Ode To A Ladybird

The first I knew of you

Was a dry, feeble crunch against my skin.

There you were, a shiny, flattened thing

Pinned to the carpet. No longer whole.

Wings spread out, red spots on black

Like dice, three dots apiece

Lucky number six, except not so lucky for you.

Poor dead ladybird.

You’ll never fly away home, because

My right foot is a murderer.

I scraped you off the carpet with a teaspoon.

Said a few words of regret, threw you in the bin.

Wondered, for a moment, what might have been.

Washed your pulverised antennae off my foot

And went about my business.

Fin.

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5 Comments

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5 responses to “Ode To A Ladybird

  1. Lerxst

    Red spots on black? What kind of inverse foreign freak ladybird was this?

    Or was it blood, you, you ladybird killer! πŸ™‚

  2. jaynenelson

    It WAS red spots on black – it was a freaky foreigner! I’ve got loads of them in my flat this year.

    • Lerxst

      Well, the Mail will love you – killing the evil immigrant.

      I’m sure it was a threat to decent, honest, hard-working British ladybirds. It’s not as if there are enough aphids to go around as it is.

  3. Lovely poem, but …. ewww, poor ladybug! πŸ™‚

  4. Ruud V.

    Poetry, pure poetry. It has fancy words, dead subjects, and the reality of life.
    It reminded me of the only poem I ever wrote about a dead animal:

    Oh magnificent Rudolf the Reindeer,
    so noble, so strong and so wise.
    I’m sorry you had to be killed here,
    but you sure tasted awfully nice…

    We were visiting a friend in a remote area of Norway, and one evening, we were served reindeer-stue. I decided to commemorate the event in an e-mail to my friends back home.
    It was not as impressive as yours though.
    I guessed that’s why I never again wrote dead animal poetry….

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