November 2017
Alan Walowitz
ajwal328@gmail.com
ajwal328@gmail.com
As this poem might indicate, I struggle to write poems about nature. In fact, I have to look inside my house to find any nature at all. These camel crickets--see the photo--caused quite a stir when they appeared in our basement a few years ago. Though I was sent downstairs to "take care of them," I figured we have cats, Chocolate and Chippy, and they ought to get to work. Their lack of interest mirrored my own, but in the interest of domestic tranquility, I had to find a way. What else could I do but write a poem?
Poem for the End of Daylight Savings (November 1, 2015)
One way to control camel crickets is to adopt a cat …Felines are
fascinated by crickets' hopping motions and will hunt them.
--Networx.com
It was kind of you to offer to do the laundry,
though I know the basement bugs make you nuts.
The exterminator said these camel crickets
head inside this time of year for warmth—just like us,
and probably through the cracks in the storm cellar door.
We haven’t used it in years, so why not?
And now that they’re comfortable
they’re bounding in and out of the sheets
and onto the speckled basement floor
then back again, a playground for the uninvited.
But the cat, perched near the window, hears my voice
telling him, These are some hoppy bugs!
and wonders if the world is losing its way,
the air and some sun still streaming in at him in November,
and opens, then closes one quizzical eye,
to recall that the pun is the lowest form of wit—
and he’s got better things to do his age, than chase a bug
who’s got no interest in being caught and torn asunder.
So where else could this poem head but here,
on the Day of the Dead--and what’s worse
this Return to Standard Time,
free daylight done for now when we need it most
as the sun makes its way—I don’t give a damn
what science may say; like the Ancient I am, I believe what I see—
a little quicker each day to the western horizon?
I know the cat doesn’t care—
he’s a metaphor for me;
and for all I know that’s all I am for him: It’s only fair.
But if I make it through one more winter, I swear
I’ll chase those damn camel crickets myself
around the basement floor and out the storm cellar door.
Then promise I’ll pause to take the warm spring breeze—
to hell with the laundry, and all the chores—
and spend more time with you
to bathe in whatever light is left.
One way to control camel crickets is to adopt a cat …Felines are
fascinated by crickets' hopping motions and will hunt them.
--Networx.com
It was kind of you to offer to do the laundry,
though I know the basement bugs make you nuts.
The exterminator said these camel crickets
head inside this time of year for warmth—just like us,
and probably through the cracks in the storm cellar door.
We haven’t used it in years, so why not?
And now that they’re comfortable
they’re bounding in and out of the sheets
and onto the speckled basement floor
then back again, a playground for the uninvited.
But the cat, perched near the window, hears my voice
telling him, These are some hoppy bugs!
and wonders if the world is losing its way,
the air and some sun still streaming in at him in November,
and opens, then closes one quizzical eye,
to recall that the pun is the lowest form of wit—
and he’s got better things to do his age, than chase a bug
who’s got no interest in being caught and torn asunder.
So where else could this poem head but here,
on the Day of the Dead--and what’s worse
this Return to Standard Time,
free daylight done for now when we need it most
as the sun makes its way—I don’t give a damn
what science may say; like the Ancient I am, I believe what I see—
a little quicker each day to the western horizon?
I know the cat doesn’t care—
he’s a metaphor for me;
and for all I know that’s all I am for him: It’s only fair.
But if I make it through one more winter, I swear
I’ll chase those damn camel crickets myself
around the basement floor and out the storm cellar door.
Then promise I’ll pause to take the warm spring breeze—
to hell with the laundry, and all the chores—
and spend more time with you
to bathe in whatever light is left.
© 2017 Alan Walowitz
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