Wasps!
I’m walking home, along the road,
Carrying my shopping; a heavy load.
I hear a buzzing sound right by my ear,
And my whole body fills with fear.
Without even looking, I know what is there.
I’m afraid that it will get caught in my hair.
I stand there stock still and totally freeze;
I’m terrified of wasps, but don’t mind bees.
A frown appears upon my face and I pray,
That this worrying wasp, will soon go way.
Soon, he loses interest and gets off my case,
But, even so, I purposefully quicken my pace.
The wasp disappears and I’m on my own again,
Thankful that, on me, he didn’t inflict any pain.
To date, I’ve been lucky and haven’t been stung,
But I’m so totally dreading my first ever one.
Freezing on the spot has worked for me so far,
And has managed to keep me from any harm.
When a wasp approaches, my shoulders hunch.
Needless to say, I’m not a fan of ‘al fresco’ lunch!
Some people wave their arms and go ‘shoo! ’
But, I know this is the worst thing they can do.
Of wasps, I’ve always been so totally terrified,
And it’s a fear, which is extremely hard to hide.
A wilful wasp flying around in search of food,
Can, in a heartbeat, suddenly change my mood.
Bees, unlike wasps, are useful and earn their worth,
But what is the actual purpose of wasps on the earth?
They just annoy people to the point of distraction;
Where there’s a wasp, there’s often some action!
I’m really not their biggest fan, and I really think
I’d be more than happy, if they became extinct!
poem by Angela Wybrow
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Related quotes
Wasp
Her slender waist resembles a wasp
And she goes on the muddy road never stops.
Unlike bees, wasps are largely carnivorous
And their species, digger wasps, sand wasps & mud wasps
But you are a kind woman and I am sure you do not have a formidable sting
Please do not hurt me as I am scared of wasps.
poem by Nimal Dunuhinga
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A Nest of Wasps
Closing the garage door
a wasp was flying past my head
but strangely it didn’t come for me
and for the first time
I saw a nest on the door
where there were plenty more,
some more small red stinging wasps.
At first I thought that the nest
was empty and when I reach for it
six more wasps flew past my head
and I drew my hand back instead.
By careful inspection
I saw many more wasps
sitting at the back of the nest
and these pests
were sure to sting somebody
time and time again,
but why they were avoiding me
I still do not know.
I couldn’t leave the nest there
and had to get them all dead
and yet somehow I pitied it
and which I could just instead
let them be.
poem by Gert Strydom
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My Silent Undoing
my silent undoing
my silent undoing
my silent undoing
my silent undoing
my wasp in a jar
protruding hips
and skull, and spine
ribcage cuts a clear outline
oh, oh
all roped up and pinching in
distorted and disfiguring
oh, oh
my silent undoing
my silent undoing
my wasp in a jar
no photographs around the back
emaciated, iron flat
oh, oh
dehydrated cutting bones
today i'm over 7 stone
oh, oh
my wasp in a jar
my wasp in a jar
my wasp in a jar
twinkle little star
my wasp in a jar.
song performed by by Queen Adreena
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Bugs (On a Summer's Day)
On any hot and sunny, summer's day,
Millions of bugs appear, to work and play.
Butterflies flit to and fro: they flit high and flit low;
Bringing a touch of beauty, wherever they may go.
Crimson red, with little black spots, is the ladybird.
My whole face lights up, whenever it's name is heard.
The honey bees, are industrious in their work:
Their responsibilities, they never ever shirk.
Then there's the ant, aka the earth excavation engineer;
One, I can stand, but a whole army feels me with fear.
I freeze with fear, when by a wilful wasp, I'm pursued.
They hang around, even when I don't have any food.
Likewise, different species of fly, varying in shape and size,
Look for food - to keep it covered, you'd be extremely wise.
Hoverflies, however, do pretty much as their name suggests,
But, unlike wasps, who look quite similar, they are not pests.
Storm flies may well be extremely tiny and titch,
But when they crawl on you, they don't half itch!
Outdoors, I dash away, if the sound of buzzing gets too close;
'Ha! I chased her away! ' the insects, to each other, I bet, boast!
Tiny bugs, which crawl about in my hair,
Is one thing which, I really can not bear.
Woodlice, however, do not like the scorching sun,
And, if disturbed, to a new shelter, they'll quickly run.
Lacewings look pretty, with wings, all delicate and lacy,
But emitting a nasty smell to predators, they aren't tasty.
In the evening, Grasshoppers and crickets chirp away,
Signalling the closing in of yet another summer's day.
poem by Angela Wybrow
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The Hogarth Experiment Part 7
The first streaks for dawn
broke across the Wye Valley.
The Armoured Flamethrowers were poised
around the giant wasps nest.
Just as the sky began to lighten,
pushing away the darkness of the night
the first wasp climbed from the nest.
Long spouts of flame poured over it.
As its body was engulfed in flame
out of the nest, more wasps swarmed.
Suddenly the sky darkened again.
Several RAF bases were scrambled.
Spitfires and Hurricanes crowded the skies.
This time the enemy
was not the Luftwaffe, but insects.
The pilots where not sure what tactics
they were to use
or how the insects were going to react.
They swooped low down the valley
just skimming the treetops.
Then suddenly they were confronted with the enemy.
They peeled off in different directions choosing a target.
The manoeuvrability of the insects was unexpected.
They swerved, dived, hovered
and even seem to reverse.
Several tried to sting the aircrafts.
As more and more the wasps were shot down,
more replaced them.
Several of the aircraft crashed
as more than one wasp landed on them.
Spouts of fames stretched into the sky
from the flamethrowers below.
A second wave of aircraft
flew into the affray,
they seemed to be swarmed by wasps.
Several of the pilots few upwards
drawing a number of the wasps with them.
Aircraft and wasps darted around
the crowed sky in arial combat never before witnessed.
Hundreds of wasps fell from the sky
and were quickly replaced by hundreds more.
As the aircraft began running short of fuel,
they few away from the fight
and others were brought in.
On the ground, the Armoured Flamethrowers
were being attacked as well.
The wasps crawled over the machines
trying to find a way in.
Smoke began to rise from the nest
as more and more wasps lifted into the air.
Quite a number were met
by long stems of flames that engulfed their bodies.
Several with their bodies still alight rose
and smashed into oncoming aircraft
and both plummeted to the ground.
A black cloud from the burning
nest and corpses of the insects rose high above the valley.
Hour after hour, they fought
before the number of wasps decreased.
After six hours, the fight was over.
Bodies of wasps littered the fields
where cattle once grazed.
The RAF flew the length and breath of the valley
to ensure that there were no surviving giant wasps.
Soldiers with flamethrowers walked over the fields
burning every wasp they came across.
None was to be left alive.
The nest had a constant jet of flame poured into it.
When ever it seemed that the fames was going out
gallons of petrol was tipped down the hole of the nest
and the flamethrowers ignited it.
All through the night
and late into the following day
the process was kept up.
They could not afford a
ny eggs or any of the queens to survive.
Finally, it was over.
The charred remains of the wasp’s corpses
were buried in deep pit.
A week after the battle was over
only small scars on the landscape were noticeable.
A year later there were no traces
of what had happened there in the summer of 1945
and life in the Wye Valley returned to normal.
Professor Hogarth sat in his favourite chair
and watched his garden begin to grow again.
Several times, he could have sworn
he thought he saw shadows.
He put them down to his imagination.
The end.
Author’s note:
Although this has been, a work of fiction of which he hopes the readers has derived some pleasure in reading. I wish to leave everyone with this thought. As the world is increasing yearly in population. More and more plants are being genetically modified to increase crop yields. As insects feed off plants and other insects feed off them. One can never tell if the genetic structure of those insects will, itself be modified. We know that it takes generations for species to mutate. What we do not know is whether they are mutating now somewhere in the world. Which leaves us with the question. What if?
David Verdun Harris
6 November 2007
poem by David Harris
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Bees
Bees are messengers from up above:
Filled with goodness and with love.
Unlike wasps, they mean us no harm:
They are more friendly and have charm.
On fine, silvery wings, the bees take flight,
When the sun's warm rays are shining bright.
They collect up the pollen in their sacs,
Then, to their hives, they take it back.
They carry out their duties with a smile;
Their souls full of cheer all the while.
With keenness, they carry out their work;
Their responsibilities, they do not shirk.
Bees have such an important role to play:
We would be doomed if they died away.
Plants and flowers would cease to grow,
And supplies of foodstuffs would soon be low.
Of bees, there is no need for us to be scared;
About their work, they passionately do care.
If we leave these dedicated workers well alone,
Near to us humans, they will not dare to roam.
They will not sting us, unless they're provoked,
For them, using their sting is certainly no joke.
If a bee ever stings you, you may well cry,
But the poor old bee, well, it would then die.
Unlike wasps, bees are not considered pests,
Even though they are very similarly dressed.
Bees are really fabulous, bees are really brill:
A bee, you should never ever, on purpose, kill.
poem by Angela Wybrow
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Radio Waves
In SETI
Radio waves are the beacon
Of hope This is
Anthropocentrism Because
Eusociality (the hive mind) as with
Bees, ants and wasps
That trail & discover
Is a totally different matter
So might they
They may be undiscoverable
This way via the top hits
Of the galactic jive
Go then
There are animals right here
First to find
poem by Stan Petrovich
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Insect Kin
Iron lung i know you well
deal with you like a bad spell
see the trail moon burns
red strip and vicadin
you were the only one
you're the censor
you'll never people me
i'm not defenseless
in the afternoon as the light dims
build a life out of all this semtex
you're the brightest one
you were the centre
the perfect opposite of what you asked for
it's not just one way
a negative factor
with all these wasps out
i'd better take cover
copper tongue beam me up
lonely without my impediments
start to save what we used to steal
walking on gelatin
i never noticed you
you were the brightest one
you were wide of me
just like the english sun
you caught the light again
in a perfect way
the biggest threat of all
is in the alleyway
you're the demon seed
you're the factor
feel better with a little bit of plaster
it's not just one way
a negative factor
with all these wasps out
better take cover
there's all the pain
in the way she talks
all the pain in the way she walks
all the pain in her wave goodbye
all the pain in the way she smiles
all the pain in her fatal charm
all the pain in her arms
song performed by by Bush from Razorblade Suitcase
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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No Eyes
No eyes for beautiful talk,
Or living beyond sight,
Stung by the bees and wasps
In flight from a tree or realm.
A television is naming scenes
We desire to inflict and employ
To really conquer,
For sight is a real pledge.
The bees and their hive
Rest in safe qualms, filling.
poem by Naveed Akram
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Kindness to Insects
I saw a Melancholy Wasp
Upon a Purple Clover Knosp,
Who wept, 'The Poets do me Wrong,
Excluding me from Noble Song-
Though Pure am I and Wholly Crimeless-
Because, they say, my Name is Rhymeless!
Oh, had I but been born a Bee,
With Heaps of Words to Rhyme with me,
I should not want for Panegyrics
In Sonnets, Epics, Odes and Lyrics!
Will no one free me from the Curse
That bars my Race from Lofty Verse?'
'My Friend, that Little Thing I'll care for
At once,' said I- and that is wherefore
So tenderly I set that Wasp
Upon a Purple Clover Knosp.
poem by Arthur Guiterman
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Ladybirds
If, upon you, a ladybird, lightly, lands,
Don't just brush it off with your hands.
Chances are, that its visit will be short,
Once it realises it is at the wrong port.
For the ladybird, we seem to have a soft spot,
But for worrying wasps, we certainly have not.
Ladybirds often feature in stories for the young,
And, as a result, their praises are frequently sung.
To ladybirds, we have quite an attraction,
But wasps do not evoke the same reaction.
Dressed in its shiny shell of bright, rich red,
The ladybird possesses a tiny, tickling tread.
Upon seeing a ladybird, a wish, you should make,
Then your wish will be granted, in the bug's wake.
If you kill one, then, for you, life will be really bad;
Misfortune will come your way, and make you sad.
A ladybird will never do you any harm;
It is considered, by some, a lucky charm.
If, towards a ladybird, you are kind,
A place up in Heaven, you will find.
poem by Angela Wybrow
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The wasp thinks that the honey-hive of the neighbouring bees is too small. His neighbours ask him to build one still smaller.
aphorism by Rabindranath Tagore from Stray Birds (1916), translated by Rabindranath Tagore
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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Escape
Tree
Frog
eggs
leaf
glossy, gelatinous
Black
wasp
bodes
grief
Jelly viscosity
tight
Larvae in quivering
plight
Clinginess cedes to the
bite
Supper for babies in
flight........flight
flight
Days
pass;
not
yet
spinning and fidgeting
Wasp
back;
get
set
Jiggle is signal of
rip
Tadpoles instinctively
flip
Wriggle to liquify
grip
Perilous pondwater
slip.........slip
slip
poem by Diane Hine
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Wasp Sting
A diabolic deed:
A pebble I pelted
At the hanging shelter
On the stem of plantain cluster:
Vengeance vapours; war clouds.
A smart wasp dared;
Sting of sting; I writhed:
Smouldering compunction;
Pricking tension;
I rubbed red forehead mine.
As a balloon tiny,
Blown with atrocity,
My forehead swelled:
Pang resolved
Never to trespass the insect kingdom.
A big foe retreated;
An act self pledged
For the wasp hamlet:
An act, we bewail, rusted in our hamlet,
Exposed to self absorption.
poem by Fabiyas M V
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Scared!
I feel quite happy going up escalators or stairs,
But, for coming down them, I don’t much care.
I hate elevators which have sides made of glass;
Given the option to ride in one, I think I’d pass.
I hate looking downwards from a great height,
As, over the edge, I’m scared I’d take flight.
I’m totally terrified of wasps, which may sting,
But, am not that keen on any insects, with wings.
Another creature which would give me a fright,
Is a boisterous dog, which I fear would bite.
I hate having to have injections into my arm;
I always tense up, and can’t keep myself calm.
I shake all over when, at me, someone shouts,
And I waste no time at all, in getting myself out.
I hate being on a plane, just as it’s taking flight;
I grab my seat, so that my knuckles turn white.
In winter, I’m scared of walking along on the ice;
I’ve fallen over a few times and it isn’t very nice.
I hate roller-coasters and other rides which go very fast;
But, I know some people, on these rides, have a right blast.
There are many things in life, which I worry about,
And there are many things, which freak me out.
With the idea of facing my fears, I have often toyed,
But I find it less stressful if, these things, I just avoid.
poem by Angela Wybrow
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Wasps In A Garden
The wall-trees are laden with fruit;
The grape, and the plum, and the pear,
The peach and the nectarine, to suit
Every taste, in abundance are there.
Yet all are not welcome to taste
These kind bounties of Nature; for one
From her open-spread table must haste
To make room for a more favoured son:
As that wasp will soon sadly perceive,
Who has feasted awhile on a plum;
And, his thirst thinking now to relieve,
For a sweet liquid draught he is come.
He peeps in the narrow-mouthed glass,
Which depends from a branch of the tree;
He ventures to creep down,-alas!
To be drowned in that delicate sea.
'Ah say,' my dear friend, 'is it right
These glass bottles are hung upon trees?
Midst a scene of inviting delight
Should we find such mementos as these?'
'From such sights,' said my friend, 'we may draw
A lesson, for look at that bee;
Compared with the wasp which you saw,
He will teach us what we ought to be.
'He in safety industriously plies
His sweet honest work all the day,
Then home with his earnings he flies;
Nor in thieving his time wastes away.'-
'O hush, nor with fables deceive,'
I replied, 'which, though pretty, can ne'er
Make me cease for that insect to grieve,
Who in agony still does appear.
'If a simile ever you need,
You are welcome to make a wasp do;
But you ne'er should mix fiction indeed
With things that are serious and true.'
poem by Charles Lamb
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Wasps are Carnivores
Wasps are carnivores
Yes they eat meat
Aggressive meat eaters
mean meat eating stinging machines
I am not vegetarian
But I don't have a sting in my tail
Bloody wasps spoil the summer.
I googled to see if they did anything useful
I didn't like what I found
Without them, wine would not exist.
Ok ok I don't hate you quite as much
But is this why you are so smug?
Sometimes after wine I get a sting in my tail!
poem by Stevie Taite
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The Violent Space (Or When Your Sister Sleeps Around For Money)
Exchange in greed the ungraceful signs. Thrust
The thick notes between green apple breasts.
Then the shadow of the devil descends,
The violent space cries and angel eyes,
Large and dark, retreat in innocence and in ice.
(Run sister run—the Bugga man comes!)
The violent space cries silently,
Like you cried wide years ago
In another space, speckled by the sun
And the leaves of a green plum tree,
And you were stung
By a red wasp and we flew home.
(Run sister run—the Bugga man comes!)
Well, hell, lil sis, wasps still sting.
You are all of seventeen and as alone now
In your pain as you were with the sting
On your brow.
Well, shit. lil sis, here we are:
You and I and this poem.
And what should I do? should I squat
In the dust and make strange markings on the ground?
Shall I chant a spell to drive the demon away?
(Run sister run—the Bugga man comes!)
In the beginning you were the Virgin Mary,
And you are the Virgin Mary now.
But somewhere between Nazareth and Bethlehem
You lost your name in the nameless void.
'O Mary don't you weep don't you moan'
O Mary shake your butt to the violent juke,
Absord the demon puke and watch the whites eyes pop,
(Run sister run—the Bugga man comes!)
And what do I do. I boil my tears in a twisted spoon
And dance like an angel on the point of a needle.
I sit counting syllables like Midas gold.
I am not bold. I cannot yet take hold of the demon
And lift his weight from you black belly,
So I grab the air and sing my song.
(But the air cannot stand my singing long.)
poem by Etheridge Knight
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Let us turn elsewhere, to the wasps and bees, who unquestionably come first in the laying up of a heritage for their offspring.
quote by Jean Henri Fabre
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The serpent, the king, the tiger, the stinging wasp, the small child, the dog owned by other people, and the fool: these seven ought not to be awakened from sleep.