Butterflies And dragonflies

Written many years ago and included in ‘Brain Glue’ 2011 section this little children’s story is meant to be read out aloud to children…. ‘this big’ is with hands spread wider and wider…

There was once a very beautiful butterfly.  He had the most gorgeous brown wings, with yellow and orange circles, dappled like sunlight through leaves.  He was a happy soul, fluttering from pretty flower to pretty flower collecting pollen and sipping nectar; he loved just to fly about especially on a warm evening breeze.  He had a wonderful carefree, simple life.

"Oh look at that beautiful butterfly!" They would say as he drifted by.  Not that he knew he was beautiful, he just knew what in life he had to do and he was content just going about his butterfly business.

Sometimes life can be cruel.  It doesn’t know it's being cruel.  But things happen.  Maybe it was the effect of pollution.  A nasty unhealthy emission from a nuclear power plant or a sudden burst of solar radiation.  The butterfly began to grow.  Just a tiny little bit to begin with, but then just a tiny little bit more.  Until he was this big.  And then this big.

The beautiful butterfly didn’t know he was a little bit bigger, he didn’t realise.

But then people would say "Look at that beautiful butterfly, I've never seen one as big as that!"

It had its advantages, being a tiny little bit bigger; the little sparrows thought twice about catching him and eating him for lunch.  But it had its disadvantages too, he was always hungry!

But, he was still a happy little soul, fluttering from pretty flower to pretty flower collecting pollen and sipping nectar.

And still he continued to grow, just a little bit more. Soon he was this big. And people would say "look at that beautiful butterfly, isn't he big! He can't be from this country, perhaps he's African.

"How unusual."

Perhaps he started to realise something was different, perhaps it was a little bit more difficult to flutter, or to flit from pretty flower to pretty flower, we don’t know.  

And still he grew.  And the little sparrow was scared of him and would chirrup in fear and fly away.  The little butterfly didn’t feel very well.

Nobody liked him any more.  He was ugly.

"Oh my! George, look at the size of that, it's gross.  Look at it's hairy abdomen, it's twitching antennae and those horrid legs. It's like a giant butterfly!  Kill it George. Throw a stone at it!"  

He was no different really, he still had the most gorgeous brown wings, with yellow and orange circles, dappled like sunlight through leaves.  But now those wings were this big.

"Do you think he might be dangerous, or poisonous?  I hope he doesn’t fly this way, look at his nasty big insect face and strange bulging eyes. Yuk!"  

And the little butterfly was no longer little, and the flowers could no longer hold his weight, they would bend down every time he tried to sip the sweet nectar.  And it wasn’t easy to flutter and flit around, the warm evening breeze would blow him around, he would crash land.  He was scared, and he was hungry, and he didn’t feel well. 

Until one day he couldn’t fly, and his legs hurt. And he just lay down.  He never got up again; a fox came wandering by, looked down at him and wondered what he was.. perhaps a strange bird, or a giant moth… and gobbled him up.  He didn’t taste very nice.

The next time you see a beautiful butterfly with gorgeous brown wings with yellow and orange circles, dappled like sunlight through leaves, think how beautiful it is because it is so small and it is so delicate. 

The children’s three dragonfly pieces grew in the telling and the ending itself became a logical conclusion. The combination of description and poetry seemed a natural way of telling the story.

Written quite recently and included in ’66 pick up sticks’ which was self published in 2019.

Articles – Good topics for articles include anything related to your company – recent changes to operations, the latest company softball game – or the industry you’re in. General business trends (think national and even international) are great article fodder, too.

I am not normal.

My little stick-like red body

And whirling, swishing wings.

Hide a secret.

And you’d better take care,

Don’t hassle me or unnerve me,

Catch me unaware.

As you may see me flitting by.

Because.

I am not just and only a dragonfly.

Don’t you look at me like that!

You don’t know the danger here,

Because,

With a snort and a sneeze,

A whoosh and a wheeze.

I will singe and I will burn

You.

At only a whim.

The beach is beautiful, the gently rolling sea, tickling and touching the warm yellow sand. The scratchy, waving grassy clumps offer shelter from the sea breeze and the tufts of pale green are warm in the setting glowing more orange sun. It is deserted. No man or beast. Just a flock of avocets skittering about and a few gulls screeching overhead. I am aware of all and I don’t go near the birds. I would give them such a tummy ache.

Flutterby little butterfly.

Don’t you come to near!

I am not sharing anything with you,

Not this leaf or this twig

Nor this view or aphid meal.

I’m not really nasty by nature real.

But I am compelled, cursed by my flame.

You can believe me.

It’s not just my name.

I would fight you.

Even though you are so much bigger than me.

I would spit and I would glow,

Sparking little flames would show.

I am hot.

And I am not

Nice.

I like to rest on the sand and the wisps of sea grass, I love to see the mass of little sparkling crystals reflecting the sun. I am small and my eyesight is good, and the light refracts and reflects into rainbow colours blend as the grains glisten and glint. It is magnificent but I know that I am not safe here. I am drawn to it, to rest and to enjoy the warmth, the openness, the challenge of the sea breeze and the stark beauty moves me. I know I should return to the river, the cradle of my life, where I hatched and was nourished, where I rested so safe in my pupa state and to where I should return and mate.

Why do I think like this?

In my oh-so-short life?

Am I not instinct driven?

From egg to grub and fly in ever changing state.

And yet I hesitate and cogitate.

On beauty and meanings of life.

The mystery of what I do not understand

And what I do, and should not.

There is a scratching in the sand not far from me, some mammalian scurrying noisily, poking about looking for a meal. A group of starlings are flocking in the trees and I am not safe.

I am not afraid. I am a dragon; never afraid. But I am what I am and I know where I should be.

I flex my four wings for escape, back to the river and the intimacy and familiarity and the many hiding places that await me there. But part of me does not want to hide. I feel deep inside me, inside my soul, changes, changes still happening to me; I am different. So different from my insect cousins and, dragonlike in confidence,  I yearn for adventure.

I am not normal.

My little stick-like red body

And whirling, swishing wings.

Hide a secret.

And you’d better take care,

Don’t hassle me or unnerve me,

Catch me unaware.

As you may see me flitting by.

Because.

I am not just and only a dragonfly.

I will not be touched.

Or approached.

I talk to no one,

Self absorbed and free.

And the spite and malevolence

I feel

Is not me.

But it is.

How many days have I left before my state changes again? I am resigned to and embrace my insect existence, but there is a yearning to be more. To live longer and to explore further and to grow and to understand.  I fly up high, higher than I should and I can see the river gently meandering along green meadows; cattle grazing, humans busy as bees, striding, working, walking. They do not see me. Or know me. Not yet. I am new.

With just a breath of a breeze

I could soar with ease.

Over meadows of wild flowers

Such as these.

The gentle, intoxicating pollen carrying

Air eddying and curling swirling.

But when the breeze gets up;

And forgets to be calm and gentle

And blows mental.

Then you force me to stop.

My wings can’t cope with gusts.

On a calm, airless day, when it is warm and balmy, I can buzz up and away. There are hills and peaks I like to explore and discover and I often find myself a long way from the safety of home. It is exhilarating. My four wings are strong and can take me far, over dales and rocks, through valleys and meadows where the currents of air eddy and challenge me.

I often ponder my differences. How and why I have flame and anger. Why I am bigger than the others. I have a feeling, a feeling with truth deep inside me, that my predecessors and the eggs and grubs that will be my children, will be bigger and stronger than me. My skin is harder, my wings stronger, my eyes keener and I think that the others that flit and skit about me, do not think, not like me.

I am in danger

From bird and cat,

Fox and eagle and bat.

And more.

They would eat me

For sure.

And I am a danger

To them.

And I would rage and storm

In my warn.

I am bad.

And you would be so glad

To keep away.

Beware this evil little dragonfly.

I am not normal.

My little stick-like red body

And whirling, swishing wings.

Hide a secret.

And you’d better take care.

Don’t hassle me or unnerve me,

Catch me unaware.

As you may see me flitting by.

Because.

I am not just and only a dragonfly.

Don’t you dare!

You won’t eat me, beware!

I know you are the King of fishers

With your flashing green and gold

And should scare me, as you skit by.

Your beak would tear me

But you have other fish to fry.

There is an utter peace here. In midsummer when the air is warm and humid and there is plenty for all, it is blissful. With gently waving, golden corn on one side of the river and meadows on the other where the rushes and green grass sway and grow high in the air. There are hedgerows full of fruit and flowers for us insects to busy over. We are not disturbed by machinery or humans; there is no footpath, no intruders to pollute and to distract. 

It is our world, our little universe. There is a natural order, a hierarchy that we all follow mindlessly, a circle of life that continues unfailingly. Buzzing, hovering, fluttering, flitting together.

But I like my solitude.

The little river is my home.

And that this place alone

Is where I was bred and will in time come to die.

The river whispers and gurgles by

Overhanging branches green with leaf,

Shady spots beneath.

Cool grassy banks, wild flowers in bud,

Damp and wet and splashed with mud.

The river is my element, this is where I feel safest. And I knew, I know, that there is a purpose, a reason for my anger – the constant anger that pushes me on, the fire in my belly that makes me question so much. That heat in my heart that makes me fight and burn. I seem so different to the other flying sprats, with their wings vibrating and humming by, driven by this voracious appetite for life, they eat, and eat; and thinking no further than food and procreation.

He saw me, that young athletic stoat

And he jumped in air;

Doing somersault, with open throat;

But he didn’t know me.

My four wings hovered me up.

There was a spark of rage,

Him in the air, doing bony twisters,

I spat in flame and burned his whiskers.

Leaving him squirming, licking lips and blisters,

The sheer anger scares me.

And that is not all.

I am aware of.

Do they know? Those that scratch and scrabble away?

And hover and buzz that some day

Soon.

They will die.

That scares me too. Does it you?

I am too young to know and need to grow.

My sons and daughters, they too will know.

Evolve my offspring, away you go!