I’ve been in a nasty frame of mind lately. I have a large post in progress, and it’s eating at me; its ideas are. It’s taking my mind places I don’t really want to go, but I guess I have to go there and explore these ideas and feelings. I don’t want to write negative words, but that’s what’s landing on the pages. This poem emerged last night, but I’d rather find a good story line for my November novel.
Our home quakes with the weight of Seven billion people,
scurrying about like ants searching for food in the brown, late summer lawn
parched by heat and empty skies.
The ants had long ago scoured the barbeque pit,
the land of discarded food.
They now push their luck in the forbidden abode,
pushing their loads through the tiny cracks in the seal,
the lost domain, the last lines of defense.
Her reflexes are strong but slow.
She refuses to lash out at the parasites
afraid she’ll be wrong in her judgment.
Yet her back tightens and hairs raise.
Her instincts for survival, strong.
It’s the natural order, she knows, that will decide.
The parasite will die off as she sleeps, rests.
The rule of the parasite will soon end.