poet Sheena Blackhall

Sheena Blackhall


A small green beetle sat on my open page,
Antennae probing the wind like weather vanes.

His shell was a wet umbrella,
His ticklesome shadow, barely half an eyelash.
The sun lit a spot of fire on his domed back.

He moved like a war canoe propelled by six swift rowers;
Halfway over a comma, he paused to clean his two back legs,
A small fat ballet dancer tugging off his tights,
His voice so small it did not reach my ears.

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Poem Submitted: Sunday, June 14, 2009
Poem Edited: Tuesday, July 14, 2009

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Comments about Beetle by Sheena Blackhall

  • Tim Caton (8/29/2009 11:16:00 AM)

    I cannot think why you do not have comments. Are they all asleep?

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Rudyard Kipling


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