps it stung someone.
Perhaps that’s why it’s hurt.
I’ve watched it for half an hour
struggle across the pavers and dirt
stumbling into things like a drunk
fall over, get up again.
It’s painful watching this
but what can I do to assist?
I just happened to look down
and saw this old soldier hobbling along
and followed him. I hope I did no wrong.
Back and forth the fly darts across the windscreen
like black thoughts inside my head, floaters before my eyes,
distracting my driving, driving me up the wall.
You won’t get out? Okay, I’ll fix you, I say
as I pull in the driveway, wind the windows up
and pump in the fly spray, the little Nazi inside me
quite pleased with itself.
*pic courtesy of pinterest
They do not graze in meadows.
Nor do they stare listlessly
over fences at traffic .
None , to my knowledge ,
are brindled or patchwork .
Few , if any , have horns
or tails to swish flies with .
I have never heard one moo .
Nor been charged by one
when I crossed its path .
They may see red
but are little sought after
by toreadors .
Yet they are big .
And they do pack a bite.
We drove to the Buddhist temple
A hot breeze blew in
From the north.
Clouds of insects rose
One, a fly, landed on my nose
And would not
I gave it the good old Aussie salute *
A few times
To no avail,
Making me wonder whether
One should swat
A Buddhist fly
Or merely contemplate it?
The Buddha looked on.
- aussie salute = a brush of the hands to ward off bush flies
- pic courtesy of Pexels.com by Daniela Ruiz
the Maserati of the insect world
they leap from dawdle to dash
in one second flat
at one moment hovering helicopters
the next fighter planes
daredevil pilots at the controls
coupling in mid-air as if refuelling
how do they do it?
sex on the run
& here comes junior, red-headed
as a matchstick, parents in tow,
learning the ropes
I came across a stricken Xmas beetle on my walk along the lake.
Somehow it had toppled over and was swivelling on its back like a break dancer, its little legs paddling the air.
Ants swarmed over it,
I grabbed a leaf and flipped the beetle over.
Ants leapt off, a black sizzle of anger..
I flipped it a few more times till all the ants had let go, then I stood back and as it rose into the air. the sun glinting off its sheeny wings, it looked back and seemed to give a little wave.
*pic courtesy of Wiki Commons