Written by littleant on March 27, 2015
Holiday in Mogadishu
WritingCome see the beautiful towers Don’t mind the rubble — a room with a view! Knock out the walls to save you the trouble Look up, look up at the beautiful towers Look up at the beautiful towers Come see the lovely beaches Don’t mind the rovers — what speedy valets! They’ll lighten anything that
Written by littleant on March 25, 2015
Here I’ll Stay
WritingThe fields are burning out the back door the screen door is flapping in the breeze the land that we grew on is sounding it’s death rattle and the house we loved in is breathing smoke like air Here I’ll stay, waiting for our home to burn watching the flames roll in like waves on
Written by littleant on March 24, 2015
Her Belly is a Cold Hearth
WritingHer belly is a cold hearth It sits deep and cavernous inside of her It recalls warmer days with the ease of the dead– the feckless indifference of the already finished She stokes it with whiskey and memories of fire when flames would catch reckless and grow higher and higher Yet empty and dark and
Written by bigant on March 24, 2015
Bully of the Open Sea
Uncategorized
I think dogs are super cool and have depth beyond our assumptions. Which, I guess, explains why this is not the first song I have written with a canine muse. Is that weird? Maaaybe.
Last November, a lovely friend of mine gave me the fantastic present of peaceful escapism. As a thank you for her kindness, I wrote her a song inspired by her doggie and sent her this little recording with the ukulele chords so she could play along at home (uke people attract uke people I think) for the pup.
This recording has a whistle solo that really shows off my total lack of talent in that particular area, so I’m really excited to share.
Written by littleant on March 17, 2015
Before You Came
WritingOh, can’t you hear them? Hear their whispering sighs? The pines speak for the wasted ones, in stinging boughs they hide. Oh, can’t you feel them? Feel their longing eyes? They followed me and swallowed me back when you were mine. I’d had someone to bear my blame Before you came Before you came I’d
Written by littleant on March 16, 2015
Still The Birds They Fly
WritingIn the morn’ we’ll go to the firs, the firs In the morn’ we’ll go to the firs In the morn’ I’ll leave you to burn, to burn In the morn’ I’ll leave you to burn Providence comes to the woman who waits and leaves her lover to yearn In the morning we’ll go to
Written by littleant on March 14, 2015
Time Is Its Only Measure
WritingThe ghosts here come and go now, passing through with courteous nods. “We’re afraid we can’t stay long,” they say as they leave rings on the linen, and taint every room that they’ve been in. St. Jude swings from his silver chain turning slowly, looking away. Hanging from my rear view– the only thing I
Written by littleant on March 10, 2015
Apparently I Was In A Mood
WritingI sit staring sullenly, eyes pointed to the left at nothing at all, waiting for you to interrupt me with some noise — some footfall or floorboard creak or impotent sigh — impossibly well-engineered to be the most distracting sound in the known universe. My wonderful, amazing, life-changing work of art has been unforgivably postponed
Written by bigant on March 3, 2015
Backporch Camerata
MusicBoth big and little ants have been trying to step up their artsy game for the season of lent. Part of that includes forcing ourselves to get in the habit of not just consuming, but creating regularly. Little ant has a nice writing program going on, but I have been having a harder time figuring
Written by littleant on March 1, 2015
The Dirt
WritingI followed you to a grave of stones— the moon washed us out and remade us. We stayed there our whole lives, and waited for them to come. We waited for them to come. We let them tell us about a home with golden light and floors of loam, where we were born and lived