Fleas, lice
fleas, lice
the cat too
fleeing me
haiku by John Tiong Chunghoo
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Eaten alive
Eaten alive by
lice and fleas -- now the horse
beside my pillow pees
poem by Matsuo Basho
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Big fleas have little fleas upon their backs to bite them, and little fleas have lesser fleas, and so ad infinitum.
Fleas, lice
Fleas, lice,
a horse peeing
near my pillow.
Translated by Robert Hass
poem by Matsuo Basho
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Auntie’s curse
She said to me, now in her old age
to stay away from the dogs and cats,
as if they were spiders, snakes and bats
being scared
that I would catch
something from them
like lice or ticks or fleas
or maybe some hidden disease
and although I had used frontline on them,
had dusted them with karbadust,
had sprayed shoo-fly on their heads and necks
she wished that I would catch lice from them,
or the illness which they were carrying
like a member of the flat earth society,
still believing in vain
as if cats and dogs infected with
the one or other pest
were going to rain down
out of the sky
and infect every one
and then she bought some expensive shampoo,
bathed, washed her head
five times a day
to kill the pests
which she believed
was now crawling over her
and was very angry at me
for not comprehending
life exactly as she did.
poem by Gert Strydom
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Critical lice are like body lice, which desert corpses to seek the living.
quote by Theophile Gautier
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Hair
The ritual evanesced when we observed it,
The ritual completed when our lice grew.
The head was full of lice, I hear them and saw each of them,
Restraining the children with feet, the arms also.
Inexorable lice swayed in the hair of our heads
Until the ritual was entire.
What is this ritual?
The ritual is of the dressing of hair,
Or the cutting of hair by the hairdresser.
poem by Naveed Akram
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Parasites
my dog was scratching
like crazy and biting
his paws endlessly
i felt his discomfort
its maybe the fleas
the vet has something
to take care of and
squeeze my pocket empty
i smiled at the irony
my precious dog
is lucky to have me
the boy who lives next
door scratches his head
daily and bites his
dirty nails
thought its maybe the lice
feeding on his blood
while his drunken father
and gambling mom
are fighting over
who gets the money
poem by Eloida Capuno
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When There Is No Money
WHEN THERE IS NO MONEY
When there is no money
The children wail from starvation
As the wife nags madly
even the soup tastes sour
Penury is the master
Rejection is the brother
The husband's name is dejection
Hope is the breath
When there is no money
The house is taken over by mice
And the bed by bugs, fleas and lice
Even dogs weep from deprivation
Love dies, hatred persists
Friends disappear and relatives are no more
The look around the home is hungry and haggard
When there is no money
poem by Jesuroboowie Gift Imafidon
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Sucker
for a poem
to be itchy
it must be
a flea,
Socrates
proposed gnats
those hurting
biting gnats
when i first read it
in the dialogues
courtesy of Plato
i felt
this cow in me
coward,
cow-pea, cowed
in a
barn
milked like
a woman
i dread that
feeling
but it is
real
that i begin
to moooo
nonetheless
i cannot help
but just be back
into a
man without
use to
anyone
in my own chosen
freedom
there is Socrates
with all his dignity
intact
who did not get to be
old enough
to really
befriend death
i too propose
gnats, and fleas
and
lice
suckers of wisdom
from the
head of this
universe
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Fleas
My thoughts are like fleas,
Eternally skipping.
I try as I please
To prevent their slipping,
To probe them for more meant
Than my wit can utter;
But out of the torment
They quiver and flutter,
Dance, sparkle, and vanish
With insolent ease.
To hold or to banish
My thoughts are like fleas.
poem by Gamaliel Bradford
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No Thank You
No I do not want a kitten,
No cute, cuddly kitty-poo,
No more long hair in my cornflakes,
No more midnight meowing mews,
No more scratchin', snarlin', spitters
No more sofas clawed to shreds,
No more smell of kitty litter,
No more mousies in my bed.
No, I will not take that kitten--
I've had lice and I've had fleas,
I've been scratched and sprayed and bitten,
I've developed allergies.
If you've got an ape, I'll take him,
If you have a lion, that's fine,
If you brought some walking bacon,
Leave him, here, I'll treat him kind.
I have room for mice and gerbils,
I have beds for boars and bats,
But please, please take away that kitten--
Quick--'fore it becomes a cat.
Well...it is kind of cute at that.
poem by Sheldon Allan Silverstein
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They Rode My Back Like Hungry Fleas
The teachers I initially had,
Earlier in my developing life...
I despised.
Yes.
I thought them to be insensitive and mean.
And I held onto that belief,
With thoughts they were purposely picking on me.
And it took me years to realize their critiques,
Were from expectations they wanted me to reach.
They knew inside me I can and could do better.
They knew inside me an opportunity,
I did not then see.
But a pushing with their efforts increased my abilities.
The teachers I initially had,
Earlier in my developing life...
I despised.
Yes.
I thought them to be insensitive and mean.
And I held onto that belief,
With thoughts they were purposely picking on me.
Just to ride on my back like a pack of hungry fleas.
'Mister Pertillar?
I've read your essay...
'They Rode My Back Like A Pack Of Hungry Roaches'.
Change 'roaches' to 'fleas'.
Fleas are blood suckers.'
But...
My essay is about teachers I hate.
'I hate roaches too!
However...
If you accept my recommendation,
You will eventually come to realize...
The usage of 'fleas' will have a uniqueness.
And a far better bite.
I suggest...
'They Rode My Back Like Hungry Fleas''
There is no pleasing 'you' people,
Is it?
'Excuse me?
What did you say? '
They Rode My Back Like Hungry Fleas.
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Our Pet's Pets
Suddenly our old cat's a spring chicken,
He's leaping about like a kitten,
It seems much more frequent,
The need for some treatment,
The fleas make him jump when he's bitten.
I'm a flea on the back of your cat,
And I'm not very happy with that,
I know I'm not blameless,
But don't make me homeless,
I don't earn enough for a flat.
Well I am the cat in the question,
Trying to make an impression,
There's no bed and breakfast,
For fleas that are downcast,
Regardless that there's a recession.
Rondeau
Fleas, stink, pigs, mold,
The gist of the Bohemian soul,
Bread and salted fish and cold.
Leeks, and cabbage three days old,
Smoked meat, as hard and black as coal;
Fleas, stink, pigs, mold.
Twenty eating from one bowl,
A bitter drink -it's beer, I'm told-
Bad sleep on a straw in some filthy hole,
Fleas, stink, pigs, mold,
The gist of the Bohemian soul,
Bread and salted fish and cold.
poem by Eustache Deschamps
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Mad Maria
Mad Maria in the Square
Sits upon a wicker chair.
When the keeper asks the price
Mad Maria counts her lice.
No pesito can she pay,
So he shrugs and goes away;
Hopes she'll pay him with her prayers,
Shabby keeper of the chairs.
Mad Maria counts her lice,
Cracks them once and cracks them twice,
Combs them from her sunny hair;
People stop to turn and stare.
Innocent in thought and deed
Mad Maria pays no heed,
And the Cross upon her breast
Proves her blessed of the blest.
So she sings her little song,
Happy as the day is long,
hunting in her camisole
Shy partakers of her dole;
thinking: Heaven please forgive -
Even lice have leave to live;
(But sweet Reader, do not blame,
For she kills them just the same.)
Mad Maria goes unchid,
Mildest maid in all Madrid;
While around in serried ranks
Rear the bold facades of Banks;
But when wrath of Heaven smites
Hosts of Mammon's parasites,
Mad Maria will not fall,
Being oh so very small.
Pariahs to God belong,
to be weak is to be strong;
Fools are richer than the wise,
And who see with shining eyes
Angels in the sordid street
Deem their happiness complete. . . .
Mad Maria counts her beads,
Cracks her lice and - Heaven heeds.
poem by Robert William Service
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Mephistopheles Perverted
(Or Goethe for the Times)
ONCE long ago lived a Flea
Who kept such a fine, fat King,
Not that he held with royalty,
But more for the appearance of the thing,
And gave his Majesty to hold
(Such pageantries are far too few)
A sword of ruby-hilted gold
That possibly might hack a cheese in two;
But lest this glory might begin
To prove the regency too far,
His thunderbolt they made of tin,
And changed his godship for another Star.
Thus when the Monarch drove abroad,
With stars like buttons round his chest,
God-fearing Fleas would all applaud,
And alien Lice be grudgingly impressed.
Such relics every Flea must flaunt,
If only as the final trump
That mocks Materialism's taunt,
Proving there's more in life than Suck and Jump.
Once long ago—but not so long—
A King went curing scrofula . . .
The chorus of this charming song,
I'm told reliably, is Ha, Ha, Ha.
poem by Kenneth Slessor
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To A Love Poem You Twitch Your Face
This time,
As a critique of a love poem you
Read my lines and twitch your face
You cannot believe
What I write
that I for once was true
That I can now be true to you
For once I make this plea
Dust off the fleas
Of sin and prejudice
It is me, I once loved you,
And you knew
It was true but you never believed it,
it is me now, ready to love you again
My love,
Love changes everything
And that does not exclude me,
Do stamp your feet now
Crush all those fleas
And do not twitch your face,
hear me, strike me, i deserve
the punishment
having left you
long time ago
This is me
Ready to love you again, this is my plea.
please listen, spare, speak to me
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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My World Is Not Interesting After All
what you do not know yet
of course
is interesting and so
since you have not known
much of me
you find me
a subject
of interest
you keep on tracking me
like a path
that may lead you to
a certain
discovery, and you followed
me
religiously, and i
did not ask you to stop
or refuse
your insistence,
i have nothing to hide
somehow
you have only to know
every part
of me and then
you have reached
my world
surveyed every word
object, thought,
aspirations,
dreams
yes even my dreams
and
you figure out
some possibilities
in symbols
like a dot
or a scribble in stones
or veins
on leaves
and their meanings
and hear
all their claims for
a certain nuance
and then
you finally find that
there is nothing
interesting at all
in my own open world
like a field of hay
or spread of
sunshine
something
that you can identify with
like
being lost, or sad
or panicky
(do you expect an
explosion
or a pandemonium
of falling
and failing
objects?
a volcanic eruption
or the rage of
the seven rivers?)
after all
is a mountain with
green grass
and heavens with
blue skies
interesting at all?
you do not have
to say goodbye
your silence is
enough
for me
there is no war in
my world
there is no destruction
there are no relics
worthy
of my past
there are no worms
in my humus
no fleas in my carpets
no lice inside
the locks of my hair
no stings or strings
attached to
my bones
you see
i am not interesting
at all
do not blame me
i have already told you about that
at the prologue
of my first word.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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