Hi everyone,
Authors and poets sometimes return to favorite subjects. Yesterday I was watching ants hustling around the pool and thought of some of the poems they’ve inspired me to write over the years. Most recently was one I posted here a few weeks ago.
Waking Ants Pouring down the funnel into their bed chambers, the same sun that sponsors weed seedlings excites their dreams, gets them moving. In ones and twos, they emerge uncertainly into spring. Half awake, half asleep, staggering like extras in a zombie movie, each ant wanders in a different direction, as though in search of where it left off last fall when colding days numbed purpose and changed priorities. Somewhere there was a moth wing that needed extracting from a spider’s lacy net. Where was that cricket leg, easily a 2-ant job to lug to the nest? There was a freshly deceased bee. Hard work – when your brain is the size of a fleck of pollen – to remember what page you were on when you fell asleep reading the sites of your kingdom. It won’t take long. New food will be found. Lines will form. Ants, after all, must be ants. (c) David L Harrison, all rights reserved
One ant poem was published in THE DIRT BOOK., 2021
Ants A thousand ants without a sound build a city underground, without light construct halls, down and down the city sprawls, without rest tug and toil, grain by grain remove soil, without a leader in the gloom scoop and hollow out each room, without tools clean and sweep, build their city strong and deep. (c) David L. Harrison, 2021
A short, silly one from BUGS, POEMS ABOUT CREEPING THINGS, 2007
Ants I don’t know What they’re looking for. I don’t know What they’ll find. I do know I feel nervous With ants On my behind. (c) David L Harrison, 2007, all rights reserved
Ants are an important subject in the Peruvian Amazon. This poem is from THE SOUND OF RAIN,
INDIANS SAY . . . Giant ants, when they die, climb tall trees, come back as vines that hang down like jungle hair. Vines make baskets, soften nests, tie up logs. White men call them philodendron. Without ants, what would the jungle do? (c) David L Harrison, 2007, all rights reserved
I wrote this one years ago, for the blog, I think. It’s coming out in an upcoming book.
The Picnic The problem with a picnic is the ants. As quickly as the cloth is on the table You’ll feel the first one crawling up your pants. People never really stand a chance. Food without intruders is a fable. The problem with a picnic is the ants. They’ll find you if they have to crawl from France. No one understands how fast they’re able. You’ll feel the first one crawling up your pants. Around the corn they do a victory dance – A buggy boogie, if you need a label. The problem with a picnic is the ants. Their anty voices utter tiny chants, According to my zany Auntie Mabel. You’ll feel the first one crawling up your pants. The way they rudely nibble as they prance Makes you think they grew up in a stable. The problem with a picnic is the ants. You’ll feel the first one crawling up your pants. (c) David L Harrison, all rights reserved There have been others, but hunting for them is turning into a more time consuming challenge than I want this morning.
Children's Author David L. Harrison's Blog 