Best Cricket Poems

Spider songs

Blades of grass, wet under foot, insect eyes  
Dusk, offset by the cricket orchestra 
Muted and receding into the trees and bushes,
Tickled by the wind, rattling snake tail wind 
While we may be in the company of wolves,
A long legged friend is late for the party 

Eyes, little iridescent stars 
Attending to each one, and look there, 
There she is, making the most beautiful geometry 
Parallels within the octagons, pulling silks
An arm for every task, little perpetual motion machine

Is that the Queen of the Night under the rusted iron? 
A forlorn lady, black patent leather, kill a man, maybe two 
With her danger red symmetry, oozing with youth 
And a penchant for paralysis, no one can resist her wine

Then there's the hall of cob webs, threadbare handkerchiefs
Left by ladies who exhausted all of their company 
To be a spectacle under the moon, in the wood pile 
Dressed up in the finest furs, all earth tones 
Stepping out to introduce themselves in girlish droves 

Venus of another sort, these little cursed jezebels 
Hovering on the skin of the water, or on the red brick wall 
Must frequent every happy corner, and slip away at a moment's notice
A real lady always knows when to say goodnight
Such graceful exits through cement cracks
Back to the parlor, to glow in the dark 
And they become spiders again 

Copyright © Jeremy Martin | Year Posted 2013

The Cuddling Cricket

It’s not enough to have a Dragon plus his penguins and pigeons, too?
Darn it! I had a limit, until a cute Cuddling Cricket found my shoe.
He was just a little baby, who saw the pigeons and decided to hide.
Now, he won’t let go of my pants leg; he’s definitely along for the ride.

The first time I saw him, I Eeekk’ed and I jumped, yep, about to pounce.
But at my response he sighed, and slumped, and he began to cry, at once!
At first I couldn’t believe it, so I pulled out my magnifying glass.
What I found were soulful eyes, and a face, so very cute, but sad.

So now when I stand, A Cuddling Cricket, comes along for the ride.
Yeah, he’s now part of the family… Well, of course! Sigh! I replied…
He sleeps in a cute little plastic bug box, with a matchbox for a bed.
But it’s hard to explain, to others found, in my life, which have fled.

I bring a magnifying glass, so they can see him bow so proper and nice.
But carrying my Cuddling Cricket around, does have a certain price!
Food stores aren’t very understanding, and restaurants, Not At All! Truly!
But the paparazzi seem to understand a Cuddling Cricket, completely!

He does have his own type of novelty as he carries around his blankie!
And he’s just a baby, who needs a Mom, and of course, his little binkie!
Honestly, I’m not kidding! There’ve been a few, strange turns, in my life.
But, if I have Trolls and Dragon, then a Cuddling Cricket seems, so right!

Copyright © Carol Eastman | Year Posted 2014

A Love Story

The girl is an ultra-modern scholar, 
Belongs with an upper-middle class family. 
Looking very nice, smart, gets angry suddenly. 
She reads M.A in English at Presidency University. 
She is assimilating to the ideas of Shakespeare, 
Shelley, Keats, Neruda, Byron...
Fluently speaks English, loves cricket. 
Shoulders are shaken by expression.
She cries alone, laughs with everyone....

The girl is very good.

The boy is a post-modern educated son of a lower-middle class family.
He studies M.A in Bengali at Calcutta University.
He is assimilating to the routes of Vaishnab literature,
Ideas of Bharatchandra, Rabindranath Tagore, Nazrul, Jibanananda...
Writes poems, sings song, loves football.
He walks on the high-street and observes people.
He laughs alone, listens to everyone...

The boy is very good.


They are attracted by the opposite personality!
The  girl wants that her lover will be a modern man.
The boy thinks that his lover will become as the mind of his. 
 
They are changing silently
Losing individuality.

Time flows.
Love goes to another address... 

SANDIP GOSWAMI, INDIA

Copyright © Sandip Goswami | Year Posted 2014

When the Sun Sets on Me

I wonder where I will be 
when the sun sets on me…
for if I were a flake of snow,
a dying breeze, or autumn leaf...
then I’d know.
I am but a blink of a father’s eye
desperate for answers to my words and rhymes
waiting for another world or God to intercede, 
in what may come or ever may be.

I wonder where I will be 
when the moon rises over me...
for if I were shadows in a cave,
a cricket, star, or ocean wave...
then I'd know.
I am but a drop of rain on a summer night
vaporizing where I fall and touch,
waiting for clouds and sky to again define me;
not knowing who I ever was or aimed to be.

If I am clay in my Maker’s hands…pliable, yielding, 
I wonder where my own will comes to end
and where His fingers start forming me
into the masterpiece He desires me to be.
All the answers dancing gracefully,
from omnipotence and my need to be free…

I wonder where I’ll be, when I start to 
speak, live, breathe, dance….fearlessly.
If I were air and sea, with all of Heaven shining on me,
then, I’d know…    

Copyright © Rhonda Johnson-Saunders | Year Posted 2015

Dark Reflection

...and the Demon spoke,
its voice deep and mellow like smooth satiny chocolate,
"There is more, much more then good and evil,"
the words thunderously whispered.
The verdant emerald green of the forest quivering at the sound,
drawing in upon itself, hiding, fearful.
Cowing multi hued flowers peeking cautiously through tangled undergrowth 
in the dappled moonlight filtering through the leafy canopy.
No sound could be heard,  
no cricket chirping,
no toad croaking,
no Nightingale singing its mellifluous songs of sorrow in the night sky.
The beast stepped deeper into the crescent of the secret hollow.
Turning its head in a fluid, yet, some how awkward and disjointed manor
it slid on to a large stone, gently caressing it, as if it were an old and trusted friend.
As it lowed its massive frame onto the center of the boulder,
lines of concentration furrowed its ancient brow. 
"What of justice?" the creature spoke.  
"The death of one man for killing another?" its words slow and deliberate, 
scaly calloused hand gently stroking the gray green rock.
"A woman stoned for speaking truth to a man?  What of the man?"
It looked up and gazed into the forest, eyes of ebony, like black holes
sucking in the light, swallowing the essence of all it gazed upon.
The forest withdrew from its lifeless gaze.
"Good or Evil," unasked, its whisper menacing.

It sat thinking in troubled concentration.  
Statuesque, it remained motionless atop its massive granite pedestal.  
Reflections from chips of mica in the stone cast silvery highlights 
along the edges of the crimson scales on the demons thigh, 
and small patches of green and purple moss bunched along the outer part of its calves.  
"What of passion?" the words slowly hissed from its lipless mouth.
"The joining of a man and a woman in sweet, gentle desire?"
Long spike like toenails scratched the surface of the stone 
and it seemed to move beneath it.   
The corners of its mouth stretched into a grotesque and hideous smile, 
sharp uneven teeth shining dully.  
The stillness of the air weighed down upon the giant, wrapping it in a breathless embrace.
"A woman for a woman, a man for a man?"
Long outstretched fingers mingled as its hands clasp 
in a knotted entanglement of skin and bone.
Its smile now gone, its frown hung heavy on its face.  
"Good or Evil," again, no question in its tone.

Sliding from the rock the Demon stood, long legs stretched beneath it
casting shadows on the stone, gnarled hand tenderly caressing it.
Its thoughts interrupted, it cast its gaze to the sky in the east 
set aglow with flames of the impending arrival of the life giving orb.
Sensing the strengthening will of the forest it knew the time was short.
"And what of love?" it asked.
Looking around, it glanced at the stone as if waiting for an answer.
Long moments passed, no reply.
The Demon sighed heavily.  
Leaves on the awakening morning glory, 
whose brilliant purple petals with deep bleeding red hearts 
stretching in the dew of early dawn,
withered and died in its breath.  
Again it felt the stillness, 
the stillness that followed it,
nothingness,
alone.
"The love of friends?  The love of child and mother?"
"The love of two?" he softly questioned.  
"Love lost?"
Head hung low no tear wet his demon eye. 
He could not cry.
With one final sad glance at the stone he straightened his strong
muscular body and slowly disappeared into the forest, 
the trees and shrubs opening a path before him.
The only sign of his passing, the echoing whisper,
"Good      or      Evil."


08/19/15

Copyright © James Inman | Year Posted 2015

One Nation Under God?

It’s a sad situation, the state of this nation
of murderers, molesters, and thieves
I can’t help but wonder as we continue to plunder
at how we create our own grief.

We bully and batter, look out for the splatter
as we rob our own children of pride,
It’s no wonder our sons take up their guns
while we all sit back and ask why.

In this generation, of vain masturbation,
which can create its own self in a tube,
Each woman is master and can now choose to blast her
fetus right out of the womb.

Gender reversal is no longer controversial
(in fact it’s barely thought of as odd).
As men become women I find my head spinning
at man’s struggle to be his own god.

When possibilities ignited we just got so excited
about the fact that we could,
that perhaps we forgot to think whether or not,
as a civil society we should.

Somewhere in the thicket chirps our Jimminy Cricket,
hoping that someone will hear,
While we in the piety of civilized society
stand stoic with fingers in ear.

Make no mistake ‘bout the risk that we take
by not heeding ol’ Jimminy’s call.
Consider the thought that God you are not
and pride always precedes the fall.

Copyright © Shelly Berkeley | Year Posted 2007

CRICKET

**Example for my contest.**

THE CRICKET  


chirp chirp!


Visions of my past why are they following me?

Leave me the h3!! Alone,

Let me be, the earth is my home. 

I am not willing to fly free allowing my deception to roam free.

A passion I no longer see.

I find myself lying on this grass all alone.

Tears caused by my saddened past.

How can I hear the ocean waves, only trees surround me?

A life I cry why me? 

I have no guide to show me how

I have been all alone before the age of one.

I have nothing to call my own. 

What is that chirping sound? 

Allowing me to live knowing my mother, did not care. 

An embryo in her womb, safe in your care. 

My mother's destruction pulled me out of a life that was not for me.

Where is my guide?

Crickets chirping soundly, how is that supposed to comfort me?

Do you not care for me? Why do you send the smallest insect to laugh at me? 

Every time I fall to the ground, a chirping is the only sound. 

I'm not ready to be rescued, I have not found my final stop.

Why is this insane insect in front of me?

Is that an annoying sound just for me?

What a silly way to show me who and what you can be!

Thinking of you in the biggest form.

An insect I can hardly see.
Why did it not come to me, on wings?

Do you mock all those times I fell onto the ground? 

It was not the ocean waves I heard. 

It was always the sounds of millions of crickets around me. 

Showing me your power can come in any form, shape, and size. 

Next time stings your way into my life like a bee.


.                  By; p.d.
				
~~LOL, my worse poem ever~~
~~LOL, what was I thinking~~

Copyright © Poet Destroyer A | Year Posted 2010

When I Was Ten

 Now in my decline in the time of men
  I remember way back then when I was ten,
 when we lived in a shadow much greater
  at the foot of the Mount and its dormant crater.
 Where we'd climb and to the top race
  like Hillary and Tenzing up the south face,
 then on our backsides slide to the rocks below
  from whence the lava used to flow.
 Behold the old white house at 89 Owens Road,
  the grass I with an old push blade mowed,
 and where from my upstairs room
  I saw the spring terraced flowers bloom.
 Where outside we played cricket all summer long
  and inside were the masters of ping pong!
 In our living room my family and me
  saw a moonlanding and a war on TV -
 on our black and white set with blazin' toy guns
  watching Bonanza and My Three Sons...
 or perchance playing canasta as soon as I was able
  and even a séance on the coffee table,
 where spirits from the spirit world did roam
  and truly spelled out to our guests "go home!".
 When my birthday cake burnt ten candles
  and I wore short pants and Roman sandals,
 with my bag down Valley Road walking
  past the shops on the way to school talking -
 spending my lunch money licking my lips
  eating aniseed wheels and jelly tips!
 Where my mate lived above his mum's shoe store
  and between us all was fair in love and war!
 Listening to my new transistor all the while
  tuned in to 1480 on top of the dial:
 to the hip happening sounds of Radio Hauraki
  in the gulf on a pirate ship called Tiri.
 Till through the gates of my teacher and jailer:
  Mrs Furner, Miss Gaiqui, and Mr Taylor;
 and catch a glimpse of a vision in a cotton dress -
  the girl of my restless dreams I confess!
 Then before the bell sounded its morning ring
  we'd be flying on the moari swing,
 or games on the courts or running to shield
  playing bullrush on the football field.
 And behold, in class on his guitar my teacher
  playing folk songs and exhorting like a preacher,
 singing "where have all the flowers gone?
  Young girls pick them every one..."
 and "Oma rapeti...rabbit run, run, run"
  or playing Maori stick games just having fun:
 drawing native carvings and birds that can't fly,
  reading about Hinemoa and Tutanekai.
 Weaving flax and with hands of string
  making diamonds and parachutes that cling,
 or in single file marching from the school
  with our towel and togs to the pool -
 an Eden boy at the starters end ready to dive in
  for a prized 50 metre certificate to win.
 Then gather the class in the projection room
  and gaze in the ceiling the stars illume:
 where our Milky Way mural hung so surreal
  as we sat and watched an old movie reel.
 But soon the fun would turn to palpable fear
  when all the class trembled to hear...
 read to the children who were quiet as a mouse
  was the Dental List for the Murder House!
 Alas a fate worse than death - the whining drill
  to bore and clean and to mercury fill;
 where the needle sometimes dulled the pain
  yet the screams of boys and girls remain.
 After school in my uniform arrayed
  I marched to the tune in the Boys Brigade!
 And on weekends roaming the neighbourhood
  in search of adventure as best we could,
 climbing the hill to the construction site
  of The Pines apartments at a great height.
 On Guy Fawkes night from my pocket
  lighting my firecrackers and my skyrocket -
 armed and dangerous ready to throw
  with red packs of Double Happys lit to blow.
 And on night time mission on ninja patrol
  detonatin' milk bottles - whoa! fire in the hole!
 Or off to the Crystal Palace to catch a flick
  lest my mother test my arithmetic.
 At Eden Park when the mighty Auks played host
  sitting with my mates behind the goalpost,
 with my dad and brother at the track
  in the birdcage and hearing the whips crack -
 at Ellerslie in the Ladies Stand or Alexandra Park
  with my Best Bets - my picks to mark.
 And on the Sabbath beneath cross and spires
  in Sunday School at old Greyfriars.
 Now alas, in my decline in the time of men
  I remember way back then when I was ten!



                    January 2016

For the Way Back Then When I Was Ten contest.

Copyright © Keith Trestrail | Year Posted 2016

Spirit In The Flute

I walk an already trodden path...
Uncertain, of future lives that lie ahead

But, in faith I close these earthly Ojibwa eyes
In trill, thus, I hear the old ways in your presence amidst Chinook winds
As harmonic they play across the plains, from sacred astral pipes
Mimicking cricket songs that echo abstract out of the season's last autumn mist

I also hear your fifes in the rustle of the leaves, rising into writhe
And almost see your spirit aura as it accompanies the Algonquian breeze
Ancient ghost of proud, but now lost upon a dying nation tribe
Your music from beyond is narrations of a mystical language nature speaks

Sweeping thrush calls, chirps through weeping willow weeps,
Unto past September sounds, beating down on war drum clouds, of thundering maelstrom claps
And babbling brooks going on and on until narrowing creaky creeks
Alas, whooper wills warning and morning loons mourning, hidden amidst the swaying grass

When I see you, I imagine spectral legends majestic high across horizon's sky
Snowy silhouettes in headdress, drifting in flowing rainbow crowns
And with the night, I see you in my mind dance as the "Will-Ó-the-wisp" just might 
Then, my body shivers from the distance, where your flute imitates the cry of the lone coyote's sound

As for all of your Mishomis (grandfather) traditions, I accept there is a greater essence
Kindred I am, son to your spirit and without partition from an Ojibwa eye
And I stand here staunch in cattail marshes, pondering my place in ancestral questions
Now, your answers again begin to play upon the wind, but this time traveling through the November... Whispers on needles of the pine

I walk an already trodden path...
But, each new step before me keeps this culture alive...


Written in honor of my Chippewa family ©2012 Michael G. Smith

z is for Zaria , ABC of Disney Characters Contest

A is for Akela of Jungle Book fame
B is for Baloo from Jungle Book the same

C is for Cinderella what a pretty sight
D is for Donald Duck, hope he doesn’t bite

E is for Eyore the lovely donkey that brays 
F is for the Fairy Godmother your wishes she obeys

G is for the Gopher loves Honey from Winnie the Pooh
H is Hyacinth Hippo from Snow White fame that’s true

I is for Ian the Alligator who is always hungry
J is for Jiminy Cricket who starred in Pinocchio story

K is for Kiara means princess in Swahili from Lion King
L is for the lovely Lady not sure where Tramp is hiding

M Is for Mickey Mouse with the best fashion trend
N is for Nala was Simba’s childhood friend

O is for the Owl with eyes so big. Sees everything
P is for Peter Pan in his book he is king

Q is for the Queen of Hearts with a tray of lovely goodies
R is for Rafiki is a Mandrill meaning friend in Swahili 

S is for Simba who likes to live dangerously
T is for Tramp who is looking for his Lady

U is for Uncle Max the Meerkat another Disney star
V Is for Vitani the outsider lioness who looks from afar

W is for Wendy, she is waving to Peter Pan
X is for Xerxes  you will find him in Aladdin

Y is for Yzma from the Emperor’s new Groove
Z is for Ziggy the hungry vulture everyone hates to love



Hope you like my ABC of Disney
Stories for you Zaria to enjoy.



28/02/2013

Copyright © SEREN ROBERTS | Year Posted 2013

The Hollow

The October night was dark and cold,
As the autumn sun was going down,
When I recalled the legends I had been told,
About this sleepy, little town.

There were tales about the haunted woods,
They say the wind seems to call your name,
I was going where no one should,
And if I survived, I'd never be the same.

I walked through the covered bridge,
As the harvest moon rose into the sky,
I had made it around the darkened ridge,
Just as I heard a lone wolf's cry.

I walked the path of the dark, gnarled thicket,
Through the fallen leaves of maple and oak,
I heard the chirping of a cricket,
Near the hollow, where the bullfrogs croak.

Then, I heard the "hoot" of an owl in a tree,
And the "caw" of a raven on it's perch,
The headless horseman I hoped not to see,
As I passed the graveyard near the church.

I told myself I would be alright,
Just as I heard the hooves of a horse,
But, I knew I would make it home tonight,
Because there are no ghosts, of course.








August 30th, 2013

(This was my tribute to "The Legend Of Sleepy Hollow" by Washington Irving.
I wrote it from the perspective of Ichabod Crane.)

Copyright © Kelly Deschler | Year Posted 2013

Footles - Part 14

Norseman on Foot

Hiking
Viking

Attack of a Norseman

Striking
Viking

Norseman Plays Volleyball

Viking
Spiking

What Jiminy Got For Speeding

Cricket
Ticket

Quiet Laughter

Vicar’s 
Snickers

Baby Rick Gets Into Honey

Sticky
Ricky

Cheap Melted Metal

Nickel 
Trickle

Copyright © Andrea Dietrich | Year Posted 2012

A Saturday Reflection

I hear the chirruping of birds.
It emerges from vast hidden spaces
from wherever the birds may be.
Their twittering sounds are scattered,
interspersed with cricket sounds
and the intermittent whimpers of a lonely pup
that seems to be a distance not too far away.
The birds refuse to show themselves. 
They are like the happy people of my neighborhood 
busy with their lives. . . . 
The birds and my neighbors elude me.
The crickets keep to their camouflage in the grass.
The little dog's sad cries have now disappeared.

On this ordinary warm June afternoon
I begin to wonder where Robin Redbreast went.
It seems like it was yesterday - a brighter day -
I saw her in my very own front yard.
If she's singing now, I wouldn't know.
I do not know the song of a sparrow from a lark's.
I'd rather “feel” joy, not just hear it.
And I'd rather see with my own eyes
those crickets at their play (I'm just that way).
I'd like to have that little dog with me.
I'd pat his head and stroke his coat and say,
"Robin Redbreast hides from us today.
She may have gone away, but I am here, sweet dog.
I understand.  I understand."


Posted 3/11/2011 and used in a contest Aug 2015 in which old poems were allowed.

Copyright © Andrea Dietrich | Year Posted 2011