The Sweetest way to Die

The Sweetest way to Die

There’s no one at home, I don’t hear a sound

Said one tiny ant to another deep under ground

No footsteps, no TV, no voices to be heard

*

Tiny ants were sent out to assess the situation

Came back with the assurance, of the house’s evacuation

Time for a house party, they all shouted hurrah!

*

Through cracks in the floor, windows, and walls

Tiny ants marched in and went straight to the pantry

Slipped into the Wheat Thins, and crawled in the chips

But their favorite of all, Hungry Jack’s Syrupy sip

Under the lid they squeezed through the cracks

Into that bottle of heavenly smack

*

This is so great said one to the other

So they sipped and imbibed until all were quite hyper

Drunk on the sweetness they couldn’t find their way

back out the top, so they were stuck for the day

*

What will we do the tiny ants cried

How will we get out of this bottle alive

No need to worry said the tiny ant leader

This is like heaven, life couldn’t be sweeter

*

So they sipped and they sighed, and then they all died

For we all know too much sugar can can kill our insides

They partied their life away in a sticky death’s  dance

*

And when we arrived home, she said,

Oh no, we have ants!”

For our Tuesday prompt at d’Verse, Sarah asked us to write about creepy crawlers. I chose tiny ants, because when we came back from our family weekend at the beach the little buggers were all in our pantry. They were so small I could barely see them. My wife found them, and so instead of sitting down to catch our breath, we had to clean out the pantry and spray for tiny ants. This is my poem from the ants point of view. How did they know we weren’t at home??

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Photos: Dwight L. Roth

Mom’s Kitchen

Pop cutting Phils hairLittle Brother Phil getting a hair cut on the kitchen table

At my house growing up, the kitchen was the center of daily activity. It was barely big enough to house a stove, a fridge, a cabinet, and a table.  The kitchen was a hum with my mom cooking, canning, or baking. I loved licking chocolate off the spatula and beaters after she mixed up a cake.

In the winter, it became the laundromat, where underwear hung on a wooden rack. like spokes on a wheel. My mom and sister sprinkled clothes from the basement and placed them rolled up into the wicker basket to be ironed. The ironing board was set up in the hallway between rooms with steam hissing all morning long as they pressed the shirts, slacks, and dresses.

Off to the side was the pantry with a large porcelain sink and a tall set of cupboards for storing dry goods. I can still see my father cleaning chickens from our pen in that sink.  It was a grand time to be alive.

Sleet strikes window panes

Winter clothes pressed and hanging

Pressure cooker sings

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Photo from the family album

Today on d’Verse, Lillian asked us to write a haibun following the strictly traditional Japanese rules. It includes a short prose reading followed by a haiku that eludes to something seasonal.  She asked us to go back in our memory to the house we grew up in and pick a room to write about. I chose our family kitchen.

Come join us at: https://dversepoets.com