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Cricket
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Refrain of dreams, I gift to you.
My hum lulls in rhythms deep;
Night chant lifts to heavenly heights
coupled with starry sky’s plume.
My faithful promise kept from sight
'til fall of moon's sleepy eyes.
By Rhonda Johnson-Saunders, 1/15/15
for Nette's Night Creatures Contest,
(Cricket #6)
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Cricket
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Under 65 degree starry, onyx blanket
Containment of quarter moon identity
A whimsically soothing song exuded
In muffled taps & Prohibition era lyric
In the distance,
Snow-capped mountains reflecting lunar clarity
Off its tips of freedom
As we lay on recycled steel hood,
Made in 1950s USA, when it mattered,
Her silhouetted fingertips released from my right arm
While insistently looking towards stratosphere’s vocal chord
“Can’t it be like this forever?
Oh, how I want to just make love to the stars.
Become one with Orion while riding
On Sagittarius’s arrow”
“What about our stars?”, he softly questioned.
“I’d like to be your never-ending shooting star.
To ride on blue moon’s comet, by your side”
Cricket whispers manhandled his romantic clef
Mother Nature’s afterglow, upon her ears, fallen deaf
Inherent waxy build-up from illicit tongue,
She pat his shoulders like a dog
Being taught his first lesson
Her eyes, still sky high.
“Sigh, I like how you think.
You’re such a nice friend.
You’re going to make a woman so happy one day.
I hope to meet a guy just like you.”
As her eyes sighed with a powerful lack of substance
Into the arms of Leo,
A slammed car door supplants the reverberation of the car’s V8 engine.
He confidently turns back the hands of time.
Reversal gears become his new tune
“If you get lost going home, follow the stars.”
As he pulls away with majestic, amplified lyrics
Of Whitesnake’s “Here I go Again”
Going down the only road he’s ever known
While she stands in fraudulent gasps of shock,
Looking back up to the stars in blank wonder
As he accelerates into a new page in his book
Closing his chapter with wondrous questions
“Why would I taste your starlight?
When you never believed in our constellation?”
©Drake J. Eszes
It’s good to gaze at the stars and make wishes. But, be careful what you wish for. For Earth has its own gifts…
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Cricket
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In-between sleep and wakefulness,
when my dream still lingers,
entwining free-flown fingers
with the morning rays, dancing across my eyelids.
It is in this state of in-between layers
that my inner-eye blinks its prayers,
and I can move backwards
through all of my many memories
until about the age of three -
the time when my imagination was truly free.
When I was three,
there wasn't one God for me to believe in.
There were thousands of Gods and Goddesses
hiding inside of each and every living thing:
Deities in the woods and wind.
Deities hiding beneath the surface
of our goldfish pond,
water nymphs kissing the feet
of the Lady in the lake.
One of my most vivid memories as a toddler,
was the day I caught a huge, black cricket.
My Father seemed shocked at the size of my catch,
punched holes into the lid of a mason jar
for me to keep the cricket inside of.
He had never seen such an enormous cricket before.
I was so proud.
I remember looking into its mysterious eyes,
believing for some strange reason,
that a loved one, was now inside of this creature.
Such strange thoughts for a three year-old to have.
But at the time, I truly believed in this.
This was sort of my first inner awakening.
My inner-eye was beginning to speye.
The first night with my cricket,
I listened to its hypnotic song,
and realized it sounded similar to the music
that the old Chinese lady listened to, down the street.
This was sort of my second inner awakening.
I didn't know about the Dao back then;
or maybe I just didn't know the labels?
But I did know how I was altering the destiny
of this creature....altering my own being.
The next day, my Father made me release the cricket.
He did not want it to die,
for it was the biggest cricket he had ever seen.
That was still the most proud I had ever been.
Reluctantly, I opened the jar,
waited an eternity for the escape.
That night I swore that I could hear
a distinct "Chiiiiiiirrrrrup" much louder than the rest.
This was sort of my third inner awakening -
my inner-eye, beginning to speye....
....just as I am awakening now,
the morning rays dancing across my eyelids.
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Cricket
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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
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Cricket
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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!
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Cricket
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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
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Cricket
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I am trying to sleep here; can someone let the world know?
Somewhere the pressure cooker whistles,
Rises in the night air, the smell of pulao rice.
The peddler selling eggs on his final tour,
The ringing of his cycle bell and paddle distinctly heard,
Elsewhere a cat mews, finding a safe spot to rest,
Or mayhap from hunger, I shall know never,
Dogs bark at a ragged man pacing fast,
His sole hanging slippers chatter away against tar,
As he glances at the canines from the corner of his eye.
A weak twig falls off the peepal tree nearby,
On the asbestos, creating a cracking noise,
Unendearing to his ears, the toddler wails,
A rickshaw shifts gears, as I shift sides
The sound of acceleration arrives at my eardrums,
A pillow atop my ears I rest,
An attempt feeble in decibel-arrest,
I am trying to sleep here; can someone let the world know?
I sense the creator is perhaps
The conduit in this conspiracy,
A gentle wind blows,
A pair of unshut windows rattle,
A metal latch dangling beats out-of-rhythm,
The jamun trees rustle, sounding
Like sand falling on tin-sheet,
The sound of roaring cheers
From a cricket match on TV otherwhere,
Triggering the flow of my curse on technology,
At the apartment gate,
A bunch of teens giggle away,
To a cunning joke or a murder mystery,
I wonder in utter dismay.
A medley of noises, of all kinds and creed,
Can someone let the world know, I am desperately trying to sleep.
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Cricket
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Fae circles of mushrooms
Lanky yellow toadstools
Firm jelly tot larvae
Feed from rich stagnant pools.
Fungal disks cling with wanton
To the grey trunks of trees
Cricket strums join to bird song
Sending messages of peace.
Lambent beams break through foliage
Gradient tones tint the scene
Yellow, purple, and whites
showcased by backgrounds of green.
Fractured rock nests bright flora
Compost mats engage moss
A place of breach and survival.
Nature's gain, (one might say)
is the product of loss.
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Cricket
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Where do roses birth their petals
when Spring gardens disappear
Where do petals bloom in Winter
when white snow falls everywhere
Where do snowflakes melt in Summer
On silk lips brushing the cheek
Where do lips steal out first kisses
In between the cherry trees
Where do cherries share a secret
of bare branches in wild dreams
Where does autumn burns the fire
On carpets of yellow leaves
Its the romance of four seasons
Florescent fragrance fills the air
the East wind keeps breezing softly
Midnight bells greet each New Year
And the robin keeps on tweeting
butterflies flutter their wing
the cricket rattles all evening
the pide-piper plays and sing
And the mistle-toe keeps hanging
Coloured confetti chase the moon
And the rainbow keeps a pathway
a stream cascades in the dune
And a dove flies above star dust
as the white swan pirhouettes
and the fire-flies keep twinkling
in the lake of honey-zest
Charma
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Cricket
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The rose colour of your mouth
stirs something primordial inside of me –
I smile along with you.
Plump little hands reach for my face.
I hold still
while you explore my heart with a feathery touch.
When you are asleep,
I look over the papers of your college fund.
We could make it
if we would forsake frivolities.
It will be no hardship for me to do so.
I smile contentedly.
The boxer puppy lying at my feet;
quite content–
its stomach pink and extended:
he ate too greedily
(as usual).
You will grow up together
and share our unconditional love.
The cricket bat,
signed by the national team,
takes pride of place in its brackets on your bedroom wall –
a pale dove blue
(matching the colour of your eyes).
A gift from your dad –
sure that you would follow in his footsteps.
A rainbow of possibilities prostrate at your feet.
I check every now and again
whether you are breathing.
Sleeping soundly,
neither a frown upon your smooth face,
nor a care in the world.
Your long, black eyelashes quiver slightly,
as though following a dream –
a dream we all shared:
a dream of boundless expectations …
**************
Exhuming long forgotten memories;
mingling with my fevered tears –
echoing my breaking heart.
They lead you away.
Assaulting the arresting officer
had sealed your fate.
Mildewed expectations
best laid to rest
together with the memories of you.
The sky has lost its colour,
as I step outside the courtroom.
Inspired by:
Closer By Chris Aechtner
“If frozen within caged snapshots of mildewed expectations”
3 July 2013
Sponsor Debbie Guzzi
Contest Name Referential
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Cricket
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Let my heart be your pillow
as you lay upon my soul
as you gaze upon a star
Let your dreams and wishes flow
Let my heart be your pillow
on the wings of wind soar high
Let sheer silken feathers guide you
to confetti in the sky
Close your eyes as slowly I rock you
in the cradle of the moon
Let my arms become your blanket
and night's lullaby your tune
Let your lashes slightly flutter
to each ripple in a stream
to the rattle of each cricket
to my playful melody
Let my heart be your pillow
Come my darling,Come to me
In your sleep I softly breeze in
and sprinkle serenity.
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Cricket
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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.
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Cricket
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**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, 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 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 on to the ground?
It was not the ocean waves I heard.
It was always the sounds of millions crickets around me.
Showing me your power can come in any form, shape, and size.
Next time sting your way into my life like a bee.
. By; p.d.
~~LOL, my worse poem ever~~
~~LOL, what was i thinking~~
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Cricket
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I am the Shell of a POET, Gazing upon my Last Sunset : Dancing with Death
The Shell of a POET, absorbed in Nature: inhaling whispers with my last breath
I cloak myself in HER Tapestry : Azure Blue painted Lovingly; with Life Rose Pink
I sleep in sweet hues of colors as the Serenity of Sunset draws me nigh; I Think
I see the Darkness envelope me as Venus "The Evening Star" Blinks a Loving Wink
As the cricket hums of Glory as a sky of ebony descends upon My Dark Memories
As the night becomes Alive the Reborn "Shell" Reads the History of his Destinies
Mesmerized by the Autroscities, by the pain and sorrows of Mankinds sordid Past
Tears of Humility flow the contours of my cheek as Autroscities of a distant Past
Immortalized by My Cold and Blacken Heart, Forgotten are the Memories of Lenore
I stand at the Pearly Gate in AWE of the Magesty of Eons of Eternity: FOREVERMORE
I grasp HIS Hand; Lenore Grippes Mine : We Entwine as ONE : Through Heaven's Door
to be Cont.
Inspired by the Contest : " Let's Be Open " Sponsored by Xegrakio POETESS : SuZ D
Dedicated to the Souls in Glory waiting for thier Loved Ones
This is not an Entree as I was to late for the Contest. LOVE ALWAYS and FOREVER
YOUR Liege...Harry
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Cricket
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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
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Cricket
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“I never travel without my diary,
One should have something sensational to read”
5-4-11: I never knew about the above quote of Wilde
But an event in life taught me to keep one.
4-23-94: Let me start with the initial jotting
A local doctor said it’s just cough, a thing seasonal
5-5-94: No cure, consulted again after two weeks
Advised to consult an ENT specialist attached to
A Medical College Hospital.
5-8-94: Diagnosed cancer of the vocal chords
5-10-94: But preferred to have a second opinion
Confirmed the first opinion and advised radiation.
The word spread in the University Campus town
In the Bohemians circle that a Wicket (Cricket) down
Heard from many mouths the fate of the tobacco chewer.
5-15-94: A friend of my son came to see me on hearing the news
He had the disease of the same type and category 10 years back
He took the radiation and there he was a positive case.
7-4-94: Started the radiation therapy of six weeks
Resigning 4 months earlier than the regular retirement.
Along with the radiation started the nature cure therapy
And the greatest of all therapies, the rosary with HIS name.
8-12-94 the radiation machine, only one in my State went off
Consulted the Cancer Hospital at Mumbai
Got the reply appointment after six months.
8-22-94: Luckily the treatment restarted after 10 days
9-2-94: And completed the radiation course.
12-5-94: Retested and was declared cancer free.
Thus the history of trials, tribulations, tests and tobacco taste.
5-4-11: The habit is still with me even to-day.
Oh, the digit 5 could be a lucky number for me.
******************
*The dates and events taken from my diary are real*. I have written
two poems on the event
1. What Gods there were
2. Butterfly Counts not months but moments.
Thanks, Constance, for sensational refreshing of my memories.
Dr. Ram Mehta
==============================================
Second place win in :
Contest: The Diary sponsored by Constance La France-A Rambling poet
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Cricket
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blackened tomatoes
touched by swirling first snow...
cricket husk rattles
October 30th, 2011
All Rights Reserved
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Cricket
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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
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Cricket
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I hear the chirruping of birds
that emerges from vast hidden spaces
from wherever they may be.
Their twittering sounds are scattered,
interspersed with cricket sounds
and 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."
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Cricket
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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.
Written by: Kelly Deschler
(This was my tribute to "The Legend Of Sleepy Hollow" by Washington Irving.
I wrote it from the perspective of Ichabod Crane.)
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Cricket
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The Silence of War
Behind the Curtains of a church window
Men in Prayer, orchestrated by sweat and Lice
Find relief from snipers gaze
Beside the cross sits the last candle
Flickering precariously, searching for sanctuary from the wind
But the wick is near the end
And so are these men
The Harvest of War is almost in
For this is November 1918.
The German guns call like the song of the Siren
Irresistible, for only the dead will hear
New orders to cross the Sambre-Oise Canal
Another postcard for Historians to write.
Machine gunners scythe the ranks
Gone the Irish regiment, clover for the beast
I take shelter behind a splintered Oak Tree
Once magnificent, A survivor of Natures glory
Now a hideous spectre to man’s intervention.
I wait here with Wilf my captain
Waiting for death to find me
The mud beckoning for blood,
The Canal red like the River Sticks
A feed for tomorrows Newspaper.
A groan from wilf, his eyes start to dim
Fear brings the Lord’s Prayer to my lips
A last haven for my soul to cling
I watch his spirit fly away,
As the words fade from my voice
Like so many others on this day of carnage
Wilf, my friend, died November 4th 1918
Yet another contribution to this dark harvest,
Another soul for god to tender.
A statistic, a casualty of war,
To be remembered generically
A wreath to share with a multitude of lost darlings,
Another photograph to fade on the mantel piece
A piece of History for a grieving widow to dust
In the ranks of the dead
Angels count our losses
What dreams did we lose?
What voices were made silent?
What books were never written?
And how many tomorrows gone,
Lost in the darkness of death?
Under this oak tree, fading from memory
A soldier Wilfred Owen was taken too
Unspoken truth in unspoken poems
Silent to mortal’s ear
Another casualty of war
A feast of wisdom for angels to keep?
For His words were far too much,
for the hogs of war to stomach.
His poetry made silent by country’s shame,
Unpatriotic, not cricket old bean said the generals
Only now, through peace can we learn
The voice of one soldier,
How I pity humanity
For silence is a killer
Democracy, and justice its victim,
And the inevitable Silence of war will kill us all.
Footnote
On this day November 4th 1918, Wilfred Owen killed in action, Sambre-Oise Canal, 7 days from Sanity
One of England’s Finest War Poets.
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Cricket
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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
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Cricket
Poem | |
Windowsill love song,
The mariachi crickets:
Serenade the night.
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Cricket
Poem | |
-(An Ode To Anarchy)-
They shiver underneath the spell
of children who wear invisible masks.
Yes, they shiver in fear,
part machine, part medication,
fretting over dying batteries,
a dwindling pill box,
an allergic reaction -
Analeptic shock syndrome.
Burn the cities down,
burn them all into the ground.
Suffer the weak,
suffer the frail:
sacrificial fattened calves
too weak to stand on their own.
Burn the cities down
until they are glowing embers
pushing forth ghastly smoke
thick as dragon's breath.
Sever serpentine strings
releasing the marionettes.
Hang the middlemen,
those wretched, filthy swine.
Survival of the fittest.
Rewind the future,
as time bends in circular motion,
circular breath --
in through nose, out through mouth,
in through mouth, out through nose.
- in out in out in out in -
The strong will spin tales
around flickering fires,
re-awakening the Bard's tale.
Lovers touch under the moon's cold gaze,
lovers touch in amongst cricket song.
And we lay our heads
upon pillows of heather,
falling asleep in the open air,
falling asleep under starlight.
Written June 22nd, 2011
Edited December 19th, 2013
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Cricket
Poem | |
.
With songs at bedtime
moss covered carpets soften
sounds of night music
Soft is the cadence of dark
as it bewitches the night
While we take our rest
Little frogs slide down moonbeams
And croak with delight
taking a carnival ride
under a full moon
I listen and hear
each cricket chirp in the dark
chatter and splatter,
as they splash their tiny feet
in pools of cool moonlit dew
Like laughing children
insects are playing their harps
and dancing with joy
long past the midnight hour,
while all the world is sleeping
...............................................................................
For Russell Snivey’s Contest: “What Happens Under a Full Moon”
By Carrie Richards
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